More movie fun

Date: March 30
Mileage: 13
March mileage: 606.2
Temperature: 37

I did a short ride up the Dan Moller Trail today that turned into more of a moderately long hike. I was gone for nearly three hours, but the opportunity to leave the house and its incessant blaring of college basketball, plus the four-mile descent that takes all of 15 minutes, made it all worth it. I made another short video today during the downhill run. This one is much better than Friday's. I got a better angle by stuffing my Olympus point-and-shoot in my goggles, so I had a ghetto helmet-cam thing going on. One thing I noticed after watching the clip is that it actually makes the ride seem fairly smooth - there's no indication that I spent most of the narrow stretch correcting my line with my handlebars while my rear wheel fishtailed wildly in the snowmobile-churned sugar snow. It may be proof that I do in fact have sound upper body handling - or it could just be poor quality footage. Either way, I got my hands on some video editing software, so today there is music and titles. Enjoy!

The push

Date: March 28 and 29
Mileage: 12 and 30.1
March mileage: 593.2
Temperature: 42 and 35

Spring has taken over Juneau with a vengeance. The roads are dry (and dusty). The sea-level snow has all but retreated. People are having big bonfires on the beach even as temperatures drop into the 20s. March in Alaska means it's still cool, but the 7:30 p.m. sunset and the day's slow creep into the 40s leaves no doubt: 'Tis a beautiful season.

The best part about this time of year is there is still good snowbiking to be had, if you are willing to work for it. And by work, I mean walk. And by walk, I mean climb. And by climb, I mean lean hard against the bike as you slip and grind and grunt your way up 1,800 vertical feet of slush in a little more than two miles. The effort will leave you red-faced and stumbling through your light-headed hallucinations of swirling stars. But rub a little of that corn snow in your eyes, place your wheel on top of a hardpack trail atop the high mountain meadow, and just roll. I can promise you'll start to feel a whole lot better, quickly.

Spring can actually be the ideal time for snowbiking if the conditions are just right. Day thaws and night freezes polish the snowpack to a crusty sheen. Hit up a snowfield early in the morning and you often don't even need to stick to the trail - just ride the crust (half the fun is the nervous anticipation of when your front wheel is finally going to break through.) But I woke up late Friday and wavered a bit on the walk up, so by the time I made it to Spaulding Meadow early in the afternoon, the 40-degree sunshine had done its damage. But there was still much slushy fun to be had on the rolling snowmobile tracks, running my tires at ~6 psi. And thanks to the bare dirt patches that pepper the snowmobile access trail, I had the place all to myself.

Saturday brought a different kind of bike hike - much less dignity and much less fun. After pulling my Roadie out of the basement earlier this month, I admittedly did little (no) spring maintenance. The roads are still littered in winter debris, and I'm pretty much at a flat-a-day average, but until today, they've all been on the front wheel. But as I rolled past Mile 11 Douglas Highway, I felt that familiar bobbing in the back. When I went to remove the wheel, I discovered it no longer had its quick-release skewer. It had a regular skewer that Geoff uses to ride the bike on the trainer during the winter. And I just stood there, picturing my Allen wrench, safely stowed away in my Pugsley, some 13 miles distant. (doh!)

So I began the walk, reasoning that it was a nice day and I was bound to see another cyclist go by. If I didn't, plan B was to walk to my friend Holly's house, some four miles distant, and borrow the tool from her. I moved to the left side of the road and glanced away from passing traffic. I have strong personal convictions about hitchhiking - I'm not going to do it unless I'm gravely injured or gravely late for work. If a motorist stops to offer unsolicited help, great. But I'm not going to ask for something I don't need.

But after two miles, my feet were killing me and it was becoming apparent that I was going to walk the full four miles. I started jogging, but the awkward cleats on my clipless shoes made a horrible clacking noise. I pictured them being ground to dust in the gravel. I halfway hoped this was happening. I keep the clipless pedals on my bike because ... I don't know ... maybe because I'm lazy. But there's much I don't like about them, and right at the top is walking . (Seriously, what use does a forgetful tourist like myself have for tiny, uninsulated shoes that lock me to my bicycle and serve no other practical purpose?)

I was less than a quarter mile from Holly's house when two cyclists went by. I asked the woman if she had an Allen wrench, and she was kind enough to let me borrow her bike tool. I wrenched the wheel off in a second and waved them back on their way. Then I fixed my flat, tightened the skewer with my half-frozen fingers, and shot down the road. It occurred to me that my rear wheel may pop off at any second. But it felt so good to not be walking that I really laid into the pedals. I probably hit a personal speed record over that stretch, but I'll never know because to odometer screen froze and went black while I was playing around by an icy waterfall. (Seriously, that Roadie is such a wimp.)

Anyhow, if I haven't had enough bike pushing already, I think I'm going to try to wake up early to hit some Douglas Island crust tomorrow. I made my first-ever video while I was snowbiking Spaulding Meadow on Friday. I must have turned the camera on some strange setting because it's cast in purple. And because I shot it by holding the camera against my handlebar as I pedaled along the trail, it's more than a little Blair Witch Project-esque. I really wanted to shoot the downhill stretch (oh yes, I did ride down, often using my right foot as a brake/ski.) But after five seconds, a dropping of the camera, a too-late grab for the brake and a fishtailing crash, I realized that wasn't going to happen. But I have a link to a flat stretch here: I call it "A Minute of Snowbiking in Juneau, Most Likely Uninteresting to Everyone But Me."


Spaulding Meadow from Jill Homer on Vimeo.

My world in old ways

Date: March 27
Mileage: 90.4
March mileage: 551.1
Temperature: 39

I had this idea that I was going to do a long ride today. I didn't know how long it was going to be. It was going to be long. The weather forecast was stellar. I packed water and food. I was thinking maybe all of the Juneau roads. I've never done that in one day before. Eaglecrest is still ice-packed, but everything else ... could be 135, 145 miles.

But then I stayed up much too late last night, staring at Northern Lights. Then my annoying cats started to pounce on me at the crack of dawn. By the time I stumbled out the door, bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived at 11 a.m., the glare of the sun hit my face like a brick. As I pedaled down the road, my head pounded and my stomach churned. And even as I crossed the bridge to face the full force of the beautiful day, all that awesomeness that encompassed me last week just wouldn't solidify. There was no way around it. I felt crappy. There would be no effortless hundred-plus miles today. I pretty much doubted I would even be able to rally for a painful hundred miles.

What commenced was basically the opposite of what happened last Thursday. I arrived at the glacier cutoff and wanted to turn around, but I didn't (I did skip the spur, though, so riding all the available pavement was out from the get-go.) Then I limped out to Tee Harbor and wanted to turn around, but reasoned that since I had bothered to carry three water bottles, and all of that food, I might as well keep going. Then I started to eat my food. It was beyond terrible. I had one good Clif Bar, and everything else was nearly inedible. Do you ever carry the same piece of food for about two dozen rides before finally eating it? Do you ever carry food that you have no idea where it came from? Do you ever carry food that you know you don't like but don't want to waste, reasoning that a cyclist on a century will eat anything? Yeah, I did all that. So what I ate was one waterlogged Clif Bar that tasted strongly like mildew, one strange chocolate bar that tasted strongly like dust, and one package cola-flavored Clif Shot Bloks. (I seriously dislike those. I have several stocked up and keep giving them a chance because so many people rave about them. But all I taste is waded-up cubes of vegetable shortening drenched in Safeway-brand soda.)

But I still kept going because it was such a nice day, and I didn't really have anything else planned. When I rolled into the far-away land of Echo Cove, bleached in snow and blazing in warmth, I was glad to be there. I thought maybe I still could take this thing all the way, even if I wasn't feeling great. I've definitely felt worse.

And I actually did rally all the way through downtown Juneau, moving toward Thane, thinking I could at least make a century out of the day. Just then, the front tire deflated. I sat in the shade to fix it, not really registering that early evening was setting in and the temperature was approaching freezing. My pump had rusted shut and I struggled to crack it open. My fingers went numb as I fumbled with the rim and tube. Geoff rolled by on his commuter bike just as I was finishing up. He was heading home. I followed him.

It's strange to have a ride like that, because now I'm sitting here wondering whether or not I wasted my day. There are always chores to do, annoying cats to feed, groceries to buy and bills to pay. Why spend all afternoon on a bicycle if I'm not totally loving it, and not training for anything to justify the effort? But at least I got out and experienced Juneau on a sunny day. I never regret doing that.

My world in new ways

Date: March 26
Mileage: 19.1
March mileage: 460.7
Temperature: 37

As I bulldozed through the distracting crackle of empty mussel shells, my heart already pulsing 180 shots of blood per minute, I heard the one sound that could stop it all together ... "shhhhlorp." I struggled against the sudden sticky friction as my momentum plummeted ... 4.1 mph ... 3.7 mph ... 2.9 mph. I turned the front wheel sharply toward the shore and spun with everything I had. Every Alaskan knows the story of the duck hunter who sunk to his thighs in Turnagain Arm mud and had to breathe through the barrel of a shotgun until the tide washed over the top. It's urban legend, like the one where the phone operator tells the babysitter, "The person making the call is in your house." We like to repeat these stories to ourselves, even though they happened far away, and even though they may or may not be true, just to scare ourselves with a sound ... "shlorp." The faster I spun, the slower I moved ... 2.2 mph ... 1.8 mph ... as my rear wheel bogged down in a mere two inches of wet mud. Hardly enough to get stuck in, but still I pedaled frantically, urging my feet not to touch the beach or all would be lost. Never mind that it's not really true. I feel more alive for letting myself believe it.

I've ridden the North Douglas shoreline in bits and pieces, but never in one long strand. I've decided that Channel riding is crazy fun ... and hard. I have yet to find a stretch that's truly sketchy, but I've found pretty much everything else ... smooth gravel, hardpacked sand, soft mud, fields of broken shells, spongy grass, deep stream crossings, barnacle-coated rocks. What's most fun about riding on the beach is the sensation of being on a "trail" that's as wide as a football field, covered in a minefield of technical obstacles, and you have to pick your best line. If you choose poorly, you walk. If you choose really poorly, you sink. But if you choose well, you can cover an amazing amount of ground that doesn't always exist, at least as solid ground.

Today I covered a full seven miles, all the way from just north of the bridge to the wetlands where I crossed the Channel last week. It was probably the most strenuous ride I've done since the race. I felt like I was in my own new world, a personal wilderness, all the while closely parallelling a highway that I would later use to cut away those seven hard-earned miles in 25 minutes.

Still, it was worth it.

Tonight after leaving work I noticed a soft green glow splashed across the starry sky. Northern Lights are a rare, rare thing in Juneau - we're a bit far south for the bulk of them, and what does reach here is nearly always obscured by thick cloud cover. So I went home and grabbed my camera and raced back out to North Douglas ... for once happy to be traveling at 50 mph rather than 15. I don't know why I bothered with the camera. I took about three photos before I realized my limited point-and-shoot was next to useless. But it's really better that way. Instead of watching the Northern Lights through a viewfinder, I left my camera in my car and stood on the beach in my work clothes and thin cotten hoodie, letting my fingers go numb and my neck go stiff while I gazed at the stratospheric dance. Deep green light reflected on the water while waves of white slithered across the sky ... pulsing and fading in a random motion that had both rhythm and rhyme. I was struck by the timing - at least for me - beautiful opportunities to see my world from different angles.

Covering ground

Date: March 25
Mileage: 42.5
March mileage: 441.6
Temperature: 32

A co-worker who doesn't know me very well stopped me today and said, "Hey, I saw you out on your bicycle by the ferry terminal the other day. Wow! You're really covering ground."

"Which day was that?" I asked, because it seemed the natural response.

"That day you were out by the ferry terminal," he answered.

"Could be a lot of days," I said.

"You mean you've been out there more than once?"

I just smiled because the ferry terminal is only 12 miles from downtown Juneau. There seems to be this perception among non-cyclists that their world is a very, very big place - too big to traverse without the aid of big machines and fossil fuels. It takes a slow-moving cyclists' perspective to realize that our world is in fact a small place, because all it takes is patience - just patience - and you can go almost anywhere.

Right now I'm suffering from a bit of "my world is too small and there's nowhere to go" fatigue. Despite the longish rides I've put in this past week, I feel hungry for a good, hard ride where I can really work myself over. But the trails are all covered in slop; the hikes are all buried in avalanche danger; and the roads have all been done, again and again and again.

Not that I have any right to complain. I recall this time last year, swimming 90 laps at the pool, running for two and a half hours on the elliptical trainer at the gym, just for a shot of that satisfyingly addictive "worked over" feeling. Things could definitely be worse.

This picture I think illustrates very well the way Geoff feels about cycling in Juneau. But he only has to suffer this place for one more month.

Dear Sugar

We have to talk.

We've been together what ... three years now? I still remember our first ride. I pedaled you up Emigration Canyon - pavement, oh the indignity. But on the way back there was something about you - something so young, so enthusiastic - that coaxed me to veer onto a trail. We shot down the narrow singletrack, both knowing that I possessed the handling skills of a three-legged dog. But you were so smooth, so responsive, that I suddenly felt I could do no wrong. You might say that was the day I fell in love with mountain biking. Love at first sight. If only it could stay that way forever.

I always loved the way that, despite your specialized status as a full-suspension cross-country mountain bike, you were willing to be anything for me. You were my trail bike, my winter commuter, my snow bike and my road warrior. You were my endurance racing bike, my expedition bike, my training bike, my recovery bike ... even my touring bike. But the years go by, Sugar, and things change. I've changed. My focus started to narrow. My needs sharpened. I need sturdy and versatile, something that's as friendly on the road as it is on trails, something that's designed to be everything but can still be that one thing I need. And I'm sorry, Sugar, but it's no longer you.

So now it's time we go our separate ways. I want you to know that I wish the best for your future. I hope you find a good home, with someone who will dote on you and travel with you and love you and yes, even abuse you as much as I did. Because you're strong enough, Sugar. You're the strongest bike I know.

I'll never forget you.

Love, Jill

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.