All to myself

Date: July 20
Mileage: 13.5
July mileage: 574.6
Temperature upon departure: 51
Inches of rain today: .63"

Geoff is out of town for the weekend, which means I get to watch trashy movies like "Smokin' Aces" and eat cereal right out of the box - as a meal! It also means that after a few hours, I am going to feel like a brain-dead blob in need of some sort of nourishment.

But I definitely picked the right day of the weekend for a long ride. It rained pretty much nonstop today and the temperature I think dropped into the 40s at one point. Brrr. But then I got to thinking - if I don't really want to be out in that, probably nobody wants to be out in that.

So I set out for an evening recovery ride on the most popular trail in town - the Perseverance Trail. The trail can be a mob scene on sunny days and lined with iPod-wearing oblivious joggers even on wet days. But for some reason, it was completely deserted this evening. I guess it's because, even though I think of Friday as "Sunday," most people still think it's Friday. Good. More room for me.

A picture of me and Sugar before the hose-down, looking like we've earned it. I was thinking today about what a great mud bike Sugar has become. The tires grip in like crampons and the moving parts have held up pretty well against water and rust. What's interesting to me is that this bike is the same as it's always been. It's the same bike that I hoped would make me less timid on desert slickrock back when I was an Idahoan and a very different mountain biker than I am today. It's the same bike that I decided would make a great snowbike when I was a new Alaskan and a little more naive than I am today. Now I use it to go muddin' in Juneau. I change, but Sugar keeps soldiering on - stock tires, stock drivetrain, stock almost everything.

I guess that's my confession today. I am not a bike snob. I will probably never be a bike snob, although I have no problem with those who choose that lifestyle. The fact that I think Sugar is a great mudbike doesn't mean he is. There are probably a million little things I could do to make him better. There are probably a million other bikes out there more suited to the job. But I know Sugar. I trust Sugar. I love him just the way he is.

Sometimes, when I am tempted to upgrade, I think of a photograph I saw in a newspaper once. It showed a grocery-store type shelf stocked top to bottom, dozens of feet wide, with colorful cans. The caption said, simply, "Cat Food." And I think ... do we really need all these choices? Do we really?

And I ask myself ... why would I want to upgrade Sugar? Because it would make me faster? I'm not fast to begin with; what kind of miracle bike would change that? Because it would be more comfortable? I've already ridden Sugar for 24 hours straight in a cold sleetstorm. Where am I going to find a better test of comfort than that? Because it would make me cooler? I ride a full-suspension, 26"-wheeled, fully-geared aluminum bicycle with stock parts. In the eyes of most of the endurance biking world, I might as well put some Barbie stickers on a Schwinn, that's how cool I am.

No, Sugar and I share something that no one can ever take away. Complacency.

Fire it up

Date: July 19
Mileage: 108.7
July mileage: 561.1
Temperature upon departure: 68
Inches of rain today: .11"

The weather started out beautiful today and tiptoed toward crappy - so slowly that I didn't even notice until the headwind I was plowing into finally reached that breath-stealing threshold and the rain drops arched into horizontal daggers. But, surprisingly, my long ride today followed nearly the opposite progression.

Not that the ride wasn't chock full of suffering. There was plenty of that. I felt like I spent the entire day perpetually on the front end of a bonk. It reminded me of the month I continued to drive my '89 Tercel after one of its cylinders burned out. The car began to guzzle gas at the rate of a monster truck, but no matter how much I floored it, I could barely coax it up the babiest of baby hills. That was me today. I was the three-cylinder Toyota.

Twice today I was determined to quit. And each time I would stop, take a long break, and stuff food down my throat. I cleaned out my Camelbak. I was banking on that old cliche about never quitting until you've had some pie (And I didn't have any pie, so I had to settle for mushed up Power Bars.) Then I'd lay on the gas again, giving everything I had to my three remaining cylinders. But there just wasn't enough in there to power up.

But I think what made the ride incrementally more enjoyable - before I even noticed that I was enjoying myself - was that I did have enough in there to power through. I started the morning knowing I was worn out. I had a tough week of intensity workouts I don't normally do ... followed by a four-hour hike just yesterday that really laid into my joints. I woke up with muscle fatigue, and that is never a good sign. But I know enough about my limits to realize that I wasn't completely spent.

All of this "training" I'm doing right now - amping up for an August crescendo that is purely psychological training for a race that is seven months away - is about understanding my limits. And I didn't meet them today. In fact, my performance and mood improved noticeably when I came to terms with the idea that I was required to stay on that bike until it came time to meet Geoff at the airport. And I did meet him there. I actually beat him there, but just barely - meaning that I met my goal of spending a full eight hours fighting my demons. And despite my two 25-minute breaks, a flat tire, and several bathroom/photo breaks, I still worked my way over 108 miles. Eight hours total time; about 6:30 saddle time.

Now Geoff is on his way to Anchorage to race in the Crow Pass Crossing. I thought I was going to come home and die for a while, but that didn't happen. In fact, I feel pretty good right now. I especially feel good about the part where that bike ride is over.

Gastineau Peak

Date: July 18
Mileage: 5.1
July mileage: 452.4
Temperature upon departure: 65
Inches of rain today: o"

Today I hiked to Gastineau Peak, elevation 3,666 feet. I was gunning for Mount Roberts, but I had no idea that the trek to Gastineau and back was a 9-mile endeavour in itself. The extra two miles to Roberts was a little too much to ask of my Wednesday-morning window.

I would like to make it to both peaks one of these days, but it may be a while before I attempt this trail again. It was a beautiful day with stunning views, but I was just not feeling the Mount Roberts trail love. The lower stretch of the Basin Road access trail was lined with sketchy homeless camps - syringes, used condoms, everything. I had to sidestep a sleeping body when I accidentally wandered off trail on one of the footpaths, and that is never fun.

After that unpleasant stretch, all was quiet until mid-mountain, which was mobbed with all manner of tourists fresh off the tram. Huge, denim-clad groups clogged up the trails with their numbered flora and fauna guides and posed group photos as their children trammeled the alpine tundra in their Crocs. I became less polite about shouldering my way through them until some began to stop me with all manner of requests and time-consuming questions (I guess with my sweat-streaked face and backpack, I looked like some sort of expert.)

One man asked me to describe a ptarmigan in detail. (Um ... sort of looks like a speckled brown chicken.)

Another asked if he could reach Mount Roberts in a half hour. (Um, as your guide says, it's three miles and more than 2,000 feet of climbing from here. Walk fast!)

Another pointed across the canyon and asked me the name of the mountain and how he could access it. I began to explain that it was Mount Juneau, that he could reach it by driving from the base of the tram to Basin Road and parking at the Perseverance trailhead. "Oh?" he said. "You mean you can't get there from this trail?"

"Um ... not anytime soon," I said. (But what I was thinking was, by what ridiculous stretch of logic can you imagine this trail crossing a ravine that's 3,000 feet deep and magically appearing on a completely different ridgeline?)

I understand that most cruise ship tourists are probably intelligent people. (I also understand there are some former cruise ship tourists who read this blog.) But still, I am starting to understand why longtime residents avoid them like the plague.

Still ... all bad hikes have their silver lining:

Baby steps across the precarious snowfield. Baby steps across the precarious snowfield.

Hiking in Juneau has been a nostalgic experience for me. Above treeline, nearly everything about the trails and mountains resembles the Wasatch peaks I summitted in my youth ... the scrubby groundcover, the wildflowers, the heart-dropping knife ridges. As I hoist myself over another boulder field, I almost feel like I should be gasping in the thin air - until I remember that I'm only at 3,500 feet. Alaska definitely makes you earn your elevation.

Another reminder that I am not in Utah anymore ... all of that intense green.

This hike really took a lot out of me. I forget that four hours on your feet is much more punishing than four hours on a bike. It makes me appreciate that much more what Geoff does to stay in shape - running up mountains like this on a regular basis. Makes my biking look pretty tame. But we all have our weaknesses. And there is no shame in wearing yourself out on a little walk.

Climbing priorities

Date: July 17
Mileage: 35.5
July mileage: 447.3
Temperature upon departure: 62
Inches of rain yesterday and today: 1.09"

My aim for the past two weeks has been to trust my knee and attempt more strenuous, lung-burning workouts. Today my plan was to climb up to Eaglecrest Ski Resort at the tail-end of a 35-mile ride. I shed my usual "As Fast As I Can" goal for something more tangible - keeping the odometer above 7.5 mph at all times. Sounds slow, right? It was an all-out, red-zone effort on some of the pitches.

But what struck me most about the ride was how anticlimactic the descent was. I was coasting at 40 mph, on constant lookout for gravel patches, porcupine and deer, with instant death lurking around every corner ... and I was feeling involuntarily relaxed, and a bit dazed, like one might before laying down for a nap. In short, I was coming down.

When I was 7 years old, bicycling was all about the descents. One of my best friends lived at the bottom of a steep cul-de-sac. I remember cresting by the stop sign on my yellow banana-seat Huffy and staring wide-eyed into that abyss, lined with minvans and lurking cats. It was a moment of pure fear, like I always felt on a roller coaster when it hesitated at the crest of its first big drop. I'd watch my front wheel dip into the hole, scream as gravity yanked me into involuntary acceleration, and lift my legs skyward as the pedals spun wildly out of control, praying I could get my feet back on them in time to back-pedal to a screeching stop.

My friend and I perfected that hill one summer, enduring the inevitable climb with the trudging sense of duty that only kids can muster. I remember in the hot August sun, there was absolutely nothing rewarding about that sweaty, hunched-over-the-handlebars, pedal-mashing ascent. Our reward waited patiently for us to catch our breath in a dust cloud at the bottom of the hill.

Now 20 years have passed, and somehow, downhill doesn't capture my imagination the way it used to. It has its benefits - fun coasting, quick shots of adrenaline, easy distance. But these days, my rewards meet me at the top of the climb, just as I'm beginning to chase imaginary shadows, and dripping full streams of sweat, and pumping so many endorphins I can almost taste them. The cold wind meets my drenched body and I turned to face it, filled with a kind of satisfaction that borders on joy.

Maybe it is possible to relive those simple childhood pleasures. Even though my methods have changed, the reward remains the same.

Gasping for breath

Date: July 15
Mileage: 10.5
July mileage: 411.8
Temperature upon departure: 66
Inches of rain today: Trace

I completely blew up on a climb today. Imploded. I was following Geoff up the Salmon Creek trail, the first part where you really have to take the full brunt of an average Juneau slope, mashing my pedals and promising myself that I would ride the entire climb. The dark shadows crept along my peripheral vision, and that was OK; the red dots starting shooting across my line of sight, and that was OK; the gasps and whimpers started to come out involuntarily, and even that was OK - until breathing ceased to be an option. I nearly tipped over sideways before I slammed by foot down.

That was probably the furthest I've ever fought before giving into inevitable defeat. It was also a good reality check about my fitness level. I thought I'd gotten into pretty good shape since spring, but it's obvious that my lungs are nowhere near peak performance. My fear of injury continues pressuring me to hold back. I've put in a few long slogs this summer, but I still haven't done anything hard.

A quick solution? More hiking! All of the good trails involve at least a short, bikeable stretch where I'm required to put in 100-percent pedal effort. After the trails become unbikeable, they're wickedly nearly unhikeable. Good, steep stuff that prevents me from faking anything. Today was my first time on the upper stretch of Salmon Creek. There's a reservoir up there, which means lots of weird infrastructure on the trail - rickety stairs, pipes and a giant holding tank. You'd think the stairs would make the hiking easier, but the wasn't really the case with me. I still struggle when walking down stairs - seems stairs are my bad knee's last bastion of pain. Plus, wet wood has never quite agreed with the bottoms of my shoes. After I slipped out a third time, I started thinking up headlines - "Graceless hiker tumbles to death on backcountry staircase." "Mountaineering experience no match for stairs."

The downward hike was strenuous, but the return ride was effortless and fun. I need to combine these ride/hikes more often. They involve more of a time sacrifice than I'm usually able to make during the workweek, but I expect the dividend will be a nice spike in fitness.

Maybe I will always be a tourist here

Date: July 14
Mileage: 30.2
July mileage: 401.3
Temperature upon departure: 54
Inches of rain today: 0.08"

Saturdays are like Mondays to me, and this morning felt particularly bleak. I had planned to do a mountain bike ride regardless of the weather, but I wasn't feeling adventurous at all. I felt particularly unadventurous about the inevitable mud bath and the prospect of having to hose myself down before walking in the house to take a shower. I wanted to do something safe and mindless, something to accentuate the Monday-ness of the day. I wanted to do a two-hour ride out to the valley, a ride I have so permanently drilled into my routine that I don't even have to think out there any more.

I always take a short break at the Glacier Visitors Center, which has a real bathroom and an outdoor drinking fountain - a dream pit stop. It also has hordes of cruise ship tourists who are bused there in steady streams on any given day. The crowds used to bother me, but I have learned to move among them - clack clack clacking in my bike shoes as I shoulder for a spot at the glacier overlook, so I can take my requisite photo-of-the-day.

As I raised my camera to frame a shot I've captured dozens of times before, a lady in a plastic bag poncho walked up next to me and held up her camera.

"You don't see that every day," she said.

"No," I replied. "You really don't"

Fish Friday

Two tasty silvers today. We landed them and a pink salmon in a flurry of activity that lasted less than an hour. Brian let me fight them all into the boat. The big guy wrapped the line around the engine, which Brian untangled in an impossibly quick feat of logic while I clutched the reel to prevent the fish from gaining any more leverage. The next two hit right away, bam bam, as a half dozen boats swarmed closer to what everyone hoped was a huge school of salmon. I reeled and danced around Brian who was juggling the net and the fish skull basher and at one point knives, as the boats closed in and wake kicked up and the sea swirled in a vortex of incongruous activity.

Then, just like that, all was quiet again. My heart was pounding, and I sat back down in a bit of a stupor, not really knowing what to do with myself or what would come next. Fishing is really nothing like cycling, which has a fluidity to it ... a continuous movement that ebbs and flows and eventually finds its even pace. Cycling is strenuous until it's not. Fishing is relaxing until it's not.

Fishing also makes me voraciously hungry - much moreso then cycling. Longer rides usually rob me of my full appetite for more than a day. But fishing ... I spend an afternoon sitting and gazing out at the water only to come home with an urge to take little bites out of every single piece of food in the fridge. I'll admit I have only a passing interest in fishing ... but there is something undeniably primal about the sport that makes it really rewarding. When I spend an afternoon gazing out at the water and looking for whales, what I am really doing is spending an afternoon fixated on the violent notion of winning food. And when I come home with a carcass in a bag, I want to devour my reward. Geoff and I pan fried some fillets with chili peppers, creating two big hunks of blackened salmon. Then we used the head and carcass to make a big pot of salmon chowder. Oh, and we had a little salad too.

Worth it? Yes.