My bicycle is missing

Date: Feb. 18
Mileage: 18.0
February mileage: 267.6
Hours: 1:30
Temperature: 38

Last week, when I was having a bad day amid all my bicycle preparations, I jokingly mentioned that I might not mind never seeing my bike again. Today I’m despondent that I may just get my wish.

This is hopefully nothing, and I am trying to take a stubborn stance of optimism, but the fact is Pugsley is lost in a FedEx vortex right now, and no one seems willing or able to tell me where it is.

When I dropped the bike off on Wednesday, I was under the impression that it would go out that day and be delivered Friday. But in actuality, it sat at the Juneau FedEx center until Monday and was in theory picked up in the afternoon - although no one knows for sure, because no one bothered to scan it. Now I have the national customer service agents telling me that my package does not exist, and the local people telling me that it may be on its way to Anchorage, but it definitely is no longer in Juneau.

I stopped by the office today and tried to swallow my panic as I explained how much I *really* needed to know where it was.

“Juneau’s a small market,” the man told me. “We only ship out once a week and the driver came and picked up all of our ground packages yesterday. They don’t get scanned until they get to Anchorage.”

“Any idea how long it will take to get there?”

“Actually, I don’t know how long it usually takes.”

“Is there any way to contact the driver?”

“We used to call him, but he stopped answering his phone and then he changed his cell phone number because he was getting too many calls about packages.” The man smiled faintly as if this news was supposed to make me feel better. It did not. It made me feel a hundred times worse. He shrugged his shoulders as though to tell me not to blame him. It made me want to blame him a hundred times more. How can you stand your work? I wanted to ask him. If it were my job to send packages into a dark abyss with no promise or even hope that they will ever reach their destination, I think my own ineffectiveness would drive me crazy.

“If it doesn’t get there by next Monday,” he said, “give us a call and we’ll see what we can do.”

Now I am trying to accept that the only thing I can do is wait and see. I have been going over my options in my head. The nightmare of lining up for the Iditarod with my Gary Fisher is more than I can bear. I could maybe rent a fat bike in Anchorage, but what kind of bike shop would be willing to rent out for an event like this? I wonder if it is too late to build up a sled and reregister for this race as a walker.

Please, Pugsley, come back.

A reminder that anything can happen

Wow. Tough times at the Susitna this year - which may go down in Alaska mountain biking lore as the "Carnage 100." I grabbed the above picture from an online post by "Mesotony" (Sorry, Tony, I don't know your real name.) It shows skiers fighting a ground blizzard on Flathorn Lake. The race had everything: 50 mph winds, soft trails, blowing wet snow, big drifts, and more bicycle pushing than any sane person would be willing to accept. A suprising percentage of the field didn't even bother to start. Of those who did, at least half scratched. Those who chose to stay and slog it out had to earn - really, really earn - every mile. The winning cyclist (and second person across the finish line), Pete Basinger, spent more than 25 hours grinding out what he reported to be "25 miles of pushing, 50 miles of granny gear, low pressure, searching for a track firm enough to ride and then about 25 miles of good riding, but never really fast." Last year, it took Pete less than 11 hours to cover the same snowy distance.

In short, this news doesn't bode well for the start of the Iditarod Invitational, although anything can change in a week's time. But continued weather reports of snow storms, wind, and blowing drifts forecast the possibility of equally tough conditions. So I have to spend some time really considering how I will react if faced with the "Carnage 100 times 3.5." I like to think that my greatest athletic gift is the ability to slog on, but I'm not sure how far I would be willing to tread just to meet my own limits. I've worked too hard and come too far to join the ranks of the "DNS," so I guess I just need to mentally prepare for a long, long haul.

The outcome of the Susitna 100 is the perfect example of why nothing can be planned in a winter endurance cycling race. As the event approaches, I've had several people ask me what my goals are for each section. How long do I think it will take me to cover certain distances? When do I plan to sleep, take my breaks, eat my meals? What's my goal finishing time? My answer: I. Have. No. Idea. The truth is, I believe setting too many goals in a race such as this one will only set me up for frustration and failure. I need to accept things as they come, and embrace them as part of my race, and move on. Dwelling on storms and poor trail conditions can't be constructive. But that's probably what I'd do if I became too dedicated to the idea that it should take 7-9 hours to cover the first 50 miles of the race. It could take 24. I need to be ready for that.

That said, some have asked for a breakdown of each section of race, to get a better idea about the course Geoff and I are traveling as the numbers start to come in (I'm not yet sure exactly where race updates will be posted. I'll post a link as soon as I know.) So below is a short description of each section of trail between checkpoints.

I also wanted to link to my interview with the Anchorage Daily News, which was published in the newspaper's Sunday Outdoor section (centerpiece status! sweet!) I bought a copy for you, Mom. I will mail it soon. But for now, check out Melissa DeVaughn's story here.

The Iditarod trail to McGrath:

Knik to Yentna Station, 57 miles
The trail leaves Knik Lake westbound on the old Iditarod Trail, running across low, mostly wooded hills, open swamps, and a number of lakes. The trail crosses the Little Susitna River at the 18-mile point, then works over to Flathorn Lake across an area of level swamps and woods cut by a few sharp ravines (about 30 miles). After a couple more swamps and tree line, you’ll drop onto the Susitna River after 35 miles go north up the broad Susitna for a few miles and then swing up the wide Yentna River, the Susitna’s main tributary, for the last 17 miles to Yentna Station. This entire stretch of trail is very heavily used all winter and is often in very bad shape. There will be ruts, bumps, rough spots, and moguls meet lots of snowmachines, particularly on the river, some of them moving very fast and perhaps not as alert as they should be because of the numerous parties along the trail.

Yentna Station to Skwentna (mile 90), 33 miles
From Yentna Station to Skwentna is all on the Yentna River, with the last few miles up the Skwentna River to the checkpoint. The river stays between well-defined banks for about five miles upstream from Yentna Station, and also for the last 15 miles into Skwentna. In the middle 15 miles it branches out into a maze of channels and sloughs, any of which can have a trail for local traffic. This is normally a fast run with no hills, provided the trail is in good shape.

Skwentna to Finger Lake (mile 130), 40 miles
It’s uphill most of the way to Finger Lake. The trail leaves Skwentna southbound on the Skwentna River, cuts off the left bank to parallel the river in a swamp for eight miles, then swings west to cross the river at the site of the old Skwentna Roadhouse about ten miles out. It then climbs up into the heavily wooded Shell Hills for a mile and a half, down through open swamps and wooded areas to cross Shell Creek after another mile and a half, then on for another three miles across small lakes, swamps, and woods to Onestone Lake, where you’re about 25 miles from Finger Lake. After two-mile-long Onestone Lake, the trail works west along open swamps and meadows, through occasional treelines, and across a few lakes, steadily climbing to Finger Lake.

Finger Lake to Rainy Pass (mile 165), 35 miles
This is a tough run with some short stretches of extraordinarily difficult trail. After leaving Finger Lake, the trail climbs steeply over a ridge to Red Lake, runs along it for a mile or two, swings up a ravine, and then follows a series of climbing wooded shelves interspersed with open swamps. About ten miles from Finger Lake, the trail drops down a series of wooded benches toward Happy River, then onto the river itself via the dreaded Happy River steps. Then it’s down the river to its mouth, up the Skwentna River for a few hundred yards, and back up a steep ravine to the plateau on the south side of the Happy. The trail will cross Shirley Lake, then Long Lake (11 miles from Rainy Pass Lodge) and then run along the steeply sloping mountainside above the south side of the Happy River valley to the checkpoint.

Rainy Pass to Rohn (mile 210), 45 miles
The trail runs in the open on the tundra of Ptarmigan Pass from Rainy Pass Lodge to the mouth of Pass Creek, which it then follows northwest up to the summit of Rainy Pass itself. Then there are several miles of sometimes steep downhills and often tight, twisting trail through scrub willow southwest along Pass Fork to Dalzell Creek. The trail then drops into the infamous Dalzell Gorge for a few miles and finally onto the Tatina River for the last five miles to Rohn.

Rohn to Nikolai (mile 300), 90 miles
Dropping out of the Alaska Range, racers cross the Farewell Burn - the site of a large forest fire that burned more than a million acres and left a stark landscape that has inspired a variety of hallucinations. This run breaks into three natural sections: 20 miles along the south side of the South Fork of the Kuskokwim from Rohn to Farewell Lakes and up onto the Farewell Burn, 35 miles across the Burn itself to Sullivan Creek, and then 20 miles north from Sullivan Creek past Salmon River to Nikolai.

Nikolai to McGrath (mile 350), 50 miles
This is a fairly easy (but sometimes deceptive) stretch which always seems to be longer than it is, mainly because it is often so boring and there are so many seemingly identical lakes and river bends. The trail cuts cross-country southwest from Nikolai toward McGrath, running along a series of lakes and swamps interspersed with wooded stretches to Big River. It then runs west down Big River for a few miles to the Kuskokwim River, then down the Kuskokwim to McGrath, with several shortcuts across the bigger oxbow bends. If you’re running at night or early in the morning and the weather is clear and calm, dress warmly — it can get quite cold down on the Kuskokwim River for the last half of the leg. The trail from Nikolai to McGrath crosses many open lakes and swamps for the first 20 miles. When the wind is blowing, these areas can quickly drift in.

The Su 100

Date: Feb. 15 and 16
Mileage: 30.1 and 20
February mileage: 249.6
Hours: 2:30 and 1:45
Temperature: 38 and 34

Right now, as I sit at my office desk staring into a computer screen abyss, there are people out there, somewhere, racing in the Susitna 100.

I don’t know too much about them or the conditions they’re facing. The weather report yesterday said there was new snow. Lots of new snow. And cold. A little cold. The kind of conditions that could make for one tough bicycle race, and I think about the racers out there, somewhere, and I wonder how they’re feeling. I try to send out positive vibes, well-wishes to the sky, to tell them I understand their pain. But I don’t. I am sitting at my office desk, climate controlled, with a Diet Pepsi in one hand, and I only have my own experiences to relate to.

I still blame the Susitna 100 for putting me on the trajectory I currently follow, the one that will have been straddling the starting line next week to face the same trail, the same snow, the same cold, only longer, and snowier, and colder. I still don’t really understand how I came to this point, how I went from being a recent Alaska transplant and recreational cyclist leafing through a Su 100 pamphlet to one of the 49 participants signed up for the 2008 Iditarod Invitational. I wish I could warn the novices on the Susitna trail right now: It’s a slippery slope.

And yet, I know that I still draw from the Susitna 100 some of my most valuable life lessons. The 2006 event in particular taught me the power of perseverance, which extends beyond bicycle racing into the greater and more daunting challenges in life. Whenever I am really struggling with something, I often think about pushing my bike most the way from Flathorn Lake to the finish line, a distance of about 25 miles that took me nearly 10 hours to traverse. The wet snow that had obliterated the trail turned over to rain, and it soaked through everything ... my insulation layers, my base layers, my skin. I was literally dripping. I would stop walking for a few seconds - to grab a snack or adjust my soaked socks in an effort to stave off blisters - and a deep chill would set in. At the time, I had no idea how close I was to the cusp of a very serious situation. All it would have taken was one long stop to set loose a wave of hypothermia that would have been difficult to reverse (I know this now, after numerous 35-and-raining experiences here in Juneau.) Most of the competitors still on the course were taking refuge from the rain, and when I finally finished I would be the only person across the finish line for several hours on either side. But all I could do was continue to take one slushy step after the next, and sometimes sing to myself the Dorie mantra from “Finding Nemo:” Just Keep Swimming.

So that’s the message I’m trying to send out to the racers in the Susitna 100, especially the cyclists still out on the course as the long night fades to day, the cyclists wading through heavy snow, and the cyclists on 2.1” tires, and the cyclists who had no idea what they were getting into this morning. And that’s the message I’m trying to send to my future self, the one who will return to the Susitna River Valley to face her own inexperience and cluelessness all over again, and again and again: Just Keep Swimming.

*****

On a different note, I wanted to thank everyone who made purchases from UltraRob’s Outdoor Gear Search last Monday and Tuesday. Rob reported record visits on Monday and record sales on Tuesday, to the tune of more than $250 in commissions! So thank you again. Rob's raising funds for a future attempt in the Race Across America, so be sure to visit Rob's site for all your future online gear needs.

Heat wave

Date: Feb. 14
Mileage: 40.2
February mileage: 199.5
Hours: 4:00
Temperature: 39

I set out today under drizzly skies and my very best slush suit. The weather forecast called for 42 degrees.

I shimmied the handlebars over what after three solid days of rain has finally returned to bare pavement. The studded tires crackled and I tried to remember the last time I rode this mountain bike; before I moved - two weeks, at least, maybe three. The last time I rode this mountain bike, the hub froze. Today it darted across the pavement, light and fast. A cool 35 pounds lighter than my fully-loaded Pugsley. I felt an invisible burden lift away.

The rain started to dry up just as the sweat started to flow. I stopped to peel off my layers - balaclava and gloves stuffed in pockets. The fleece hoodie tied around my waist. Bare skin and a 15 mph tailwind. Only the decimated snowpack betrayed an exciting sensation of summer.

I arrived at the glacier in what seemed like record time - something more akin to summertime mileage. My fitness goals behind me, I pulled the bike up to the edge of the lake and made myself a comfortable seat in the snow. I pulled a Clif Bar out of my handlebar bag, soft as a freshly baked cookie. I took tiny bites as I gazed at the skyline of the surrounding mountains, the way the glacier curved downward like a shattered S, the reflections in overflow across a plane of rotting ice. I wondered if I had ever lingered in one spot at the glacier this long. I've always been on the verge of rushing off somewhere else ... the pursuit of mileage; the urgency to stay moving and stay warm. Today even my wet feet felt toasty in their cocoon of Neoprene as I sat, still, for a while, soaking it all in.

I thought this may be a nothing ride. Junk mileage. And everything I needed.

Apprehension

This has been a rough few days for me. Even with copious hours of help from Geoff, it seems like all I have done is work on my bike. I’d wake up in the morning and do the washing, the gear prep, the tinkering, then come home from work at night for more gear prep, more tinkering, then wake up the next day and do it all again. I was relieved when I finally hoisted my boxed-up bike across the wet ice that was once the FedEx parking lot and watched an all-too-cheery delivery guy haul it away. I half hoped I’d never see it again.

That’s another thing I’ve been struggling with since, oh, about Monday - a vague (or sometimes very acute) sense of dread. The kind of dread that gurgles up from my gut, casting a gray pall over the already dreary gray days, telling me that I would rather do anything than slog across Alaska tundra on my bicycle. This isn’t wholly unexpected. I struggled a lot with a similar sense of foreboding before the 2006 Susitna 100, although I wasn’t willing to admit that to myself at the time. It is all part of this great game, and that part that makes be long to wish away these next 10-odd days. Of course there will still be flashes of excitement, but I’m worried that all I may do for the next week is slink through my routine and brood.

I finally received the panic call from my dad the other day, who has been doing way more Internet research about this race than I would prefer. He informed me that, as he spoke to me, it was 43 degrees below 0 in McGrath. “Yes, yes I know it is, Dad,” I said.

“Do you know what that means?” he asked.

“Well no,” I said. “No, I actually have no idea.”

But what little I can imagine about -43 degrees on the cold side of the Alaska Range is completely lost on my friends of co-workers, well-meaning as they are.

“So, when’s your race?” they ask. I want to tell them that it’s not a race, it’s a full-on expedition with the added pressure to go fast, and I want to tell them that anxiety about performance is nothing compared to anxiety about perseverance.

“How long is it? 350 miles?” I want to tell them to take their Juneau concept of a mile and multiply it by at least four, that’s what a mile means in Interior Alaska wilderness.

“And you’re riding your bike?” And I want to say, I am taking a bike with me. I will use the bike when I can. But I have to expect the possibility that the bike will be more of a burden than a tool. That I may spend as much time pushing my bike as I do riding it. Maybe more. I want to ask them if they can understand the eternity of 2 mph when it’s spread out over 350 miles.

“And they’ll have checkpoints for you with food and stuff, right?” Checkpoints that are as much as a day apart, yes. That if you aren’t self-sufficient out there, you might as well be a couch potato with a solid training schedule of TiVo for how likely it is you’ll succeed.

“So I bet you’re getting really excited.” And I just nod, because I don’t know what to say.

But the truth is, I am excited. The Iditarod Invitational is a guaranteed grand adventure. Even if I slip on Knik Lake ice and break my arm less than one mile into the race, I will always be able to say, “Well, I dreamed it.” The most difficult step may just be showing up at that starting line. Hopefully I will be able to use some of these next 10 days to assuage some of my anxieties and get out more on my mountain bike, because this month has had entirely too much time off the bike. The Pugsley is gone and there are only a few small things I can do to prepare. The only training hump I have left to tackle is my fear.

My ride, pimped

Date: Feb. 11
Mileage: 20.5
February mileage: 179.8
Hours: 2:00
Temperature: 34

I went for one last ride on the Pugsley yesterday, fighting rapidly rising temperatures and a proportionally deepening layer of slush. When I came home, I was thrilled to find a small package from Eric at Epic Designs. Inside: The Complete Snow Bike Racing Kit® (just kidding. That's not really trademarked.) I had a mere three hours to play with it this morning, which is what I did rather than break my bike down like I was supposed to be doing. It took me more than one of those hours just to get the front bivy bag figured out. But once I did, I still managed to get my entire, not-so-conservative winter kit - minus a few small items - stuffed in these bags. And that was without much planning or thought. With a little more time, and a fair amount more practice, the remaining items (a few more packages of food, chemical warmers, ice cleats, goggles, first aid kit) should slide right in. As it is, the frame bag still has quite a bit of space. And I am already planning my Camelbak pack for the myriad small things I want quick access to, such as knife, flint fire starter, sunglasses, chap stick, batteries, bike tool, pump, etc. I am planning to mount my fuel bottle in a water-bottle holder on the fork, with my Outdoor Research bottle holder on the other side. This kit could work! And, it seems, racks are completely optional (front and back!)

This is the gravity-defying "Super Twinkie" seat post bag. I stuffed it as obnoxiously full as possible, and then some. It only grows higher and more rigid the more full it becomes. It even has straps on the bottom, which my small frame doesn't allow any clearance for, but I figured out how to cross them in order to mount a thin, tent-pole-type bag to the side (I used a rolled-up fleece jacket to test my theory.) I think such a bag would be a good quick-access carrier for socks and liner gloves. It will probably also give me just the extra space I'd need to get my top insulation layer in the seat post bag if it happens to be 25 degrees or warmer.

The good 'ol frame bag with an add-on "gas tank" above the frame. I didn't take a picture of the top of the gas tank, but it has a double zipper that can be easily opened and closed with big mittens for quick access to food while on the bike. Just for testing purposes, I stuffed it with six "teeth-shattering" Clif Bars, one fruit-and-nut Trio bar, two Pop Tart packages, and 10 fruit leathers. Room to spare! The frame bag is mostly a depository for food, but with this new set-up, it also will need to hold my stove and pot, my spare tubes and chemical warmers. Seems like that can be easily done and still have room for the ~9,000 calories I was hoping for. I pedaled this a short distance and there's plenty of clearance for my knees. Standing up involves some minor brushing against the gas tank, but how often do you stand up on a snow bike?

This is the bivy burrito, a handlebar bag that is currently resting on a front rack, but wouldn't necessarily have to. I had quite a struggle with it this morning - most of that time just trying to figure out all the details - but it will take some practicing before I can say for sure whether it is right for me and my obnoxiously large sleeping kit. But believe it or not, inside is a -40 degree Marmot CWM sleeping bag, a full-sized Ridge Rest and a Black Diamond bivy sack. You can take your whole sleeping bag set-up as is - inside the bivy and everything - roll it up and wrap the sack around it, hence the burrito name. You use a row of compression straps to cinch it all together to a workable mass, although I have to say that down in the sleeping bag really, really wants to escape. I obviously didn't perfect it this morning - you can see some spots where the sleeping bag succeeded. But two handlebar straps and a removeable stem strap help secure it to the bike without the necessity of a rack. I need to take that rack off for shipping tonight, so hopefully I'll have time to test just how good the clearance is.

So there you have it - completely outfitted by Epic Designs. If I wasn't so new to this winter bicycle touring scene, I'd probably be even more impressed than I am. But I have to say, I'm pretty impressed. Everything's sleek and gray and matched perfectly to my Pugsley - like a real racing kit. It's especially tasty compared to the sloppy, haphazard randomness of my kit for last year's Susitna 100:

Or even worse, 2006, when I actually had a seat post rack, a loosley-packed non-compression stuff sack on the handlebars, and a Wal-mart-purchased handlebar bag stuffed in the tiny triangle of my frame between the down tube and the rear suspension of my Sugar:

You can see why Epic Designs bags are a thing of beauty.

Back to details

Date: Feb. 9
Mileage: 22.1
February mileage: 159.3
Hours: 2:30
Temperature: 7
Snowfall: 8"

I spent the month of January feeling more and more lost in the big picture of the Iditarod Invitational. Now that last-minute preparations have narrowed my focus back to the little details, I am actually feeling less anxiety. Give it another five days or so. The race starts two weeks from this afternoon.

Geoff and I finished packing up our food drops. Combined, we have 40 pounds of duct-tape-wrapped “food bombs” ready to ship. Among his more interesting additions are two packages of precooked bacon (until about two months ago, Geoff was for the past 10 years a vegetarian), Hammer Perpetuem and 2,700 calories of Reeses Peanut Butter Sticks. I kept my drops simple, knowing that in the survival state endurance cycling induces, monotony, simplicity and precedence are key. My food bomb consists of one pound dried fruit, one pound nuts, 8 oz. sunflower seeds, 5 oz. chocolate, 9 oz. turkey jerky, four Pop Tarts, eight Clif Bars, four Trio bars, 10 fruit leathers, 10 oz. packaged tuna and 9 oz. Wheat Thins (those last two are my checkpoint “treats.”) It also has batteries, chemical warmers and fuel - for a total of about 12,000 calories, 10 pounds gear, and provisions for two-three days.

I also, after too many failed trials, am leaning away from using my Camelbak as my primary hydration source. I will still carry a backpack and a bladder - either my insulated 3-liter Camelbak bladder or noninsulated 6-liter MSR bladder. But I also bought one of those Outdoor Research insulation sleeves and plan to stuff a Nalgene bottle in one of my pogies, then refill it with my bladder. I know the inconvenience of a bottle is a likely path to perpetual dehydration, but it’s still more accessible than a Camelbak with a frozen hose.

I also have a lot of little things to add to Pugsley before I break him down and ship him off to Anchorage for his final overhaul. I will need to have him boxed up and on a FedEx truck by Wednesday morning at the latest.

Beyond that, the taper has started. My training has slowed down and I haven’t even noticed. I feel busier than ever. I was hoping to go for as many rides as I could before I ship Pugsley away, but the recent winds and 8-10 inches of new snow Saturday made cycling impossible everywhere today (the plowed-in road shoulders were even more unrideable than the trails.) Rather than embark on a windblown push-a-thon along the Douglas Highway, I went for a snowshoe hike in the vicinity of the Mount Jumbo trail, breaking my own path and sinking to my knees with every step. It was a trudge. I was drenched in sweat. All around me, billowing pillows of fine powder frosted the landscape with almost confectionary softness. And all I could think about was how I was going to format my schedule so I could completely load up my bike before I completely break it down. Maybe this detail focus isn’t such a good thing after all.


P.S. Don't forget to drop by UltraRob's outdoor gear site for some great deals on fun new toys! Good for you ... good for me!