I rode my bike across Gastineau Channel

Date: March 22
Mileage: 28.4
March mileage: 399.1
Temperature: 35

Well, in keeping with tradition, I spent my Easter Sunday on a close-to-home adventure that I didn't set out to have. I was all dressed up this morning for a relaxing road ride out North Douglas Island when my parents called to wish me Happy Easter. In the half hour that commenced, the temperature slipped and it started to snow. I grumpily grabbed my Pugsley and instead set out for an expected sog-fest, justifying that as long as I was dressed up, I might as well still go biking.

After nine miles in the slush shower I was more than ready to turn around, but at the last minute veered off on the Mendenhall Wetlands access trail. The tide was really low and the sand had set up nicely, covered as it was in a dusting of snow. I rode to the water's edge and etched an arching path along the shoreline. The Gastineau Channel carves a narrow moat through the towering mountains near downtown Juneau, but out here the water disperses in ribbons through an open valley, more like a river than the sea. I noticed that I could see the bottom of the channel all the way across the first ribbon. And the sand on the other side looked so enticing.

I decided that as long as I carefully watched the rising tide, and as long as I didn't begin to bog down in any quicksand, there didn't seem to be any real risk in riding out to the middle of the channel. I portaged Pugsley across the water and pedaled over virgin mid-channel sand. I came to another ribbon, this one a bit deeper than the first, but it barely brushed my shins. And when I reached the other side, I began to believe that I just may be able to cross this daunting waterway.

Many valuable, tide-rising minutes passed in my quest, but after a half hour, I had forged the sandy bottom and rode up onto the grassy bog that marked the beginning of the mainland. I thought I was home free, but my adventure was only beginning. Just ahead of me lay the Juneau International Airport, its long runways, and all of the "restricted area" signs that go along with it. I cut an angle due south and began to search for a way around. Wading through long strands of wet grass, I couldn't ride my bike anymore so I had to run. The back wheel gathered clumps of grass and slush until it would no longer turn. I had to stop often to chip away at the mess.

I came to a deep water crossing - the first in which I could not see the bottom. My only choice was to cross the channel again or climb directly onto the airport runway. By then, more than an hour had passed and the tide had come up considerably. I didn't know if returning to Douglas Island was even an option and didn't really want to wander back out to the middle of the channel to find out. I hoisted Pugsley on my shoulders and stepped into the cold water. When it began to whisk over my knees, I took a lot of short-breathed comfort in my knowledge that I'm a strong swimmer. I wished Pugsley had the same skill. I made it to the other side and sprinted for a levy, which I believed to be an established trail that I had hiked before. It wasn't. It was a narrow, overgrown levy that guarded a very deep-looking pond. Crossing was impossible, so I had to go around. That moment was the closest I came to panic, knowing I'd have to make the deep crossing again, convinced that if I wasn't snagged by the rising tide, I'd definitely be snagged by the po-po on suspicion of terrorist activity.

Luckily, around the levy the channel wasn't too deep. I crossed a final time and trudged through the last ribbons of wetland streams before emerging on the no-man's land of Egan Drive, a no-bikes-allowed divided highway currently under heavy construction. I had no choice but to ride the wrong way down the shoulder back toward the airport.

I was just about to veer off to the safety of the frontage road when the po-po pulled me over. The officer was good-natured enough and asked me if I knew it was illegal to ride a bike on Egan Drive. I said yes, I knew that, and proceeded to explain that I had been riding my bike on the wetlands and become stranded on Egan. "Were you by the airport?" he asked me. I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat. "Do you have ID?" he asked. I shook my head. He took my name and birthday and called my info into the station. I just stood there, hardly caring about the prospect of a bicycle traffic ticket when it was obvious I was going to be arrested as a suspected terrorist instead.

The officer put down his radio. "So, you're getting off Egan?" he asked.

"Right now," I said.

"And you won't ride on the highway any more?" he asked.

"No," I shook my head eagerly.

"Well," he said, looking directly into my mud-spattered face, "you look like you know what you're doing." It was a bald lie, but I appreciated him for saying it. And with that, he got in his car and drove away. I merged onto the frontage road and laid into the pedals. I don't think Pugsley's ever traveled so fast.

I had to ride 10 miles home in a snowstorm following my multiple water crossings. I sloshed into the house, mildly hypothermic but relieved. I felt a little bit proud, too ... I mean, how many Juneauites can say they've ridden their bike across the channel?

Not that I'm ever going to try it again.


LATE EDIT: For Monika

I made a Google Earth image of the approximate route I took to cross the Channel on Sunday. As you can see, it's not all that crazy. At low tide the area is pretty barren, and the constant swift-flowing tides keep the sand hard-packed, so there is little danger of sinking in and getting stuck. But those same swift-flowing tides come up quickly, and it is possible to get stranded out there on a small island if one is not careful.

Here is a larger view of the entire ride, starting on Douglas Island on the left and crossing over to mainland Juneau on the right. I returned to the island by crossing the bridge, lower right.

Not too bad for a senior and a girly

Date: March 21
Mileage: 48.1
March mileage: 370.7
Temperature: 37

So Kathi and Bill Merchant rolled into Nome at 2:48 a.m. Friday with a race time of 25 days, 12 hours and 58 minutes. Lots of milestones there: Bill's the oldest man ever to ride a bicycle to Nome (is he really a senior? I doubt it. He strikes me as a 30-year-old, but he's probably in his early 50s.) Kathi is the first woman to ride a bicycle to Nome, and now holds the overall female course record on the Northern Route. The two of them have probably had this goal on their mind for many years. I can hardly imagine the sense of accomplishment (or relief) they feel right now, but I wanted to send them my congratulations. Bill and Kathi, Carl and Pete, and everyone else who tackled the trek to Nome this year (six so far have made it, and one more is on the way): You are my heroes. How cool is it to have sports heroes that you can connect with in such a personal way? Most people have to settle for looking at Web stats and watching television and purchasing outrageously expensive sports memorabilia. I rode a whole race alongside my heroes, shared trail stories and food, expressed fears and future plans. I have as much respect and excitement for people like Bill and Kathi as I ever would for pro athletes like Lance Armstrong. And that's not a slam on pros by any means. This is just where my passion fell - this tiny, esoteric little branch of cycling where people push their bikes in the snow. I'm happy here.

I was kinda proud of my own surge this weekend, although it hardly compares. On Friday I followed Geoff on his planned 50-mile ride as he starts to begrudgingly put in base miles ahead of the Great Divide Race. It's been strange riding so much with Geoff. I long ago accepted that he essentially only likes riding bicycles on dry, technical trails and long, remote gravel roads - so, basically, nowhere in Juneau. He loaded up his mountain bike with a bunch of water and gear so he could carry a little weight on our ride out the road. Not to be outdone, I opted to ride my Pugsley (weather called for scattered snow flurries, but really, bringing the heavy beast was a completely unnecessary move.) I paid for my pride with the indignity of fenderless four-inch tires blasting me for four hours with an endless spray of grit, mud, dirt and goo. I looked like I had danced around in a mud sprinkler; I had goo in my teeth, behind my ears, down my pants, in my eyes. Not to mention poor Pugsley. And all we did was fight, fight, fight the goo and wind and passing snow squabbles, then rode home two miles short of our goal. (Geoff did not want to ride loops around the block to kick up the total.) Still, 148 miles would make my longest training weekend, mileage wise, of the entire year. That includes all my big weekends going into the Ultrasport. It goes to show that mileage pretty much has nothing to do with my cycling efforts. Because, although the time I made wasn't terrible, I don't feel like I put all that much effort into the endeavour (and yes, I do nearly all of my longer rides at my "endurance" i.e. perpetual pace.) 148 miles this weekend was easier than any weekend I put in during the winter. And the century was easier than the 50-miler.

I guess it's time for me to start intervals and weight lifting again. Maybe dig deep and find some speed ... or stretch out and enjoy the tour. I haven't yet decided. Meanwhile, look what came in the mail on Friday:

Hoo Boy.

First day of spring

Date: March 20
Mileage: 100.1
March mileage: 322.6
Temperature: 40

At 9:48 last night, just as I was rolling out the last newspaper pages and preparing the leave work for the weekend, the vernal equinox happened. And just like that, the days became longer than the nights, winter was no more, and the calendar heralded its triumphant successor: The first day of spring.

I lazed about most of the morning, unwilling to commit to any activity, watching raindrops hit the window. But then, just after 1 p.m., the rain stopped. I could see hints of sunlight over Mount Roberts. I thought I should go for a little bike ride. A trip to Thane sounded nice - 19 miles round trip, rolling hills, wind protected. I packed a raincoat, my camera, a $10 bill and a half-empty bottle of four-day-old water. I was good to go.

But as I crossed the bridge, warm sunlight broke through the clouds for the first time in what seems like weeks. I looked out over the channel, so calm I could see all the way to the sea floor. I thought, "I should stay out a little longer than Thane." I turned my bike north for a nice trip to the Mendenhall Valley.

But when I reached the valley, a cool wind began to brush against my face. "That will be a tailwind going home," I thought. "I should stay out a bit longer." And I kept going.

Then at Eagle Beach, it occurred to me that I was beginning to feel hungry. I didn't have any food with me, because I was supposed to be out for a 19-mile ride. I dug around in my frame bag just to make sure. Nothing. The cool wind kicked up sweet, salty scents from the sea. "I'll be OK," I thought. And I kept going.

I rode to the end of the road, skimming my skinny tires tentatively around sheets of black ice. And when there was nowhere left to go, I turned around.

The bonk hit me hard at mile 55. I was 20 miles from the nearest convenience store. I started to feel a strange, involuntary calm, as though I had just taken a strong sedative. I could feel my sluggish legs spinning, probably slower and slower, but my mind rapidly disconnected. I began to think only of two Snickers Bars I had procured in Nikolai during the Iditarod Trail Invitational. At 20 below, one would think a Snickers Bar would freeze into an inedible brick, but just the opposite happens. The candy becomes as breakable as rotten glass. The candy would practically explode with every bite; my handlebar pogies were littered with the shrapnel of nougat and nuts. What I did manage to get in my mouth I would greedily swallow before the thaw, choking as frozen shards of candy scraped down my throat. So today, for 20 miles, I thought only of deep-frozen Snickers Bars and all of their shattery goodness.

Snickers: The bonk food of champions. That, and a Quaker chewy peanut butter and chocolate chip granola bar. Total cost of fuel: $1.41.

Finally fueled with decidedly not-shattery candy, I began to regain my senses. I was still about 20 miles from home, without bike lights, when the sun began to sink low on the horizon. It occurred to me that the camera display I had been using to keep track of time had never been reset for Daylight Savings Time. It was actually an hour later than I thought it was. I began to sprint. The effort felt amazingly good.

I managed to make it home just after dark without being killed by a car. And no, I totally didn't ride loops around my neighborhood in the dark for a half hour just to run up the odometer. OK, I did do that. First century of spring!

By far the best ride of the season. Yeah spring!