Saturday, January 05, 2008

Living outside

Date: Jan. 4
Mileage: 54.2
January mileage: 129.9
Temperature upon departure: 24
Precipitation: 0"

I was burrowed deep in my billowing down cocoon when I awoke, again, in a fit of gasping. I groped among piles of discarded clothing layers for my soggy snot rag and blew my nose until the pressure in my sinuses diffused to a low boil. I shook my head violently, hoping in vain the gunk could somehow exit through my ears. Frost flakes rained from the top of the bivy and stung my cheeks. I knew this head cold had been idling for two days, but it had to pick tonight to steamroll through. I gasped some more and tore open the bivy, gulping for oxygen in the cold air.

Above me, Mars still burned orange among a splattering of stars, but a hazy white gauze had stretched over the sky. "Oh man, it's clouding up," I thought. It was the third time that night I had woken up unable to breathe. I decided it was probably worth it to leave my toasty burrow on a faint hope that Dayquil pills had made it into my rapidly expanding portable pharmacy.

As I slithered out of the sleeping bag, I noticed the white lines across the sky were flexing and retreating with considerable velocity. "Strange thing for clouds to do," I thought. But as I stood up and looked around, I saw waves of bright green light flowing over the snowcapped peaks to the north. The white clouds weren't clouds at all, but south-reaching streaks of the Northern Lights. Having momentarily forgotten about the explosion building in my head, I stood in my sock feet and booties in the snow and watched the white flares streak across the sky. Even the frigid wind needling my naked fingers couldn't tear me away from my slack-jawed stance beneath those horizon-caressing fingers of light.

I had set out with my loaded bicycle at 2:30 p.m. Friday, just before sunset, knowing that I would probably not set foot indoors again for nearly 24 hours. The street shoulders were coated in a terrifying layer of glare ice, and I kept the tire pressure low just to regain some sense of control. My momentum slowed to a crawl, but I didn't care. It's strange how speed stops mattering once time has no meaning.

A few near wipeouts had me grateful to hit snow, even crusty snow, and I spent as much time on trails as I could before heading out the road to meet Geoff at our predesignated camping destination. The trail to Herbert Glacier was rideable in a bad way ... a deep ski track barely wider than my tires that had been punched out by footprints. I took a few arm-smashing falls before I decided those four miles to camp would be a good time to test the walking comfort of my boots. I slogged through knee-deep snow as my bike rolled happily on the trail alongside.

I still beat Geoff to camp and set to gathering wood for the great fire I was planning to build, knowing that all the exposed dead wood had soaked up several days of rain before refreezing. I then exhausted all the newspaper I brought for firebuilding purposes, plus all the notepaper I had planned to write on, plus the French and German sections of the directions to my stove, and never even coaxed a tiny twig to catch fire. Geoff arrived shortly after I had given up and exhausted his own paper supply in the effort. In the end, we resorted to pouring liquid fuel all over a bunch of spruce bows. Even that didn't work, but I did enjoy a split second of warmth when I lit the fuel-soaked needles and jumped away from the resulting fireball.

We finally gave up on the whole campfire idea and fired up the stove to melt snow for water and hot chocolate. I have yet to receive my new Camelback in the mail, and my old leaky one had long since frozen. I didn't realize how thirsty I had become until I gulped down the still-slushy water from my cooking pot like a famished refugee. A chill was starting to set in as Geoff and I stood by our non-flammable stack of twigs swigging hot chocolate. His thermometer read 10 degrees.

By the time we went to bed, I had been mostly idle at camp for more than three hours. I was pleased by how warm I stayed, given that I was dressed to ride a bicycle in temperatures that started out in the mid-2os. It wasn't until I laid down that I realized how much my cold had progressed. I whittled away most of the restless night consoling myself by chanting "At least I'm still warm. At least I'm still warm." But seeing the Northern Lights was a nice treat.

I spent 45 minutes this morning cuddling with my Camelbak bladder until I finally was able to coax some of the water through the ice-glazed hose. Even then, it froze on me again less than five minutes after I crawled out of bed, so I resorted to pouring its slushy contents into my cooking pot so I'd have something to drink. I had planned to ride all the way home, but my throat was on fire and I was feeling more than a little thrashed. Geoff and I stumbled back to the trailhead and I caught a ride home with him. Geoff told me he felt surprisingly tired after a mild 4.5-mile run. "That's the thing about winter camping," I said. "Keeping warm when you're inactive almost feels like more work than staying active." Even though we didn't struggle with the effort, we never really felt like we could just kick back and relax, either. And the fact is 10 degrees above 0 would be a warm night on the Iditarod Trail.

"All the better reason to keep moving," Geoff said.
Friday, January 04, 2008

Packing

Date: Jan. 3
Mileage: 25.1
Hours: 2:00 (plus two hours at the gym)
January mileage: 75.7
Temperature upon departure: 35
Precipitation: .33"

I've been packing up for another daylong cycling/camping adventure. Before I started having knee pain, my plan was to spend these first few days of January pressing into the Yukon for two nights of "out in the weather" living. But injury worries prompted me to postpone the trip. So instead I decided to head out locally for one night, and still managed to put that task off until Friday. Tomorrow should be a good day for it. Colder and dry. Weather in the 20s around here is actually warmer than most weather in the 30s, because the potential to get wet and stay wet is much lower. So I am looking forward to traveling in comfort.

Sometime soon I will have to write a gear post about the stuff I am planning (at that point, at least) to use in the Ultrasport. I got a big box of stuff earlier this week and today ordered what I hope will be my last box of stuff. Just a few odds and ends ... a Thermarest, to match the one that Geoff owns that I always use; a fuel bottle; a 6-liter MSR bladder to fill as I see fit; a Camelbak "stowaway" bladder that I hope will actually stow away water rather than leak it all over me; and goggles, because the $25 pair that I bought at Solitude ski resort in 1998 just aren't cutting it anymore.

My last big box came while my friends Craig and Amity were in town for the New Year holiday. They watched bemused as I ripped through the heavily taped cardboard like a 6-year-old on Christmas morning. I squealed over my new winter boots ("Waterproof! Coldproof!") and modeled my baby-blue polyester long underwear complete with baby blue balaclava and my old crappy goggles ("You look like a scuba diver.") Craig especially thought the whole scene was funny because he has known me since 1998 and remembers when my entire outdoor gear repertoire amounted to a pair of crappy ski goggles and a few cotton hoodies.

"You've come a long way since we hiked Upper Black Box," he said. "Ice water up to our chins, and you were wearing blue jeans and a pair of Vans."

"Sketchers," I corrected him. "But that was back when they made them with 3-inch soles. Also, the only pack I carried was the top of my overnight backpack, cinched around my waist. And the only food I had was a jar of peanut butter and a baggie of crackers, both of which were filled to the brim with San Rafael River water before mile 3."

"Yeah," he said, eyeing my Arctic expedition boots warily. "What in the world happened to you?"

I shrugged. "Oh, to be young and completely underprepared again," I said, and caressed my new down coat with the genuine appreciation of someone who knows what it means to slog through a 12-hour river hike with a pair of Sketchers and giardia-laced peanut butter.

Today's ride was fairly uneventful, but I saw my friends the sea lions again. I was disappointed to see that they probably didn't remember me as they bobbed and flapped and swam away.
Thursday, January 03, 2008

First rides

Date: Jan. 1 and 2
Mileage: 14.5 and 36.1
Hours: 2:00 and 4:30
January mileage: 50.6
Temperature upon departure: 30 and 34
Precipitation: 1.03"

As I roll over the frozen Mendenhall Lake in a sleetstorm, the surface and the sky blur together in a wash of light gray. The lake blends into hillsides, which blend into mountains, which blend into air without borders or distinction. The world is a blank canvas broken only by brilliant blue brushstrokes at the center of the monotony. The color draws me forward like a distant light on a dark night, even as my conscience nags me to heed wise warnings and turn back. The warnings tell me not to go near the glacier, with its electric blue spires threatening to peel off the mountain of ice and tumble into the water below ... the threat of a spectacular death by ice-shard tsunami. The unlikeliness that such an event would happen keeps me rolling forward, but my heart rate shoots up and sweat beads form on my face in anticipation of that enjoyable fear - the fear of something that probably won't happen, but it could.

But in the true form of someone who's always willing to assume the worst-case scenario, I stopped about 200 feet shy of the last solid ice before the glacier's face, took a few quick photos, and high-tailed back to terra firma. But it's so irresistible, sidling up next to a glacier. It's hard to appreciate the scale until the glacier's right there, towering over me like the skyline of a city, with alleyways so deeply blue, I'm convinced they stretch beyond the bowels of the glacier into another dimension.

I was actually going to take a full week off the bike, but I became a little bored on New Year's morning while waiting for my friends to roll out of bed (we had a couple of friends visiting us from Palmer over the weekend. We love them, but they are in their own way unapologetically lazy when they're on vacation. I've never see anyone sleep so much in three days.) Anyway, I took out the Pugsley and was encouraged to find it didn't hurt to pedal. And after two hours, it still didn't hurt. Nor was there any residual pain after that. It seems I was taking a bit of an alarmist stance with my knee. Better to be safe and overcareful than reckless and injured, but I decided it wouldn't hurt to go out for a little bit longer today.

Because of my "injury watch," I allowed myself to do something I never do - I put my bike in my car and drove it to a trailhead. It was wonderful to spend the afternoon almost entirely on trails, but the lack of pavement commute to the Valley actually made for a much harder ride overall. The weather today was a fluctuating mixture of snow and rain that people around here call "snain." Trails started out wet and soft and gradually deteriorated to saturated and soupy. I've had a light week and brought a lot of energy to spend on the effort, but still I felt like I was slogging through quicksand. Only because I have a fat-bottomed Pugsley that I can run at <10 psi was I able to ride much of that trail at all. I have this theory that once I finally find my way to the cold snow of Southcentral Alaska, my Southeast-forged quads of steel will be so strong that I'll just be able to fly over the snowy trail as though it were pavement. Either that, or the cold will drive me into the ground. But if there just happens to be an extreme, snain-soaked warm spell during this year's race, I'll be ready.

This is turning into a longish post, but I wanted to thank Andrea Recht for nominating my site as a VeloNews "Site of the Day." That is really too cool! I couldn't believe the number on my hits counter. I think this blog received more hits today than it did in all of 2005. It won't be the Site of the Day anymore by the time this post goes out, but if you dropped in from VeloNews, hello. There are probably a lot of things in the cycling world that are more interesting than a soggy snowbiker in Southeast Alaska, but I appreciate you stopping by.

Also thanks to Laura Conaway for the mention in the Bryant Park Project blog's "Best of the Blog 2007." I came in a little late in the year, and only post about once a week, but it's nice to feel appreciated.

And, I wasn't going to mention this, but ... Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I was going to mention this. Nominations have started for the 2008 Bloggies. Last year, this blog actually was nominated for a Weblog award in what I thought was the unlikely category of "Best Sports Blog." But it was cool nonetheless, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't secretly hope it would happen again. Ok, I guess it's not much of a secret. But, if you feel like wasting a few more seconds, you should drop by the site and nominate someone for something. It doesn't have to me. We bloggers, all of us, pour a lot of time into our pastimes and relish in feedback. It's true. Even though most bloggers fling their heart and souls into cyberspace for entirely selfish reasons (the same reasons others watch TV), we still like to tell ourselves we're doing something worthwhile.

So thanks to everyone who reads and stops by this blog. I don't have a good exuse to quit writing as long as you're around.