Hopalong

Today was a beautiful day: sunny sky, dry air, new snow and temperatures that haven’t been above freezing in more than a week ... leaving nothing but powder dusting as far as the roads and trails stretch. In short, perfect conditions.

I, however, can’t say the same about myself. Still have that mysterious knee pain. I’m unable to bend my right knee at more than a 30 degree angle without pushing through a lot of pain. It has good periods and bad, but what doesn’t change is how weak and sore it feels, regardless of what angle I have it at.

Since it’s been a week, I’m beginning to have a lot of empathy for what Geoff when through earlier this month, struggling with mysterious foot pains. It’s really frustrating, especially since I don’t know the diagnosis or even the cause. I had that theory about overextending it in a posthole, but who knows?

The worst part, beyond everyone asking me ‘Why are you limping?’ is that all of this pent-up energy is just pooling and fermenting inside of me. I’ve had to cut back my caffeine intake. Today, I went to the gym to do some upper-body weight lifting and pedal the stationary bike with my left leg while propping my right on the frame — just to get some of the shakes out. I even walked on the treadmill for a little while. My knee loosened up and felt great all afternoon, but this evening is back to being stiff.

I’m thinking about going to see a doctor this week. But if I’m going to drop a big co-pay on an ‘expert,’ I’d like something a little more substantial than vague guesses. Geoff received a lot of good info by reaching out to other ultrarunners on the Web. So I thought I’d do the same.

If you’re still reading after my gripe fest, maybe you can help me. My problem is stiff/soreness on the top of my knee, mostly in the tissue immediately around my kneecap. It’s tender enough that it hurts when I press down on the top of my knee. There was some swelling for three or four days, but that’s mostly gone down. It is getting better, just slowly. I’m not sure if the pain is in muscle or tendons. It’s basically right in the joint.

Has anyone out there ever experienced something like this? Since I don’t know exactly how it happened, any information will give be a leg to stand on, so to speak.

Thanks again. I know the importance of recovery and the virtue of patience. But recent comments about “major reconstructive surgery” just have me a little worried.

But if I can’t bike in this beautiful winter weather, at least I have a good sporting event to watch. The 350-mile Iditarod Invitational began today, which means that every 12 hours or so, some names will appear in white text on a black screen, telling me where each hardcore winter racer is located and when they rolled through. The updates are slow and not very visual, but for me, this is more exciting than the Superbowl. Go Pete!

Epilogue

(This photo was contributed to the Susitna 100 Web site by Michael Schoder. There are other cool photos of the race at http://www.susitna100.com/photogallery.html)

The sore knee I sustained during the Susitna 100 turned out to be more of a full-fledged injury. My best guess is I either twisted or mildly sprained it after another cyclist brushed me over and I punched my right leg into a hip-deep snowdrift, probably overextending my knee in the process. I remember feeling sharp tinges of pain that wore off pretty fast. But since that happened three miles into the race, I'm guessing that riding 100 more miles didn't exactly do wonders for the healing process.

Whatever the cause, I'm still gimpy and unable to use it much. Today was the first time since early Sunday morning that I have been able to bend it at all without shooting pain - it's been reduced to dull pain. After couple of days of stagnant pain levels, I became more and more stressed about its state and the prospect of needing weeks or doctor visits to heal.

So when my knee started to feel better today, I was already feeling overeager about bringing it back. I decided to go for a little walk along Twin Lakes - flat, paved, and exactly a mile one way. I made slow, careful steps to concentrate on bending, but not overbending. I shuffled my way about a half mile down the path before my knee started to feel really weak and sore. After a few more steps, pain was shooting again, so I locked my knee and hobbled back to the car.

It's such an interesting paradox ... injury. In less than a week, I've gone from snowbiking centuries to struggling to walk a mile. I am going to have to take it easy for at least a few more days, and it's already driving me crazy. Beyond my injury, I feel like I recovered amazingly fast. Then, on top of that, the past few days in Juneau have been filled with dry snow and cold temperatures ... perfect for any number of activities I've neglected: skiing, snowboarding, ice skating. And Snaux Bike ... poor thing is still in a rumpled bike box, probably thrashed to pieces by airport baggage handlers. I guess the least I could do is put it back together. But what I really want to do is ride it. It's crazy how fast that urge recovers.

Susitna 2, Chapter 4

(The Susitna River, Mile 33. One thing I always neglect but wish I did was take more pictures. There's a stark beauty out there that I was never quite able to capture. Mostly, what I got were long stretches of snowmobile tracks and sky.)

Any long-term comfort that may have been provided by a warm meal and a half hour in front of a fire wore off the minute I let the subzero chill off Flathorn Lake hit my skin. I thought it important to change into something dry for the duration of what was certain to be five more hours of riding through the ungodliest cold hours of the early morning. But even as I thrashed and struggled with my clothing, I could feel the wind biting the pink skin on my torso. It sucked heat like a vacuum from my exposed legs and shoeless feet as I stood toes-curled on top of a thin drybag. Changing clothes out there was one of the worst ideas I had since deciding to ride a full-day winter ultramarathon with a leaking camelbak (I haven't talked about that problem in my race report, but let's just say I spent the day with an ice slick down the back of my coat.)

By the time I was moving again, I was a full-body freak show of involuntary shivering. I pedaled down the lake ice quickly to drum up body heat, but the convulsions would rip my handlebars in bad directions, sending my bicycle careening into soft spots as I struggled to regain balance. After about a mile of that - right before leaving the lake and heading back into the woods - I thought pretty seriously about turning around and going back to Flathorn Lodge until I warmed up. But I realized that my shivering had almost subsided, and I was beginning to feel better. A more-than-fleeting thought crossed my mind that I might actually just be approaching that stage of hypothermia where people start tearing off all of their clothing because they feel overheated. But I turned off my iPod and recited a few sentences aloud. They didn't sound slurred to me, so I decided I was still mentally with it. I continued forward.

The middle of the night is one of my favorite times to be riding during an endurance event. Before a ride, there is always the hope that conditions would be perfect, I would feel on top of my game and amazingly find the strength to pound all the miles out by midnight. But when that doesn't happen, I find the lonely hours of the morning to be the most revealing and memorable of the entire ride. In the clear night, the distant city lights of Anchorage burned deep orange streaks behind the horizon like remnants of a long-departed sunset. Craggy silhouettes of black spruce stabbed at the light and cast faint, far-stretching shadows over the purple snow. In the night, I think about a lot of things. I think about nothing. I habitually turn the pedals and believe I could do this forever, and never stop, even as my eyelids droop and shoulders burn. In the night, time makes quantum leaps forward, even as I move slower and slower. Entire hours will pass by. I will remember every moment, and it will feel like minutes.

This was the point of the race when my eyelashes started freezing shut. The ice fog of my breath hung like a blinder in front of my headlamp, condensing into droplets and clinging to my face. When sleepy fatigue began to settle in and it seemed appealing to close my eyes and lift my neck to the sky for just a couple seconds, the ice would halt my ability to open them again. My mittens did little to thaw my eyelashes, and it was too risky now to take my mittens off. Enough pulling with my eyelid muscles would eventually pry them open again (and I probably ripped out several in the process). But there were stretches on the trail where I rode with one eye clamped shut, grumbling about the tragic comedy of it all.

Later, as I dipped and climbed over the rolling hills of the woods, the shivering came back. More than two hours had passed since I left Flathorn Lodge. I had not stopped my bike for more than a couple seconds since that point, but I was definitely shivering. Convulsions coursed through my body in waves as I surfed over the trail moguls, subsiding briefly before then punching through again. They were becoming more pronounced with each episode. I let my teeth chatter for a while as I stood up and sat back down on my seat repeatedly in a strange, slow-motion mimic of the heart-pounding intervals I used to do in Spin class. But it was quickly becoming apparent that my body wasn't going to warm itself on its own.

So I began to assess my situation. I was already wearing all of my dry layers. The trail was soft and punchy here, and going harder didn't even seem mechanically possible. I could get off my bike and jog or run, but that seemed counterproductive, too. I could bivy if the situation became dire, but I didn't want the Mat-Su Motor Mushers to come out looking for me and drag me off the trail with only 16 miles left in my race. My only moving option that I hadn't explored yet were the six chemical heat warmers I had left in my food bag. I stopped and tore open every single one. I put one in each glove, one in the ankle of each boot, a big one in my bike jersey back pocket, and another with my water bottle, just to ensure continued access to water. (One of the most valuable things I've learned recently, from reading Arrowhead 135 race reports, is that dehydration compounds the effects of hypothermia.) I was still shivering, but I could feel the packs' radiant heat on my cold skin.


Chemical warmers are little miracles. I don't know why they do what they do, and they're probably full of scary toxins, but they work. After about a 15 minutes, I was beginning to feel normal again. And that's when I saw a red blinky light several hundred yards in front of me. It was the first motion I had seen since leaving Flathorn.

I purposely held back for quite a while, unwilling to decide whether or not to catch up to Geoff. I felt pangs of frustration set off by his presence ... Frustration for breaking my solitude. For being so much better than me at this sort of thing. For holding so strong a lead. For being destined to win the foot division. For taking the Susitna 100, which was my race, and carving a permanent stamp of success on his name when I was destined for mediocrity. I can be very petty when I'm sleep deprived. But these are the thoughts that crossed my mind, and these are the reasons I watched his blinky light flash around corners for more than a mile before I pedaled up to him.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Hurting," he croaked. "I'm hurting."

He wasn't the same Geoff I saw 12 miles ago at Flathorn Lodge. He was subdued, and swaying a bit. "You only have 14 more miles to go," I said. The words sounded ridiculous before I even finished saying them. Regardless of how many miles came before, 14 miles is not a short distance on foot. And I realized that, even after periods of chill and pangs of hunger, I was feeling just fine. I was going to finish this race, even if it wasn't with impressive speed. And a quick glance at Geoff's face, and the look in his eyes, told me that he wasn't so certain of the same outcome.

"You should go," he said. "I'm slowing down here. My sub-20 is shot." (As it was, mine was too, unless I picked up the pace from my current 6-7 mph to 8 mph without stops, and at this point, I needed stops to get water.)

"I can stay," I said, but I was already shooting ahead of him by just coasting. I touched the brakes and slowed back. "No," he said, and I knew he didn't want me lingering at the edge of his pain tunnel. When the tables are turned (and when Geoff and I do things together, they usually are), I always feel the exact same way.

"OK," I said, and rolled away. I knew he would be fine, but I felt instantly guilty. I wrestled with ridiculous thoughts about attaching his sled to the back of my bike and pulling him for a while. And I struggled with humbling thoughts about how Geoff must really feel - in the midst of the race of his life, one minute feeling on top of the world and the next fading to black. We all have our battles, and mine was only two more hours of sore shoulders, a throbbing right knee, and a little sleepy fatigue. I had no idea what Geoff was going to fight to get through the last 14 miles.

The next 10 miles of trail are the most difficult part of the entire course ... punctuated with long climbs and steep, scary downhills. It's a fun way to begin a race and a brutal way to end it. I can't imagine there's anyone who trudged through this stretch and didn't wish they were somewhere - anywhere - else. The snow drifts on the side of the trail began to look like to most comfortable beds in the world. Anything with more than 10 feet of elevation gain had me on my feet. So much for 7 mph.

During these final miles of endurance races, I always launch into a slow shutdown. My body no longer acknowledges the passing of time. My brain, whose urgent messages of fatigue and pain have too long been ignored, stops bothering to send them. I give up on eating (and hadn't eaten anything since Flathorn Lodge anyway.) I only drink when the thought crosses my mind, which becomes less and less frequent. I pedal as though in a dream, as though in a machine, with no rewards and no consequences.

I caught up with another cyclist when my computer registered 100 miles. I realized that there couldn't be more than three miles in the race. He was stopped on the side of the trail. Not knowing what he was at first, I stopped too. We both stared into the darkness, headlight to headlight, for several elapsed seconds before I finally moved toward him. "I thought you were a dog musher," he said.

"I thought the same," I said.

"You should go ahead," he said.

"Actually, I'm dying here," I said. "You don't want to get stuck behind me."

"I'm in no hurry," he said. And with that he took off in front of me. I followed on his tail for more than a mile before he broke away. Somehow, in those final two miles, I felt no time pass and no more fatigue. My transition outside myself was finally complete, and I felt as though I no longer had to suffer the burden of being human. But the reality turned out to be quite different. That cyclist managed to finish a full 7 minutes before me. And when I finally rolled up to the finish line and stepped off my bike, all of that surreal painlessness tore away with it. My right knee was screaming at me. My shoulders burned as though I was being stabbed with hundreds of hot needles. I hobbled toward the bleary-eyed race director, who took my name and the time - 5:50 a.m. - but never really acknowledged me. He would later stop me twice to ask me if I was the first woman skier across the finish line.

With all the strength I could muster, I pushed my bike to the truck and limped into the warming hut, dragging my stiff right leg behind me. A handful of other racers sprawled in sleeping bags on the floor as a friendly dog musher stoked the fire to an indoor temperature of 87 degrees. She gave me apple cider and I gulped it down. I sat next to the silent race director and we stared blankly out the window toward the finish line for 20 minutes. Then, with heavy eyelids, I decided that a quick recline on the bench, with no pillow and my legs dangling off the edge, would do no harm. Just rest my eyes for a minute ... then sit back up to wait for Geoff come in. I felt the hard bench pressing painfully into my skull. Then I felt nothing until 6:55 a.m., when I jolted awake to find a bleary-eyed Geoff sitting across from me.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I sputtered. He looked blankly at me. "How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Like I've been hit by a truck," he said.

I looked at my watch again. "You broke the record, didn't you?"

He shrugged. "I can't believe I paid $700 to feel this way."

I adjusted my weight on the bench and realized my right knee was no longer voluntarily bending. And in my mind, I'm thinking it was worth every penny.

Total time: 20 hours, 50 minutes.
Total riding time: 18 hours, 2 minutes.
Total distance: 102.9 miles.
Average speed: 5.7 mph.
Top speed: 18.2 mph
Calories consumed: (At my best guess) Walnuts and cranberries, 1,200; One PBJ sandwich, 500; fruit rope (9) 420; turkey jerky (2 ounces) 160; jambalaya dinner, 800; orange slices (4) 80; Power Bar (1), 250.
Total calories: About 3,410.
Total flat tires: 0.
Total tire-pressure changes: 8.
Learning what it takes to persevere in these harsh and soul-shredding conditions: Priceless.

Susitna 2, Chapter 3

(When we left Palmer this morning, it was -9 outside. I almost forgot how beautiful the woods are when hoarfrost begins to coat everything - and the dead landscape transforms into a twisting crystal sculpture, the kind of trinket your great-grandmother stockpiled that always appeared to be on the verge of shattering. I felt sad to be leaving this cold place, and it made me realize how quickly pain is forgotten. )

For having just run 52 miles, Geoff looked much too perky. I didn't even know how to greet him in that kind of situation so all I said was, "You're fast."

"No, you're fast," he said. I tried to laugh. He had to slow down to my duck-footed hobble just to talk with me.

"You should just go," I said. "I've probably got miles more of this."

I will. But I'll stick with you for a bit," he said with the urgency of someone who knows he's in the lead but has no idea how far.

"Running a good race?" I asked.

He grinned. "Easiest thing I've ever done." His bright-eyed, red-cheeked face almost made me believe it.

"Maybe I'll see you at Luce's," he said, already cutting away.

Probably not. "Maybe I'll see you at the finish line," I said, but his red blinky light was already fading over a knoll.

I walked three more miles and then rode through teeth-clenching fishtales off the bluff and onto the Yentna River. I checked quickly in and out of the third checkpoint, and joined a veritable traffic jam of racers - skiers and other midpack bikers - as we shuffled single-file down the frozen 80-lane highway. We were all looking for the best trail out of dozens, and did so by following each other. Snowmobiles shot by us as our headlights and taillights wove in birdlike formation toward the darkness. I captured the fat track of a bike just ahead of me, easily pressing an extra inch on either side of my tread pattern. I knew one of those blinky lights ahead was Geoff. I tried to push harder but my lungs told me no. Take it easy - get through this thing. I was already wheezing just a bit. Between breaths, I was cramming cranberries in my mouth to curb the head spinning that was already starting to take hold, and taking small sips of my camelbak to curb the ice crust that had become a permanent fixture on the nozzle. Every time I pulled my fingers out of my pogies, they began to freeze. But I didn't know what else to do. "They'll come back," I told myself. "They always come back."

The flat darkness of the river is deceiving. What looks like 100 yards could be a mile, or it could be four. I watched the flickering light of the next landmark - a "five-star tent camp" at the Scary Tree junction, approach for what seemed like hours. Last year, those distant lights that seemed so close drove me insane. This year, my saving grace was my little bike computer, telling me the checkpoint was still three miles away, and that was OK.

At the confluence of the Susitna River, I finally hit harpack after yet another postholed soft trail and stopped yet again to change my tire pressure. I noticed my fingers would begin to freeze within minutes, but they were useless to me with mittens on. Even my liner gloves made the process too complicated. I decided then that this would probably be my last tire pressure change. After that, come what may, I was going to ride what I had. I pumped up to 15 psi as quickly as I could, then went for a quick sip of water. Instead, I bit down on a nozzle as hard as concrete - sending a jolt of pain through my teeth. I had waited too long. My camelbak was frozen. In a fit of frustration, I tore open my back-rack bag and rifled through until I found my water bottle, which I had buried in my gear. It was more than half frozen itself, but still had liquid inside. I fought with the cap for a while, and guzzled the lemon-flavored Propel slushy until it was dry, knowing that any liquid in it now would not be liquid much later. As I pondered my water situation and my options, I had two wonderful ideas. I pulled out a chemical warmer, tore it open and stuffed it in a plastic grocery bag with my water bottle, buried in the deep pouch of my camelbak. Then I stuck the nozzle beneath my armpit, and off I rode (this probably sounds gross. It seemed brilliant at the time.)

(This is the Susitna River on the way out, Mile 33, about 2 p.m. I never took any pictures after dark. It was completely clear, with a new moon and a sky full of spectacular stars, but no sign of Northern Lights. It must have been a quiet night for the aurora, and that was definitely disappointing.)

There were only nine more miles to the next checkpoint, and I knew my water situation wasn't dire ... especially since I still had plenty of liquid in my camelbak bladder. But my fingers were taking longer and longer to come back from the dead, and I realized that I wasn't really going to be able to continue using them as I was. It would mean no longer eating frequent small bites as I had been, but I thought if I could have one big meal at Flathorn Lodge, that would probably get me through the rest of the race. And, if not, I could always make careful, longer stops to eat with mittens on. I felt proud of my innovation, but more frustrated with my amateurish lack of preparedness and planning, which was becoming more apparent with every stop.

Luckily, the next nine miles were hard and fast and I warmed up easily. This was the site of my undoing last year ... the Dismal Swamp, and I always understood how it earned its name. But this year, under a canopy of stars that punched through the black sky like holes in a disintegrating sun shelter, it was difficult to feel dismal. This may have been the fastest stretch of my race. I'll never know because the time stamps don't exactly back up that claim. But it felt that way.

I arrived at Flathorn just before midnight. Geoff was there as well, preparing the take off into the new day. He was still perky and energetic to the point of being buzzed. He informed me that he had just eaten white rice with cornbread crumbled on top, and life was good and he was going to pound the rest of this thing out for a sub 20-hour finish. He still had five hours to do so, and it definitely didn't seem implausible at that point. Since my own sub 20-hour finish seemed a little less plausible ... and a little less important, I settled in at the table and somehow scarfed down an entire bowl of homemade jambalaya before I realized there were chunks of tomato-colored sausage in it (I don't eat red meat.) But it was too warm and tasty for me to even care. I can probably honestly say that this is the first meal I have ever actually enjoyed eating during a long bicycle ride, road centuries included.

Everyone else in the cabin had cozied up next to the wood stove and looked to be settled in for the night. I purposely didn't take off any of my gear to avoid the temptation (and would later be made fun of for doing so.) But I slipped out at 12:07 a.m. Once I returned to my bike, I changed my base layer and added extra layers (I would have done so in the cabin, but I forgot to bring my bag in with me the first time, and it was a good 300-yard walk up and back down a hill just to change clothes.) It was OK. I was wearing layers I knew had worked for me before. The chill would wear off. It always did ...

Susitna 2, Chapter 2

(Our good friends in Palmer followed us to the race start to cheer us on and take pre -race pictures. You know they're good friends when they're willing to get up at 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning and stand for 45 minutes in subfreezing cold.)

Trying to pilot a bicycle on top of snow and ice is unpredictable at best, and impossible at worst. I think this single aspect, more so than even the cold, is what makes winter cycling exciting to me. Trail conditions range from glare ice to packed powder to sugary powder to slurpee mess. And the best part - they can change from one hour to the next. The trail I see is not the same trail the race leaders or the bring-up-the-rear riders see. It is in constant flux, a fluid surface bending to the whims of motion - the wind's motion, the weather's motion, my motion.

Winter cyclists always talk about finding the perfect line - the place where the trail's the hardest packed. Often, it's no wider than the ski of a snowmobile or another cyclist's four-inch tires. Sticking to that line is a practice of patience and focus. Lose it once, and the consequences could mean twisting your knee in a posthole or endoing over the handlebars when you plant your front wheel. I am usually scatterbrained when I ride, my mind always in flux between the past and present. But when I try to find and keep that line, I am a picture of concentration. It's the closest I've come to Zen.

I rode all the way from Eaglesong to the Susitna River, about 8 miles, locked in that trance. I didn't acknowledge the time passing, and don't even remember that stretch except for a random glance at Mount Susitna looming over the horizon beneath a smooth glaze snow. I was momentarily unaware that any time had passed since Feb. 18, 2006. That was exactly where I was one year before, looking at the same mountain as it basked in the same sunlight. For a beautiful moment I was lost in a consequence-free flashback. Then I heard the crackle of snow beneath my wheels. I felt mild headwind biting at my cheeks. And I realized that I had come a fair distance since one year ago, and I still had a long way to go.

Thirteen miles separate the Susinta River from the second checkpoint, Eaglesong Lodge. It's a lesser-used trail - even a private trail in stretches, I believe. I noticed how much slower the snow became. With a sugary layer on top, it often felt like plying my way through desert sand. I remember riding 100-yard stretches of sand in southern Utah that left me doubled over at the end with a heart rate of about 190. It's strange that I now seek out the very conditions I once almost killed myself trying to avoid, back when attempted to crank up slickrock stretches that were way beyond my skill level. Maybe this is the paradox of getting older - the immediate risks become less intense as long-term efforts grow to be almost unfathomable. My 19-year-old self laying on a stretch of Moab's Slickrock Trail with a bloody leg would never, never have been able to imagine where life would take her eight years down the road.

I left Eaglesong just as the sun was beginning to set. This was the first point where I realized that I was actually a ways behind where I was at this point last year. I had made it over eight more miles of trail by sunset in 2006. And this was the worst stretch of trail yet - built solely for the race and used only by racers, it was tracked out and postholed by moose and human feet beyond being any real use to me. I trudged along slowly, hoisting my bike out of the holes and taking advantage of the snail pace and free hands to choke down some turkey jerky and walnut/cranberry trail mix (for the record, not the most palatable combination.) I heard some quiet footsteps approaching from behind. And when I turned around, I wasn't really surprised to see Geoff.

(We just returned from the post-race party, where a race official confirmed that Geoff did indeed break the previous course record, which was 22:15, by more than 30 minutes. It was fun to go to the party and actually meet the racers. I didn't recognize anyone without multiple layers of winter gear on. I have an early flight to catch tomorrow morning, so I'm headed to bed. But I'll get this thing typed out eventually.)

Susitna 2, Chapter 1

(Thanks to Ben for providing the picture. This isn't me at the finish. It was very, very dark when I finished the race. This picture was taken while I was still perky and warm at Eaglesong Lodge, Mile 47.)

Like most people who relish in getting themselves in over their heads, I tend to be a bit superstitious. I treat weather reports like religious text - true to the sense that you believe them - and never speak of them lest they come back to bite me. The night before the race is an important ritual of stress and acceptance. Then, the morning of the race is a reality check of clutter and chaos.

I believed it an interesting omen when Geoff momentarily lost control of the truck we were driving, with my bike thrown haphazardly in the back, on a patch of ice near Big Lake. I believed a more ominous omen when I pulled my overturned camelbak out of the truck to find it soaked and empty of water (I actually knew that camelbak bladder leaked out of the top and still took it, thereby making one of the worst decisions I could possibly make.)

During the frantic starting-line search for water, I lost all extra time for pre-race gear preps. My friends helped me strap on my bags, which I could only hope I packed correctly, and I tested my electronic gear ... headlight, headlamp, blinky light and iPod.

The first song that came on was Steven Sufjan's "Chicago" ... "If I was crying, in the van, with my friend - it was for freedom, from myself and from the land." I believe it to somehow be the right omen. This race wasn't going to be about me.

A calm settled over me as I lined up at the starting line with Geoff at my side, fiddling with his sled. Directly in front of me was John Stamstad, a legendary endurance cycling pioneer, standing with his stroller sled and getting ready to run his own race. I watched the leaders straddle their truly fat "FatBikes" at the front. The sunrise hung low on the horizon and reflected off the snow-frosted trees in steaks of pastel pink. I thought about the strangeness of being locked in such a crowd, so close to the solitary remoteness of the Susitna Valley. I never heard them say "go." As the crowd of 60 or so racers on bike, skis and foot lurched forward, I followed the flow.

I'm about the most conservative cyclist there is, but I can't help but go hard at the beginning. Part of the urgency stems from staying ahead of the skiers, who can completely block the narrow trail for miles if you fall behind. But it also feels really good, on that groomed dog mushing path, with the leaders still in sight, to crank out a 10 mph average and believe for a few beautiful miles that you might actually be able to maintain that clip. That lasted for almost three miles. Then, another cyclist nudged me as he passed me. I put my leg down to catch myself and lost it in a posthole up to my hip. As I struggled to climb out and lift my 60-pound, overturned bicycle, I watched a group of four skate-skiers scoot by. I was riding the Susitna 100, and there are some things time and training just can't change. I couldn't help but smile.

One thing time did change was my memory of how hilly the first and last 15 miles really are. I didn't even register the hills last year in the midst of deteriorating snow conditions and plummeting morale, but the rolling terrain caught up to me this year. Most of the racers in front of me got off their bikes and took off their skis to march up the hills, leaving a wake of whipped powder snow. It's about the slipperiest surface this side of glare ice, and I could not control my footing up the steeper slopes. Some hills had me crawling on my knees, dragging my bike - overturned on its side - behind me. As I clawed my way up, I hated everything about its heavy, dead weight. I would learn to appreciate it a lot more later.

(This is another picture that I stole from a MTBR forum. Apparently, someone who rode the 50K has a sense of humor.)

At mile 16, I passed the famous - and usually missing - Nome sign. From that spot, Nome is only 1,049 miles away. I thought about the scope of the Iditarod trail, and the distant dream of actually riding a bicycle all the way to the end of the continent - to a frozen village locked against a frozen sea - and the sparse, starkly gorgeous landscape that would carry you there. A simple thing like a Nome sign makes those sweeping images that much more real, even if they never are anything more than a dream.

Once on the Iditarod, the trail is flat and fast - as fast as a trail can be when you're trying to pedal and overweight, comparatively skinny-tire bicycle through an inch or so of new snow. I was already fading a little, and I realized I was going to have to find a more comfortable pace. Frozen swamps and lakes burned blinding white in the sun. I dug out a pair of old sunglasses that I haven't worn in about a year and leaned back like a Harley biker chick out for a Saturday cruise.

The first checkpoint is at Flathorn Lake, mile 25. This checkpoint alone could singlehandidly strip all bragging rights about riding a completely self-supported race. They lure you inside a warm cabin and ply you with oranges, brownies and hot water. They won't even let you get your own water or food. It's full service through and through, all out of the goodness of heart of a few race volunteers who happen to own property in what I consider one of the most beautiful areas of the world. It's after this checkpoint that I start to realize I'm not necessarily riding a race. I'm a tourist in this land. And later, when fatigue creeps in a darkness masks all but the immediate, painful future, the promise of Flathorn really helps ...

Cold ride

Date: Feb. 17
Mileage: 102.9
February mileage: 361.1
Temperature upon departure: 11

I have some more cognizant thoughts about the Susitna 100 that I'd like to write about when I'm a little less sleep-deprived. But today, between my Sunday duties of eating food that all tastes overwhelmingly like salt (why does dehydration do that?) and physically hauling a crippled Geoff from the car to the couch to bath to bed, I wanted to post a quick race report.

First of all, Geoff not only persevered through his injury, but he came back full force to shatter the old Susinta 100 foot course record (according to some people we talked to this morning. I'm not sure yet if it's official.) He finished in about 21 hours 40 minutes. Just behind me :-). In fact, we hopscotched during a fair portion of the race. It was a little demoralizing at first, but the fact is ... Geoff's a strong runner, and I'm not all that fast on a bike. For me, snowbiking - even in good conditions - is like constantly riding uphill or into a strong wind. The resistance is fierce, and I'm fairly happy to maintain 6-7 mph over a fairly hilly course. And obviously, Geoff can run that speed no problem. But who knew he could do it for 100 miles?

I'm actually pretty happy with my time. It was about three hours slower than I was shooting for, but 4.5 hours faster than last year. We had great trail riding conditions. Most of the trail was hard-packed powder, but there were about two new inches of snow that made things slower going. And, of course, I never take into account that the trail use out there is so varied. At least 10 percent of trail will always be soft or postholed, and I'll have at least 10 miles of walking at 2.5 mph (This year, including long uphills, I think I walked a total of 14 miles.) I think the secret to increasing my time is the practice faster pushing ... buy lighter gear ... and the fattest snowbike I can find.

I felt like I rode close to my aerobic capability most of time, but I didn't struggle with either that or the trail conditions this year. No, this year, my nemesis was the cold. My training in moderately temperate Juneau didn't quite prepare for for the subzero conditions I met out on the trail (some reports I got put checkpoint lows at -4 before windchill. Based on past experiences, I wouldn't be surprised if it was colder than that in pockets.) I thought I prepared well for the cold, but it hit me hard. At my lowest point, I was riding through a wooded stretch at about 2 a.m. Even though I had changed into all of the layers I was carrying, I could feel my core temperature dropping. (I had even changed my base layer just a couple of hours before, so I was not drenched in sweat.) Light shivering started even as I was riding. Since I figured at that point I was about 20 minutes away from pulling off the trail, starting a fire and bivying, I turned to my last resort before desperation ... chemical heat warming packs. Those things are little miracles. Inside my boots and mittens, my hands and feet warmed up pretty quickly ... and I think my digits may have been the original source of my cooling spell. I had one chemical warmer in my bike jersey back pocket, and one in my pack with the hope that it would thaw my frozen water bottle a little. That miraculously staved off the worst of the chill, but there were always little things to deal with ... eyelashes that kept freezing shut, not being about to pull my hands out of my pogies to feed myself, an insulated camelbak nozzle that kept freezing solid (yes, I always put it inside my coat and blew all the water out of the hose). It would only unfreeze after an extensive period under my arms.

Geoff did contract a little bit of "frost nip" on the tip of one of his toes, though you can hardly tell with all of the blisters he has anyway. I suffered no ill after-effects from the cold.

It's funny, because there were racers from Fairbanks who thought -4 was downright balmy. I really think it's a matter of acclimatization, and also having confidence in what systems work best under what I consider extreme conditions. If it's 35 and raining, I know exactly what to do. But spending 20 hours in subzero to scarcely-double-digit cold, and I definitely have a lot to learn. Last night, I was never in any real danger. I was chilled, but not hypothermic. I definitely know that value of stopping and trying to remedy a situation before hypothermia even begins to set in. I was just concerned that I was closing in on that point.

Anyway, it was an amazing experience. I can't wait to write about the things I saw and felt, which for me, is really the most valuable part of the race.