Noncyclist, interrupted

The first day I went into the desert, I rented a bicycle. Two days cost more than I paid for my first commuter bike, but it seemed wrong to go into the desert without a bicycle in tow. I told the people at Poison Spider that I wanted a hardtail. Rigid if they had it.

"Where are you going to be riding?" the bike shop guy asked.

"Probably just the road above the White Rim," I said, not even trying to mask my disappointment in that statement. "There's going to be some fast guys and I'd like a chance to keep up with them for 10 miles."

Bike shop guy just crinkled his nose as if to suggest he had never heard of anything more boring. "Well we don't have hardtails here," he said. "We only have full-suspension bikes. But if you want, I'll rent you my fixie."

I was meeting Geoff, Dave Nice and our Utah friend Bryan that afternoon at the Sovereign trail. I didn't tell bike shop guy that bit of information because I didn't think I'd actually ride with them much at all. But they were such a dedicated group, I couldn't resist the pull. Dave endured hours on a Greyhound bus all the way from Denver just to ride with us that weekend. Bryan chose to fight a nasty case of Bronchitis while plowing over slickrock on a Trek he rarely rides anymore (Bryan is currently a "roadie.") Geoff was preparing to bust out his first dirt century the next day, but everyone wanted to hit the Sovereign singletrack. Compared to that group, slight gimpiness was hardly a good excuse to skip a short ride.

Falling back into the flow of mountain biking happened surprisingly fast. I haven't ridden a dirt trail since September; not that it mattered anyway, because I hadn't really ridden a bike since February. Motoring along effortlessly at 10 mph, standing the whole time to avoid the pain angles and timidly stepping off my bike at most uphill obstacles, I still felt like I was flying across time and space. The trail was a mob scene - I think I saw more mountain bikers in those 10 miles than I have seen throughout thousands in Alaska - but I didn't care. I probably had some kind of silly grin stretched across my face for the entire wavering, pain-streaked, overcrowded ride. Self deprivation is a powerful thing.

The next morning, I was stiff but unwilling to completely give up on the White Rim. I planned this ride back in February, back when I still believed that recovery was an easy process. By the time it became obvious that my presence on the ride would only serve as a huge liability, Geoff had already signed on, as had two hardcore riders who are training for this year's Great Divide Race, Dave and Pete Basinger. Talk about a cool group. I was drooling with jealousy. I thought if I could set out toward the edge of the rim, I would almost be able to taste a trail just out of my reach. I thought that 20 miles of pavement would be better than nothing at all. So I set out with the crowd at 6 a.m., rain clouds hovering on the horizon and temperatures dipping below 40 degrees. With tailwinds and a downhill slope, it seemed to be over before it even began. I watched the three disappear over the Schaefer trail, in my mind filling the void with my delusions of competence and a gnawing defiance held back only by the presence of Bryan, who was preparing to ride with me back the way we came.

By noon that day, the rest of the group of friends and I had already shivered our way through the nature walk above Dead Horse Point and were looking for a better way to kill an afternoon. I convinced myself that the best way to shuttle Geoff back to Moab that evening would be to leave our vehicle at the trailhead and pedal myself into town - only 27 miles, mostly downhill. And as long as I had a full-suspension mountain bike, I reasoned, I might as well take the Gemini Bridges jeep road - catch a few technical moves and maybe a nice view or two before frittering away the rest of the day at the Slickrock Cafe.

I recruited my friend Monika to ride along. She rode my friend Jen's neglected Trek 4300, corroded and in need of a multitude of adjustments that I was too lazy to fix. Monika and I took it painfully easy, coasting down the road and stopping at scenic points along the way.

We hit a short, 300-foot climb about two miles from the highway. I pedaled the hill hard at first because it felt good to take quick gulps of the cold desert air, but fairly quickly slipped back against the pain streaks. I hopped off my bike to walk the last stretch. A couple of approaching motorcyclists stopped beside me.

"Are you having a hard time pedaling your bike uphill?" one asked.

"Um, no," I said. "I'm just walking for a bit."

"Because you know, you have gears on that bike that you can shift to make it easier to pedal," he said, pointing to crank on my rental ride, which was currently fixed on the second ring - where it needed to be, since I rode the entire day off the saddle. I couldn't tell if he was serious or just being a jerk, but either way, I didn't want to invite further condescending treatment by telling him I was walking because my knee had an owie. Instead, I got a three-minute lecture about the basic mechanics of a geared bike and how the levers work. All the while, I just smiled, nodded, and dreamed of the alternate universe where healthy Jill was riding her own bike on a 100-mile day jaunt down the White Rim trail, and this doofus had run out of gas somewhere deep in the desert.

The day clocked in at 45 miles, plus 10 the previous day, which I guess is arguably half as healthy as I'd need to be to ride the White Rim. Except for I wasn't healthy. I was an Aleve-popping hopalong who still had a three-day backpacking trip to complete. But I'd think back to plummeting down the sandy slopes of Gemini Bridges road, with a foreground drenched in a blaze of spring green and slipping effortlessly into the blur of motion, and I'd decide it was all worth it.

When worlds collide

Toward the end of Day 2 in White Canyon - so far south you can almost smell Arizona and so deep in the desert that those invasive plants that plague the Colorado Plateau (tamarisk and Russian olive) still haven't found their way in - Chris walked back down the trail to tell us he saw bear tracks.

"Uh huh," I said, my voice probably wavering between disbelief and indifference.

"I said bear tracks, not deer tracks," Chris said.

I shrugged. "So?"

Chris just chuckled. "Um...." Above us, sheer sandstone cliffs cut out the sky, stark blue against a red rock streaked in slate black varnish. Cottonwood trees dripped in spring greens I have probably already missed seeing in Alaska, and I realized then how far from home we really were. Me and the bear.

I dropped my pack and hobble sticks and stumbled up a side canyon, where my friends were already following the well-laid footprints. I struggled to keep up with the group but found myself slipping further behind. Their echoing voices faded up the canyon until I was alone with the silence, tracing the steps of a ghost bear in the sand, and losing my concentration to the mystery of it all. The canyon twisted and narrowed, casting the wash in shadow, threatening yet another dead end, and still the bear moved on.

It's been an interesting experience to come together in this place - together as a group of old and new friends now spread between all corners of the continent; together as Alaskan and black bear in the Utah desert. Such strange collisions could only happen in a space so wide open it closes in all the empty spaces, a place so beautiful it bleeds light, where time moves like the waves in a river - constantly curling back toward the past.

I had a great vacation despite a nearly continuous struggle with an uncooperative body. I'm back in Salt Lake City today after driving between the hours of 10 p.m. and 3 a.m., all hopped up on gallons of Diet Pepsi (which is my excuse for still being awake and also for this strange post.) I owe my sore knee to some misguided mountain biking and unintended canyoneering, but I owe the great vacation to old friends, open spaces, and a little black bear that must have been a long way from home.


To be continued ...

Finally going to the desert

I'm just killing some time while Geoff takes a shower after his latest double-digit-mile run and protein shake breakfast. I just rolled out of bed about an hour ago. Yeah, I'm becoming a blob.

My knee feels pretty good after three days of absolute inactivity. Probably a good thing, because I'm going to absolutely thrash it in the next five days. Carrying my 35-pound pack down the stairs yesterday reminded me just how grinding it's going to be hoisting that thing down to the bottom of Natural Bridges National Monument. At least I have until Monday to worry about that.

In the meantime, I am mentally preparing for mounting a mountain bike for the first time since February. I am borrowing a friend's bike for Sunday's ride. She is 4 inches shorter than I am. I don't remember what kind of bike it is. Something in the $400 range. I fixed the tires for her when I was out here last November, and she told me yesterday that she hasn't ridden it since. Whatever happens, it's going to be an adventure.

So it seems every time I come to Utah, I bring Alaska weather with me. Last week, it climbed above 80 degrees in Salt Lake. Yesterday, it rained all day and here on the benches of the Wasatch Mountains, dropped pretty close to freezing last night. Brrr. We were going to hike a slot canyon in the San Rafael Swell called Black Box. But because we'd rather not die of hypothermia in the desert (Black Box involves a stretch of over-your-head swimming) or drown in a flash flood, we're probably going to nix that. Just as well, too, I guess. I hate prolonging the inactivity, but I think it's doing me some good.

I realized this morning that because I lost my good camera with the real memory card, I only have the ability to take 20 pictures this week. I guess I'll have to make them good ones. Secretly, I'm hoping it falls into a slot canyon so I'll have no choice but to buy myself a new one. But the most likely scenario is that I'm going to hobble back to the airport next week with a throbbing knee, second-rate pictures, and the same war-torn digital camera that I've had since 2002.

Have a good weekend, all. I'll post the blurry-photo, over-dramatized flash-flood report when I return.

P.S. Nykole, I can't get my e-mail to work. But if you see this, I'd love to meet up Friday. I'll get in touch with you next week.

Travel day

So 20,000 Alaska Airlines miles will get you a free 8-hour flight from Juneau to Salt Lake with only three stops. That's a bargain at twice the price.

I am mainly posting today because I can't get over that landing strip in Sitka (top photo.) It's just a narrow spit of sand with some rough pavement on top. Starts in the sea. Ends in the sea. Sea to every side. No room for a pilot to yawn or a plane to slightly stall. I know landing strips can be so much worse, but you don't usually see someone trying to land a 737 on them. I am terrified of flying anyway, and when I say I am terrified of flying, I mean I am terrified of the taking off and landing part ... at normal airports, airports built on actual land. Let me just say that after a long, bike-less hiatus, it was kinda nice to be back on endorphins today. Oi.

It was another beautiful day for flying, though. I didn't get good pictures because the window was dirty. The plane looked and sounded like something purchased at a discount airline repo auction; I swear I saw bolts peeling off the wing. Again, Oi.

Now I am in Salt Lake City. As much as I come back, it is always strange to be back. I am a different person here. I feel like an observer who has just stumbled back after an extended bathroom break, waving a broken remote control at a life I left behind. But it is easy to get sucked into the swirl of images. The plot is easy to pick up, the characters all too familiar. And it's amazing how quickly Alaska becomes the broken storyline. It's been 12 hours, maybe 13. The time change always throws me off. Not that it matters, though. I will move through here as if I never left, and return as though it were all a dream.

This is where I work

And I don't have to come back for nine days. Ode to joy.

Here are my goals for my vacation to Utah:

1. Ride the White Rim, but not all of the White Rim. Maybe what Geoff says is right. Maybe the first 10 miles are the most boring 10 miles of mountain biking in the West. And maybe he will take my Advil and force me to turn around at Mile 10. And maybe, as he disappears into the Canyonlands chasm, he won't even notice if I drop off the back side of Schaefer. After all, I have all day to hoof it back up. Hooray!

2. Eat Mexican food like people in Mexico intended it to be eaten, with actual peppers and everything.

3. Go swimming in the Colorado River.

4. Somehow not fry (I haven't experienced an outdoor temperature above 59 degrees since July.)

5. Remember Mother's Day and buy my mom something nice.

6. Find out Dave's endless endurance fixie secrets.

7. Find out Pete's nutrition secrets (and end my inner debate about what's the better subzero fuel, licorice or Oreos.)

8. Remember that Geoff is the one who planned to bring nearly a dozen people from all over North America together for a disjointed week in the middle of the desert, and so it's his job to work out the logistics, and it's my freedom to eat licorice and hobble around on my trekking poles without a care in the world.

9. Be good to my knee but not too good.

10. Come home in nine days only feeling only marginally worse than I do now.

Yeah! Vacation!

Looking back

(Nebraska/Wyoming border, September 2003)

I've been put on alert that my blog has been a bit of a downer. So I'm taking a different direction today. Sometimes when I'm in a rut, I like to dig through pieces of the past as a road map to where I've been and where I'm headed. This is an excerpt from my old blog, dated Sept. 26, 2002. The context is my first bicycle tour, when I took to the lonely desert roads of Southeastern Utah and Southwestern Colorado for a 600-mile trip before I knew how to change a tire or even shift the gears on my $300 touring bike. I still see it as an ongoing journey.
.....

Lucky day thirteen. We leave the jagged sandstone peaks of the San Rafael Swell and merge onto I-70, joining the swift flow of trucks and RVs in the emergency lane, concrete “wake up” grates and all.

Most bicycle tourists dread the stretches where the freeway is unavoidable, but I actually enjoy the large shoulders and gentle slopes of U.S. Interstates. The traffic is heavy but friendly. In fact, we got more honks and waves today that the rest of the trip combined, and, unlike two-lane state highways, didn't have a single “rude driver” incident (as we all know, those drivers who swerve toward you on purpose are merely jealous.)

As we pass through a gray alkaline hill and began to drop into the Green River Valley, the end of our trip becomes real. Tonight we will dine at our favorite veggie burger stop, Ray’s Tavern, and by tomorrow evening we’ll be back in Moab, back to our car and the now inconceivably quick drive to Salt Lake.

How did we get here? The town of Green River draws nearer and I begin to realize how far we’ve come. Less than two weeks ago we passed through here, stopped our car in Moab, mounted loaded-up bikes for the first time in our lives, and now, over 500 miles later, here I am. I’ve seen the thick pines and glacial lakes of the San Juans, the destitute reservation, the rolling redrock of Escalante and the San Rafael Swell, and I did it all with my own body, with my own two legs. Really, how did I get here?

I think back to the way I felt when the trip started - tired and pessimistic. It’s that feeling of physical defeat- when just mounting the cold saddle sends sharp streaks of pain through your pelvis. Knees crack and throb as you rotate the crank. Eyes dry out in the heat and wind. Palms are red and raw. Even feet protest the pressure of pedals, and legs feel weary at the first sight of a steep hill.

As the third or fourth day winds down, all feels lost. You’ll never make it. Your body is shutting down, and you drift to sleep feeling a vague sense of disinterest. Then, the next morning, you wake up. Suddenly, inexplicably, everything becomes easy. Your pelvis is numb. Your hands are calloused. The wind prompts you to action. You mount your bike with the cold morning wind tearing at your nostrils, squint toward the mountains in front of you, and just laugh, because you realize you could go forever. Then, you just go.

This is a phenomenon I couldn’t begin to explain, but I can’t deny it either. Runners would call it “hitting your wall,” to burn until your fuel is nearly exhausted, until you can see your physical threshold blocking the finish line, and through pure mental will, you tear through it. Once you reach that wall, you’re either going to collapse, or you’re going to go forever.

And this is how I’ve felt since I woke up in the San Miguel basin on Day Four and realized that not only would I finish the climb that day, but I’d finish the trip. At that point, I had no more doubts in my mind. This is why I no longer fear the great distance of a cross-country trip. The question I'm asked the most when I tell people about my plans to cross the country on a bicycle is, “How will you ever make it?” I don’t know. I’m relatively inexperienced. I’m out of shape. I’m slow. But my will is strong, and I’ll make it. I just will.

My grandma's prayers have been answered

I think someone stole my wetsuit.

It was in an ugly backpack in my car. Now there is no ugly backpack in my car. I'm still clinging to the fading hope that I misplaced it, but it's likely gone.

Also in that backpack was Essential Juneau Cycling Gear®, my neoprene gloves and socks. I would feel sad about this loss, too, if I was still clinging to the fading hope that I will be able to ride my bike before neoprene is rendered obsolete by 110-Percent Waterproof Spaceage Body Armor®.

My grandma didn't want me to go swimming in the ocean. Now it looks like I won't be able to anytime soon. Not only do I not have a wetsuit now, I also have a wetsuit deficit, because that one belonged to Geoff. So now I have to buy him a new wetsuit before I can buy one for myself.

The thief neglected to steal the big box of recyclables I still have to haul to the dump.

Also, I really did lose my camera last week. I think my doctor stole it. Either way, it's gone. No more camera.

I'm beginning to think 2007 is not my year. Now would probably be a good time to consider hibernation.