A little soggy, A little foggy

Date: July 22
Mileage: 106
July mileage: 576.2

I am really starting to grow into mountain biking, and not because I'm a natural. Quite the opposite - every pedal stroke is a small struggle - but it's always a challenge, and I'm completely addicted.

That said, I took a decent thrashing in yesterday's Soggy Bottom 100 - trail rash, bumps, bruises, bent fender, broken spoke, seatpost askew, flat rear shock, mud in my teeth. Through it all, my workhorse of a mountain bike motored on and carried me to the finish in 13 hours 17 minutes - which isn't as fast as I had hoped for, but after a few violent spills and some hard lessons about the demoralizing power of downhill, I'm pretty glad to be one of about half in the field to just have finished 106-mile course.

The ride got off to a great start Saturday morning, launching from the cheering crowds of the Seaview Bar and Campground in Hope. The 16 or so riders split off into two packs of eight, of which I happily joined the back and coasted six miles to the trail. When we hit the dirt, I started passing people. I was feeling great - better than great. Without even putting in a hard effort, I managed to climb to the front of the "back" pack and hit Resurrection Pass - mile 25 - before 11:30, just under two and a half hours in. I believed I was on solid pace to finish in about 12 hours. Then I took my first fall.

For most of the course, the trail snakes through the loose boulders and gravel of open alpine tundra and the roots and overgrown vegetation of the forest - all very beautiful, but very much remote wilderness. Sometimes no wider than two bike tires side by side, the trail left little in the way of exit points, and my technical riding skills don't really include bunny hopping at 15 miles per hour. I was only two miles into my descent when I first bit the gravel - hard. Never one to take personal injury gracefully, I took to holding my brakes with a kung fu grip while I brooded on my sore, swollen right elbow. The next 18 miles of downhill went pretty well - except for the fact that it took me nearly two and a half hours to ride that stretch. And to be honest, I was a little relieved to hit Cooper Landing and flip a U-turn for the subsequent 18-mile climb.

I know my limitations with my set of technical skills, and I also know that in mountain biking, falls are going to happen. But it's hard for me, during the long haul, not to let them get to me. I took two more dives near the pass going back up, and by the time I hit the Devil's Pass Trailhead, my pace having slowed considerably, I was feeling a little discouraged. Ironically, my turning point came just after a fall about halfway up Devils Pass - my worst fall, actually. Locked in a steady climb, I felt an encouraging surge in strength and upped my speed through a narrow stretch of overgrown trail - at this point, thinking I still had a chance to finish in under 13 hours. Moving about 7 mph, I completely overlooked a big boulder and hit it head-on, bouncing sideways and tumbling over what turned out to be a very steep embankment. I first touched down about five feet below the trail, landing on my shoulder and flipping a half somersault as my bike sailed overhead. For what must have been several minutes I lay there on my side - my bleeding, battered legs "pinned" beneath a 30-pound mountain bike, soaked in the prickly discomfort of rain-drenched devils club and staring almost helplessly up that steep hillside. As those silent seconds passed, my situation became a whole lot clearer - and and a whole lot funnier.

I realized that for nearly 50 miles of the physically difficult course, I had become so consumed with "not" falling that I had completely lost track of my forward motion. In fact, I hardly even noticed any actual fatigue while I was dwelling on what are really just a few silly bumps and bruises (and, from what I learned after returning to the start, were actually on the low spectrum of injuries acquired by competitors during the ride.) At that point I had been alone long enough to feel no shame in talking to myself, so I launched into an audible self-lecture about not being such a baby as a clawed my way back up the hill. I returned to the trail, righted the front wheel, mounted the odometer back on and took a long look up the pass - with wispy clouds blanketing the peaks over an open sea of purple lupine. I was filled with a strange reassurance that these sort of moments are rare - moments to experience what it's like to be completely alive.

So I finished the ride. And I'm glad I did it. It was tough for me, but not in the ways I expected - which is an all-around great life lesson. I surprised myself with my physical capacity in climbing and also learned a little more about my limitations, with more understanding about how far I have come - and how far I have left to go.

Carlos, the godfather of Soggy Bottom and an all-around great guy, said it best when he quoted William Blake ... "you never know what is enough until you know what is too much."

So thanks, Carlos, for inviting me to the Soggy Bottom (And also to Carlos' sponsors, such as Banjo Brothers, who help keep this "nonrace" alive.) I had an amazing experience, and met some great people. It's a little sad that just as I'm starting to become a part the Alaska endurance mountain biking scene, I'm leaving it for the far away climes of Juneau. But I'll be back. Bumps and bruises can't keep me away.

Also, I'm sorry I don't have any good pictures. This photo I took the night before in the Hope Campground. I tried to go really light during the race so I left the bulky digital behind. In neglecting to bring nonessential items, I also neglected to really bring much in the way of food. But more on that tomorrow. Now, it's time to sleep.

Feelin' soggy

The stats

The truth

Date: July 19 and 20
Mileage: 14.3 and 24.1
July mileage: 470.2

The Soggy Bottom 100 is upon me.

This is the last race of my 2006 Alaska endurance trilogy. Time will tell as to whether it's a grand finale or "Scream III."

Single-track century. 11,000 feet of climbing. Technical stretches. Time cut-offs. Self supported. 40 percent chance of precipitation.

I've been trying to will myself strong ... as if self-fulfilling prophecy could make it so.

"It's only 106 miles. Traversing 40 miles of uninterrupted wilderness. With just myself and people who are expected to pedal a whole lot faster than me. How bad could it really be?"

The numbers are daunting, but when I step back from them, I'm surrounded by a new reality.

Self supported on wilderness singletrack - just me and my bike and some Power Bars ... a jingling bear bell ... maybe some Catherine Wheel pulsing through the iPod (don't judge me; I keep the volume low) - climbing until the lush spruce forest gives way to devils club meadows and alpine tundra, with its stark gray gravel sweeping down snow-streaked mountains. Bouncing through scattered rocks and dried mud pockmarked with bear tracks. Pounding that final pedal stroke over the crest before dropping into another tear-inducing descent.

The mileage will come on its own.

Hopefully.

Wish me luck.

Movin' on up (er ... down)

Date: July 18
Mileage: 28.9
July mileage: 431.8
Temperature upon departure: 56

Well, I'm moving to Juneau. It sounds a bit rash, I know, but it's actually the culmination of several weeks of events that started the day they handed me number 111 at the 24 Hours of Kincaid Race (Elevens, my friend Ryan always told me, signify shifts in universal or personal patterns i.e. routines.) Anyway, the next day I received a cold call from The Juneau Empire. Next month, I'm going to be working there. Crazy how quickly life can shift gears.

While Juneau is technically in the same state I live in now (and who am I kidding ... it's the capitol), moving there is no small matter. It's about the distance equivalent of moving from Denver to San Francisco, if the only way to get to San Francisco was to drive to a tiny upstate town like Arcata and then hop a slow-moving ferry down the coast. Oh ... and throw in an international border crossing as well. I might as well move to Seattle. At least it stops raining sometimes there.

But that's precisely the reason I'm excited. Juneau is this mysterious community isolated by a wall of steep, vast mountains and hundreds of miles of remote coastline. With 30,000 people, it's the second largest city in Alaska and the center of its government - all squashed into this unlikely place teeming with grizzly bears and avalanche danger. As a former denizen of the wide-open Mountain West, who grew up with Interstate dependence flowing through her veins, I find this kind of lifestyle very intriguing. So I'm going to give it a try.

Also, I'm completely in love with Alaska, and I realize that I've only scratched a small surface of this bewildering state. Moving to Juneau, I know, isn't exactly going to open up opportunities to move freely through the Arctic. And yet - it's another piece of a vast puzzle. For that reason, I couldn't resist.

When I think about leaving Homer, I feel sad. I feel anxious. I feel anticipation. I feel angry at myself. I feel excited. I feel terrified. I feel like I need to stop thinking about it even if it does make the hill intervals go faster. Change is so hard, and unfortunately I'm one of those people that thrives on it, craves it, consumes it with reckless abandon. I like the fact that there's something new around the corner. It gives the present so much more meaning.

One weekend, two passes

Date: July 16
Mileage: 15.3
July mileage: 402.9

I honestly used to think I was in really great shape. Then I did this hike called the Crow Pass crossing, which looks like a gentle traverse on a map but is in reality 26 miles of limb-pounding, joint-jarring terrain broken only by heart-stopping stream crossings. Brrrrr.

Geoff is actually racing this course next weekend, crazy man, so we set out on Saturday to check out the trail. We had no great plan for getting back around (Girdwood and Eagle River, an hour and a half apart by road, are hardly an easy two points to connect.) Also, I've done almost no hiking this summer. But, hey, I had that great biking base. I was insistent on going the whole way.

It was a little after 10 a.m. by the time we left. Despite a heavy drizzle, fog and temps closing in on 40, the hike to the pass was a breeze and I was feeling great. We crossed several glacier-fed streams that were running swift and strong but nothing higher than knee-deep. Soaked clothing kept us going at a brisk pace. At mile 8 Geoff announced that he was going to run ahead to experience running on the rocky, slippery trail. He told me he'd meet me at the Eagle River crossing, which we believed to be somewhere near mile 18 or 20. I continued slashing through overgrown brush. Even though the rain had stopped, the tall, wet grass provided a continuous cold shower.

Finally, the trail descended into the woods and the grass let up, only to be replaced by a group of backpackers who convinced me that I was going the wrong way when they, in fact, were the ones headed the wrong way. We didn't figure this out until I had followed them back up the trail at their turtle pace for more than a mile, only to meet another group of backpackers who confirmed my suspicions. Frustrated, I turned around and jogged back down the trail, only to meet the Eagle River and a shivering, irritated Geoff at mile 14.

Because the river crossing was so much sooner than we anticipated, he didn't want to go ahead but didn't expect to wait for me for so long. The backpackers caught up and we began our river ford together, linking arms while we moved sideways through the thigh-deep glacial torrent. The river was at least 150 yards wide, nearly waist-deep at its deepest channels, with 33-degree water flowing so fast and hard that the slightest movement threw me off balance. As my orientation disintegrated, so did my confidence, and I froze like a novice climber clinging to a cliff, draining all of my strength and energy into involuntary immobility. Geoff, who had already made it across, actually got back in the water to help me through it. Because of my small meltdown, we each spent about 10 minutes in that frigid water. Geoff was near hypothermic by the time we got out, but, mercifully, the remaining 12 miles of the hike was flat and fast, with enough bouldering obstacles and log crossings to keep the blood flowing.

Anyway, we got out at about 7 p.m., more than 70 miles from our car and no real plan for getting back. Luckily, we have some benevolent friends who picked us up and took us to their home. With nothing more than the soaked gear we had carried over on our backs, we ate a warm meal, took a shower, and passed out on the floor.

Today we had this plan to check out my race course, riding 50 mountain bike miles in the process. When I woke up this morning more sore than I have ever been, ever, except for maybe that time I rolled my road bike - well, I figured that the entire loop wasn't the best plan. But I thought that a two-hour ride wouldn't be unreasonable. So I hobbled over to my bike, spent several sharp seconds coaxing my left leg over the saddle, and set out on the Devil's Pass trail. Sure enough, my biking muscles still proved to be in decent shape, and I was able to ignore the subdued screams from those annoyed hiking muscles that kept getting in the way as I pedaled most of the way to the pass. It was great to check out the one leg of the course I hadn't seen before, even if I did lose my bear spray somewhere along the jarring rocks of that technical singletrack. However, after that marathon hike, with the Soggy Bottom 100 only one week away, I probably just officially had the worst training weekend ever ... except for maybe that time I rolled my road bike.

A fed moose

Date: July 13 and 14
Mileage: 26.7 and 15.2
July mileage: 387.6

Had a bit of a disconcerting experience with a local moose today. I was riding home from work when I encountered a young bull about a half mile from my house, munching on weeds at the side of the road. I stopped about 150 feet down the road and snapped a couple of pictures (not this one. This one I took several minutes later). Then I waited for something to happen - a truck to go by, or him to move. I don't really like passing moose if I don't have to. But then he caught wind of me, looked up, and started walking toward me. He didn't seem aggressive, but I was intimidated enough to back up and turn up a side road. And he continued to follow me, as I walked my bike backward up the steep gravel. He was just ambling along like he wanted something from me, but I just wanted him to go away.

The road turned out to be a driveway that dead-ended after about 50 yards. He was gaining on me, still at the same pace, and it was obvious no fear of me and was going to accost me whether I liked it or not. My heart was racing. I bent over to pick up a rock that I had no idea what I was going to do with, and started yelling "Hey stupid moose, go away!" (A small variation on my usual 'Hey stupid dog, go away!') He stopped and stared at me blankly. It seemed pretty clear at that point that the moose was just waiting for me to whip out an apple or peanut butter cup or something, so I pushed my bike in front of me and began walking briskly beside him. As soon as I had my back to him, I jumped back on my bike and pedaled as hard as I could.

It seems pretty funny to me now, but I was really scared. Stupid suburban moose.

Mmmm ... 5-cent Powerbar

Date: July 12
Mileage: 30.1
July mileage: 335.7
Temperature upon departure: 55

If you ever make it down to the End of the Road, Alaska, the Homer Tribune just published my own limited and subjective Biking Guide to Homer. Those are the trails. Here's the mountain/road package. Hey, I tried.

Theroretically, I should be entering the "peak" of my summer bicycling season in the next few weeks. It's hard to peak out when there aren't any more hours in the day to train. Since I still only have about an hour or two each weekday to ride, I've been trying to up the intensity - more hills, more attempts at speed, etc. I'm not all that savvy as to what these efforts have won me in fitness, but they sure do make me voraciously hungry.

This irritates me, because the hunger binges are becoming harder to avoid - and doing so just makes me grumpy. If I actually sit it out long enough, my appetite returns to normal and I can be satisfied with the appropriate number of calories. But if I don't sit it out, it's all-out, hands-in-the-Froot-Loop-Box binging. Must ... resist.

Geoff recently returned from Utah. Before he flew home, he made a stop at Market Square in west Salt Lake. Market Square sells discount food in the academic sense - although as far as quality, it ranks somewhere below a church food pantry but above the City Dump.

Anyway, he returned with two huge sacks full of assorted energy bars: some mashed, some melted, most expired, but all well under a dime a piece. I ate one yesterday - I believe it was flavored like Honey Nut Cheerios - and to my astonishment, I didn't feel the urge to double over or sprint frantically to the bathroom. At least I know they're probably safe. Geoff has many dozens of these bars stashed around the house, so my new plan is to regulate myself to these when I feel the urge to binge - by carrying them on rides and also by setting up a strict, self-regulated rule that only the bars are available for an hour after a hard ride. My hope is, that when left to the choice of waiting out my cravings or choking down some unidentifiable 5-cent barwith French packaging and the look of a Tootsie Roll that has spent the past decade eroding beneath a couch cushion - that I'll take the path of easy resistance.

Baiku 2

Date: July 10 and 11
Mileage: 18.4 and 30.6
July mileage: 305.6

The mileage stacked up

Over these thoughts, stashed wayside

And still I rode on