Adventures of Unipedal

Date: March 8
Mileage: 5.1 (Made it further than last week)
March mileage: 6.2
Temperature upon departure: 34

This is the second time this week I've become self-aware of my own ridiculous behavior, and felt compelled to photograph it. Since I obviously set this picture up, I probably didn't look quite this ridiculous for the better part of three miles. But the truth can't be that far off.

I think my doctor is right about the resistance of outdoor cycling. It's just too much, too fast. But I made good on my promise to myself to try, and mostly good on my promise to stop once it hurt. Juneau received a massive amount of snow early in the week, and that's been followed up by a warm spell and a steady stream of sleet and rain. The snow pack funnels all of the melt-off into the streets, which means shin-deep slush, snow dams and flooding that can reach knee level. You don't pedal in this stuff. You ooze through it.

I noticed the strange feeling return almost immediately, and by mile 1, there was definite pain. By mile 1.5, I was mindlessly pulling my leg off the pedal. At mile 2, I just left it there, rigid and sticking straight out like a splintered board.

You'd think that pedalling with one leg would be either twice as hard or twice as slow. In reality, it's both. Since three weeks of rest and relaxation haven't exactly done wonders for my muscle strength, my left leg became tired pretty quickly. I made it another half mile that way, grinding through the slush at 8 mph. Cars streamed by and launched slush geysers far over my head. I wiped the cold goo out of my eyes and thought, "I must look like an absolute idiot." Out came the camera.

I feel a little frustrated about another defeat, but not that much. I can't expect whatever injury I have to become instantly healed just because I went to see a doctor. I thought a little more about my doctor's advice to wait another 10 days to get an MRI (I already have an appointment set up to do so, should I decide at that point that it's needed.) I think it's sound advice. I have considered the possibility that he's just waiting for my insurance check to clear before he welcomes me back in for tests. I mean - truthfully - young, single people who show up at a clinic driving cars like mine don't have the best reputation for paying their medical bills. But there's also the fact that ... however slowly ... my knee is getting better every day. If that stops happening, I'll start waving my Visa card around. I'm sure somebody out there will hook my leg up to a scanner. Until then, maybe there will be more Misadventures of Unipedal.

Spun out

You can always tell when Geoff or I are injured or burnt out, because those are the only reasons my road bike ends up mounted on an ancient magnetic trainer in the front room. It just sits there, propped on stacks of flattened USPS boxes, gathering dust as rain and sleet pound the front window and Geoff’s disassembled car racks crowd in like bars in a jail cell. Roadie on the trainer has become a depressing sight to me.

I set it up when the weather or trail conditions have become too much for me. I ride it for a day, and it reminds me how wonderful blowing snow and cantaloupe-sized ice chunks can really be. But when I set it up today, it was under doctor’s orders. It felt less defeatist and more purposeful. I started one of two DVDs I own - and have seen about 20 times - and set into easy spinning.

I didn’t feel any knee pain. I didn’t feel normal ... but no pain. The feeling was more akin to a slightly dislocated joint that was looking for its proper place. I planned to ride for an hour, and every 10 minutes I increased the resistance. At minute 52, a voice in my head started saying, “Please stop. Please just stop.” I was confused. The strange feeling was still there, but no pain yet. “Please stop,” it said again. So I listened. I jumped off the bike with 8 minutes to go. A few hours have gone by since. I have the same generally-improving stiffness I’ve had for weeks, but still no pain. I’m beginning to think I really am crazy.

The problem is, I don’t know if that voice spoke up because I was bored, or if it was protesting some inner trauma that I didn’t ever consciously connect to. I have never been very good at “listening” to my body. In many ways, I can’t even hear it most of the time. I actually believe that’s one of my assets, considering the sport I’m most interested in is endurance cycling. I’m not exceptionally strong or physically talented like Geoff. If I ever measured my VO2 max, it would probably be right around average. I’ve never been adept at muscle building, and my balance and hand-eye coordination are both atrocious. All of these attributes scream “NOT AN ATHLETE.” But when I get on a bicycle, I shift my body into neutral and turn my willpower on overdrive. Then I let my mind do all of the heavy lifting. It tells my body to keep going, and my body listens. It assures my body it can go forever. It makes my body believe that. My body has never failed me.

Until now, maybe.

I try to shrug this whole knee thing off and believe it’s not a big deal - despite the daily complaints on my blog that may indicate otherwise. I guess the complaints are closer to my reality, though. It’s been hard for me. It hasn’t been that long, but I already feel like I have a swath of emptiness in my life where bicycling once was. I’ve heard recovering alcoholics use the same words to describe their addiction ... that there’s simply a hole there, and nothing is ever going to replace it. But the big difference between them and me is they’re doing everything to stay away from that hole, and I'm trying to get back in.

I think maybe it’s time to try again. Don’t worry - I’m not going to overdo it. I’ll take it slow. I won’t push through any pain at all. I’ll listen if my body says “Please stop,” even if it is just saying it because dagger-like sleet is falling from the sky and a 50 mph crosswind is threatening to pin me to the pavement. But I need to show my body who’s boss. And it’s about time it started listening again.

No news is good news, I guess

Well the doc didn't really find anything in my knee. He yanked my leg in weird directions and scolded me repeatedly for tensing up. He said he felt "residual inflammation." He said he heard "creaking." He diagnosed me with "angry knee." He recommended the same ol' "RICE" crap ... Ice, Compression and Excessive amounts of Advil. But not Rest. He recommended Rehabilitation. He told me to get back on the bike. "Don't ride outside," he said. "There's too much resistance. Put your bike on a trainer and spin easy."

I went to the gym afterward and ran on the elliptical trainer - no incline - for an hour. That motion feels pretty much normal at this point. Then I sat on the ancient stationary bike, set the resistance to "2" and started spinning. It felt really strange. Not necessarily painful ... but if I stopped thinking about it, I would eventually become aware of other physical reactions that are typically associated with pain ... white-knuckling the handlebars, biting my lip, and pressing my head against my arm. It felt unusual. Unnatural. I lasted 10 minutes.

The doc scheduled a follow-up for two weeks from now, and recommended waiting out an MRI scan until then. He seemed really confident in my health. His reassuring head shakes gave me a boost of confidence, but also made me second-guess everything that's transpired in the past three weeks. Maybe I'm looking to the wrong doctor. Maybe what I really need is a good psychiatrist to tell me why I might have a tendency toward self-defeating hypochondria. I know medicine can't do much for you unless you have a traumatic injury ... and this is almost definitely not. I have a fair amount of experience with "waiting it out." Strange, inexplicable and incurable ailments run rampant in my family. But the bad knees seem to be exclusively mine.

Lots of snow

The latest storm has dumped nearly two feet of snow on Juneau. The city closed all of the schools and gave non-essential government employees a paid day off ... which means none of the streets were plowed and all of the snow-day beneficiaries were funnelled onto nearby trails. I love days like this. I somehow ended up in front of snowshoer rush hour and punched a new path up the mountain. I walked up for one hour. It took me 35 minutes to walk down. I wandered off the main trail and postholed a few times up to my thighs - even wearing snowshoes. It was a real struggle to get out. The first time, I wrenched my bad knee beyond its point of sharp, blinding pain. After that, I just threw all of my body weight toward the direction of the trail (or my best guess of were it was) and swam out. I'm still not sure all of this snowshoeing is helping my physical situation. But I do think it's helping me maintain some kind of an aerobic base.

That other Iditarod race is going on right now ... the one with all of the puppies and the people on sleds. After spending the past week watching the progress of bikers and runners as they made their way over the Alaska Range, I'm amazed at the speeds in which those dogs can move. As a handful of ultrasporters continue on to McGrath and Nome, the Iditarod mushers are already passing them like they’re not even moving. Also out on the trail right now is Mike Curiak, a who is bicycling self-supported to Nome. Self-supported meaning he carries all of his gear. He buys nothing. He stashes nothing. He mail-drops nothing. He enters no buildings, sleeps in no cabins. And if a friendly musher offered him some smoked salmon on the trail, he would probably refuse it. There’s a rumor that he’s training for some 2008 expedition that will be even more remote and difficult. More remote and difficult than a 100-percent self-supported winter bicycle ride to Nome? I can’t even imagine where in the world that could possibly happen, but my money’s on a bicycle ride to the South Pole. Go, Mike, go.

Speaking of expeditions, there's a raffle going on right now to support Dave Nice's 2007 Great Divide Race bid. He had his bike stolen during last year's race, so this is bound to be his year. And you can help him! Visit Fat Cyclist's site for all the details.

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow in my continued effort to figure out why I’m not riding. I’m hoping for a good diagnosis, expecting a vague and unhelpful diagnosis, and steeling myself for a bad diagnosis. If it turns out I’ve rendered my right knee unusable for an extended period of time, I’m already formulating a cycling plan. It involves a frame-mounted foot strap, a clipless pedal, and "quad of steel" workouts for the unipedal.

My two homes

(Picture taken Sunday at Knik Glacier, Alaska, posted with

other great pictures on a MTB forum thread.)

(South Window Arch, Arches National Park, Utah)

Geoff and I have started planning a spring trip to Utah. In the back of my mind, I'm thinking, "Do I really want to go back to Utah this spring? Why not save the vacation time to do something really cool ... like bicycle camp my way to Inuvik?" Despite the appeal of visiting friends and family, sometimes thoughts of Utah dredge up a 'been there, done that' sentiment.

I still can't deny - despite my current location in Juneau and 'born and raised' familiarity with my state of origin - that I'm completely enamored with Utah. I've become more lost inside myself within the shadows of towering sandstone canyons than I have in my wilderness treks through trail-less Interior Alaska. I've been gripped with more primal fear in the rushing rapids of the Colorado River than I have standing in the path of a grizzly bear. I'm always quick to defend my home state when Alaskans ask me how many 'sister wives' I had back home, or when they tell me how much Salt Lake City "stinks." ("You mean like that smell wafting in right now from the salmon hatchery?" I say.) But when people ask me when I plan to leave the land of snow and ice to return to the land of salt and sand, I always reply with a confused stare. What? Leave Alaska?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm here by the sheer pull of similarity. Utah is home to the many of the most remote areas of the Lower 48. Alaska is just remote. Utah has the suffocating heat and desolation of the desert. Alaska has the paralyzing cold and desolation of the tundra. Girdwood is basically Park City with a hippy problem. Anchorage is basically Salt Lake City with a moose problem. Homer could double for Moab if you replaced mountain bike and ATV-riding with halibut fishing. Even where I live, Juneau - which often seems like no place I've ever seen before - could find a lot in common with the Beehive State residents who live to ski and ski to eat (someone here told me once that Alaskans eat the most ice cream per capita. I had to dispute that one loudly, too.)

But there's something about Alaska - something that draws me further away, even as I spend my nights dreaming about redrock. Something that keeps me up at night, scheming about all the places I have yet to see. It's big. It's wild. It's full of life (Isn't that right, Anchorage tourism board?)

And it's my home.

Better days

I spent less time wallowing in self pity and more time snowshoeing today. It worked out a lot better for me. The trail hadn't been broken since the big snowfall yesterday (about a foot at the trail head ... and seemingly exponentially more as it went higher.) I was buried to my shins in soft powder, swinging my hips dramatically to take the strain off my knees. The fluid motion felt vaguely familiar. I couldn't quite place it. It was like walking in quicksand, or running in a slow-motion dream. My arms skimmed snow drifts that topped out at shoulder level, sending clouds of ice crystals air-born. That's when I realized where I had felt this before. I was swimming.

....

I received a reply from the Fireweed 400 folks. They told me what I was expecting to hear ... No, you can't ride our race unsupported. But the assistant director, George Stransky, did take the time to write a thoughtful suggestion:

"Last year, a friend of mine entered the 200-miler (which we support with Aid Stations every 25 miles and discourage support vehicles and crew), then turned around and rode back to Sheep Mountain. He was not an official finisher of the 400 and did not qualify for RAAM or John Marino points, but he did ride the "400 miles" unsupported. He was just not part of the race. He did, however, get the T-shirt, recognition in the movie (see the interview with number 500), and the satisfaction of completing the distance. And, we were NOT responsible for him on his return journey from Valdez."

Sounds like a win-win situation. The thought of entering the shorter event crossed my mind. After 200 miles one way, I'd have to find some way back to the beginning. Why not just ride it? But as I considered it more, I thought ... why enter the race at all? If I'm not an official racer, why not just ride it at a more convenient time? Better yet, why not ride several hundred miles in a more convenient place? I've always wanted to ride the broken loop from Haines to Skagway. At 350 miles, it would be a good week-long tour. Or a crazy 36-hour sufferfest. I can't decide which would be more fun.

But deep down, I know the reason I enter races is to cement motivation for the long preparation. It would be too easy to drop out of a self-styled quadruple century. I have little doubt that I'd never do it, even if I set a date and bought a couple of ferry tickets. There's something about an actual race that brings heavy shame on the heads of the do-not-shows. Better to finish dead last than to not show up at all. Maybe it's those T-shirts they send you. ("Oh, you like this Fireweed 400 shirt? Isn't it cool? Well, no, I didn't race it, exactly. No, I was sitting on my couch, eating Oreos and watching the Food Network. But I entered it. And look, I got this RAAM mug, too! Can you believe they were five for $16.95 at Big Lots?") Who would dare wear a shirt from an event you paid for but never attended? You might as well just slap on a scarlet "L" for "Lazy."

Either way, I'm surprised I'm still considering it so seriously. I need my knee to heal up fast, and get back on my bike soon, before I enter anything crazy. The last thing I need is another T-shirt.

Still can't ride

Date: March 2
Mileage: 1.1
March mileage: 1.1
Temperature upon departure: 11

I tried. I tried.

The bike box was covered in several inches of snow by the time I finally dragged it into the house and sliced it open. I went to work restoring Snaux bike from a duct-tape-covered mass of aluminum and cables to something that might move forward again. But I had to make sure.

Juneau was in the midst of a "blizzard warning," but it seemed pretty tame ... about nine inches of new snow and only light powder falling at the time. Most of the streets weren't yet plowed, so I couldn't just coast and spin easy for a while. I had to set right into the crank, and the knee pain came instantly. I winced through it for a about a half mile, thinking that my knee was probably just stiff and needed to loosen up. But it just became worse. Eventually, my leg started involuntarily jumping off the pedals. If I had pedal cages, I probably would have just let it dangle there. But I needed the leg's dead weight just to keep the crank turning, and the angle of the up-stroke of was too much. I got off the bike and pushed it home.

As I was carrying my bike down the stairs, it somehow slipped out of my hands, bounced a few times and dropped into the yard. I'm not really sure what happened then. I lost it, a little bit. I plopped down beside it and had my own private temper tantrum, right there in the snow, swiping up clouds of cheek-stinging powder and everything. After that humiliating little pity party subsided, I propped up the bike and got out my camera to document the meltdown. I'm not sure why I did that, either. I'm still really embarrassed about it. Why am I writing about it? But it seems important to remember the low points. And today was definitely a low point.

I can't say why I became so consumed with frustration. I'm not exactly suffering, and there are people out there - like Lynda, who broke her collarbone in a mountain bike race on Feb. 17 - who obviously have it so much worse. But I guess that, as with any injury, there is always a lingering thought that "this knee is never going to work again." It's easy to push the thought in the back of my mind when I have an inexplicable little injury with no known origin and no real reason to exist. I can even tell myself that it's all in my head. But when that thought of permanent disability comes raring back ... no amount of denial can hold it off. And there I am, sitting in the snow, clenching my mittens so tight that my fingers hurt and thinking, "It's not supposed to happen like this. Not here. Not now."

I know. So much melodrama. I'm usually even-tempered, but every once in a while I revert back to the maturity of a 16-year-old. It's a good emotional release. I'll be OK. I promise. I even went a short snowshoe hike after that. With all of the new, deep snow, I really worked my calves without putting much pressure on my knee.

I have an appointment at a sports medicine clinic on Tuesday. I look forward to finding out that it really is nothing, that it's all in my head, and that I'm just acting like a toddler.