Hold the butter

Date: Feb. 12
Mileage: 20.1
February mileage: 258.3
Temperature upon departure: 28

I set out today for one last ride on my fully loaded bike. For some reason, it was really tough. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve reduced my mileage, or because I haven’t reduced it enough, but I just couldn’t get warmed up. My legs were pumping lactic acid, and I could feel the metallic pangs of an old repetitive motion injury in my knees. Probably just a bad day. But I’ve decided to settle into some real rest. Tomorrow, I’m planning a short session at the gym, but I'll probably cut back on all other physical activity for the rest of the week.

I have just about all of my gear gathered for the race, with the exception of one thing - food. Since I’m one of those people that hates eating on the trail (I consider it a necessary chore akin to changing a flat tire), I’ve predictably put off deciding what I’m going to bring. The race rules require carrying 3,000 calories for the duration of the race. Lots of people just carry a pound of butter because it’s one of the lightest ways to pack 3,000 calories, but I think that’s a bad idea. I’ve tried to envision possible scenarios on the dark wilderness trail, and I can’t, for the life of me, come up with any situation that would compel me to bite into a frozen stick of butter. If I need food to save my life, it should probably be something I can actually eat. So I’m going to carry 20 ounces of chocolate, knowing those four extra ounces could make all the difference. And they're pretty negligible in the grand (60-pound) scheme of things.

As for food I actually plan to eat, I’m probably going to pack between 3,500 and 4,500 calories, knowing that this race could take me 16 hours to finish, or it could take me 40. There is food at three of the checkpoints along the way, but I’m not planning to rely on it. Most likely, I’ll bring: peanut butter and jam sandwiches; a homemade trail mix with raw walnuts, Craisens and dried cherries; turkey jerky; fruit leathers; fruit snacks (Shrek brand, my favorite); fig bars and Power Bars (I realize Power Bars freeze. But since they’re one of my best sources of complex carbohydrates, I’ll probably just carry them next to my torso to keep them warm.) The reason for all of this random, sugar-laden stuff is that it’s all been trail tested and approved for stomachache-free consumption.

I also will probably carry some Cytomax powder and maybe a few Clif Shot Bloks for good measure. Geoff is trying to convince me to take a bottle of Hammer Perpetuem. But the last time I tried to take a swig of that stuff, I was stopped cold by the smell of what is, to me, the most disgusting food ever to be manufactured and sold in a standard grocery store: Vanilla Soy Milk. Honestly, I think I’d have more luck getting the butter down.

If anyone has any last-minute suggestions, I’ll hear them out. I just discovered that also entered in the Susitna 100 this year is John “The Guy Who Drinks Vegetable Oil” Stamstad. So I guess there’s no end to the possibilities.

So long to the holidays

Date: Feb. 11
Mileage: 14.3
February mileage: 238.2
Temperature upon departure: 23

Geoff and I skim across the surface of Mendenhall Lake, he on skate skis, me on “studs” and a mountain bike. Side by side, we glide steady at 10 mph. He slashes up the groomed track; I draw a straight line through several inches of dry powder. The flat surface radiates a blaze of unfiltered sunlight, blinding to the point of hypnotizing. Through a heavy squint, all I can make out is a white slate stretching uninterrupted for more than a mile in all directions. The tracks of others veer off in shadowed tangents that remind me of curves on a line graph; their creators stand at variable points in the distance. Geoff and I move parallel along the axis, where I can’t help but weave through a barrage of vague images from 11th-grade calculus.

After standing in the shadow of the glacier terminus, much too close for comfort, we veer off the lake and hit the moraine trails. Inches of new snow slow us both down, but we push on through the the crackle and click of powder-dusted singletrack. Rides like this, when surging up even small hills is a losing battle against sand-like resistance, can at times be sweaty, heart-pounding work. But on days like today, when the forest is full of sweaty people smiling in the sunlight, they can hardly be counted as workouts.

I think about where 2007 has taken me so far ... simple moments of awe and joy cut like razors through my daily routine. I think back to the holiday season, spent thousands of miles away from my family, and how it was in turn overwhelmingly hectic and largely meaningless. The first six weeks of the new year, on the other hand, have been full of selfish gifts and selflessly quiet reflections. When I began training for the Susitna 100, I embarked on a journey so daunting and encompassing that I could be forgiven for letting social, financial and domestic obligations fall by the wayside. It was a holiday from myself, from the day-to-day hassle and general realities of life.

And now that it’s nearly over, I’m like a kid counting down the days until Christmas - almost blind with anticipation but, at the same time, already feeling a sense of loss for the inevitable day after.

Bicycle obesity

Date: Feb. 10
Mileage: 24.9
February mileage: 223.9
Temperature upon departure: 22

By the time I reached the top of the second flight of stairs, my heart was racing. I hoisted my bike over the final step and dropped it with a thud on the ice, then leaned against the house until my head stopped spinning. Usually, my pre-ride weight training doesn’t leave me more exhausted than the ride itself. But, then again, I’m not used to packing a bike weighted down with most of the gear you’d need to survive a winter night in Denali.

After I caught my breath, I purposely went out and rode the hilliest route I could find. Motoring up hills seemed vaguely harder, but downhills are what really brought weight gain into the forefront of my thoughts. At one point, I hit 32 mph while coasting down a snow-covered slope (the kind of surface in which brakes are generally a bad idea.) Scary.

After I came to the end of the road and turned away from the sun, I caught my first glimpse of my shadow pedaling that bicycle behemoth down the street. It looked so funny, lumbering ahead of be, that I couldn’t help but surge toward it. The return ride was noticeably faster.

After I returned home, I pulled out my bathroom scale to weigh it for curiosity’s sake.

The verdict: Bicycle and stuff = 47 pounds. Once I throw in water, a few articles of extra clothing and food, I could be pushing 60. So I have a little weight problem. Oh well. Things could definitely be worse.

Much worse. On a more somber note, I have been reading all of the race reports from this year’s Arrowhead 135. Harrowing, harrowing stuff - hypothermic cyclists who had to be dragged off the trail in their sleeping bags; people who froze their hands changing tires; severely frostbitten toes. They were people who didn’t seem to fully grasp the realities of -30 ... people no different than me. I read these stories with the morbid fascination of someone who could experience the same thing in a week’s time. I read them while chanting to myself that the chance of -30 is very, very slim. Then I nestled further into my warm computer chair and struggled with those sweeping thoughts about the grand insanity of it all.

A copy of Wend Magazine came my way earlier this week. Inside is a great article by Mike Curiak, the endurance cyclist who has singlehandedly conquered many of the most difficult mountain biking challenges in the United States. But in this article, he doesn’t talk about his triumphs and trophies. He talks about a single incident along the lonely Iditarod trail, where, buffeted by 80 mph wind and subzero cold, he contracted hypothermia and nearly died. Despite all of his experience and preparedness, he found himself buried in the depths of a storm in one of the most remote regions of the world. He knew in his heart that no one was coming. And as he lay wrapped in his sleeping bag, slipping further and further toward unconsciousness, he realized that no one could save him but himself.

The next thing he realized, or at least the next thing he wrote about, was the crackle of a fire in a village cabin some five miles down the trail. An Alaska Native man on a snowmobile found him cocooned in his bag and carried him to safety. I found it to be an inspiring story ... that even at his most alone, he wasn't alone.