Goodbye, Alaska, and thanks

The list of things to do on Monday and Tuesday was long, as it often is when dismantling a six-week trip that involves piles of winter gear. I hardly slept on Sunday night after the White Mountains 100, too amped up and dehydrated, gasping to push more oxygen into my thickened blood. Monday's agenda included driving seven hours from Fairbanks to Anchorage — a road trip, I discovered, that becomes decidedly less fun when sleep-deprived and operating under the reality that the adventure is behind me rather than ahead. The droopy eyes set in around Healy, and I decided a break was in order.

The tiny winter visitor's center at Denali National Park was crammed with a busload of tourists. An Asian woman demanded a larger plastic bag to cover the calendar she just purchased, and the ranger seemed frazzled as she rifled around for something to appease her. The scene did have a weird kind of frenzy to it, enough to spark discomfort. I considered turning around and leaving the national park, but the ranger kindly waved me over to ask if I needed anything. "I'm curious if the trail along the park road is packed enough for a bicycle?" I asked. "Oh, and I need to pay the entry fee."

"The road is plowed," she said, "all the way out to Savage River." She pushed a map toward me. "And there's no entry fee in the winter; we're just hoping to get more people out there."

Fifteen miles out the road, the north wind was the only source of sound, moaning softly as it rushed across the wide valley. The plowed part of the park road had been precariously icy for a car, and I could see the surface beyond the gate was pretty much a broken sheet of glare ice on muddy gravel. This didn't seem promising for a ride, but I still pulled the bike out of the back seat, only to discover the front tire was completely flat. I used my little hand pump to push test air back into it; after three minutes, it had enough volume to at least notice, but after three more, it was losing air again. "Argh, bikes," I grumbled, too lazy to fix the flat. I crammed the mechanical nuisance back into the car and pulled on microspikes instead.

Running was humorous; I haven't done much of that in the past few weeks as it is, and less than 24 hours after finishing a hundred-mile fat bike race, any "running" I attempted was more like a pained shuffle on stiff legs. I walked frequently. I wasn't even looking for a workout, far from it, I knew rest was in order. But I also knew I was in Denali National Park, out the road in late March with no one else around, and this was a rare visiting opportunity. Even if the distance I could cover on my tired legs with no bike was minuscule, what I'd see would be exponentially richer than anything seen while driving sleepy in a rental car.

So I ran, limply, letting the north wind push my body into a side-to-side stagger, hardly taking my gaze off the mountains. An ice sheen over the snow glistened in the low light of afternoon, and I scanned the nearest mountains for friendly routes up to the ridge. When I spotted one, I grumbled to myself about sending my snowshoes home in the mail. But then again, a climb like that would take hours. I did not have hours. I barely even had minutes, but I felt greedy and wanted it all — for Beat to come back and for the adventure to continue ... for spring and break-up to somehow hold off a little longer ... for Alaska to not leave me, even if it had to be the other way around.

Denali National Park granted me that wish, a final beautiful memory to hold onto as I jetted back to real life and the projects that I looked forward to working on, the dry trails and mountain biking that I admit I missed, the summer adventures that I'm excited to prepare for, and of course Beat, who I missed terribly in a way that was different than when he was simply out walking the Iditarod Trail. It was time to go home. Return was a good thing, but Denali gave me the gift of holding on for a few moments longer.

I'm incredibly grateful for the privilege I had to journey through Alaska for nearly six weeks. It wouldn't have been possible without the generosity and awesomeness of friends who I owe many thanks and maybe guided bike vacations in California next time you want to escape Alaska in the winter:

Dan and Amy in Anchorage. Dan and Amy are amazing. They graciously put up with Beat and me floating in and out of their home for the better part of six weeks, using their gear room as our personal base camp, while they stored piles of stuff, baked cookies and delicious dinners, and made more airport trips than I can count. Thanks Dan and Amy; hopefully Beat and I can at least partially return the favor someday soon.

Jill in Anchorage. Jill encouraged me to join her for bike adventures and put up with my slowness shortly after I returned from McGrath. Thanks for getting me back out there!

Dave and Andrea in Willow. Spending a few days with Dave Johnston, eating "recovery" steak and sandwich dinners with him, and listening to his ITI stories was a highlight of the trip; biking to intriguing places in the region was a nice bonus.

Libby and Geoff in Juneau. I appreciate that Libby and Geoff are willing to open their "flophouse" for wayward friends like myself. It's fun chatting about the latest Juneau political gossip and watching bad reality TV. Seeing their kids significantly older is always kind of weird, but fun. They grow up so fast.

Cecile in Juneau. It was Cecile's birthday and she hosted a big breakfast for friends that I just happened to be invited to because I showed up at a group run that day. I really enjoyed meeting a number of Juneau's quirky runners; I was always on the periphery of the running community when I lived in Juneau but never involved, so it was fun to finally get to know everyone better.

Brian in Juneau. Brian has long been a good friend and always reliable for a fun night on the town. We went to see a play and enjoyed a couple of tasty dinners.

Shana in Nome. Beat and I were complete strangers to her when Shana offered to host us at her home. She and I enjoyed late nights, staying up until the small hours and chatting like old friends. The three of us hiked up Anvil Mountain together the day after Beat finished the ITI. I really enjoyed getting to know Shana and hope to visit again soon. Nome is a fantastic place; you'd never really know it unless you went there yourself.

Phil and Sarah in Nome. Phil no doubt had major Iditarod fatigue after riding the route himself in twelve days, and then hosting or greeting a number of ITI bikers and walkers that followed. Phil let me borrow his bike for a day, and Sarah prepared a delicious dinner for everyone after Tim and Loreen finished.

Craig and Amity in Butte. Craig and Amity are two friends from college that have been there for me since the very beginning. They hosted my very first Susitna 100 effort in 2006, and they're still there for a friendly stopover in a beautiful setting near the Matanuska River.

Corrine and Eric in Fairbanks. I met Corrine and Eric through the White Mountains network, and like everyone I have met through that network, are fun and generous. Corrine and Eric skied the White Mountains 100 together this year. It was their first 100-mile ski, and they finished in 31 hours. I didn't have a chance to see them after they finished, and I regret that we couldn't swap stories. But I enjoyed getting to know them better.

Joel and Erica in Fairbanks. Joel and Erica treated me to a shakedown ride before the race and a big lunch after the race.

Beat and me on top of Anvil Mountain. Special big thanks to him. :)

And of course all the others who contributed to the journey — those involved with the Iditarod Trail Invitational: Bill and Kathi, Rich at Yentna Station, Cindi on the Yentna River, Cindy in Skwentna, Rob in Rohn, the Petruskas in Nikolai, Peter and Tracy in McGrath, Wilco the Dutch filmmaker. Thanks to Ed in Fairbanks along with all the volunteers of the White Mountains 100. And many others — lots of awesome people in Alaska. I'm fairly introverted and sometimes have difficulty connecting with people, but there's something about those northern latitudes that have helped me meet many kindred spirits. Thank you, everyone.  

White Mountains, again

Find the tiny biker in the big wilderness

Six weeks in Alaska and a weariness had settled into the journey, like a bungee cord held taut for too long. I knew once I let go I was going to fall limp to the floor, sun-faded and cracked from weeks of freeze and thaw. My stretch marks spread across the state — over the streets of downtown Anchorage, up the Yentna River to the sun-kissed summit of Rainy Pass, Interior swamps and hard-frozen lakes, the magical corridor of the Kuskokwim River, McGrath, Anchorage again, Turnagain Pass and the Placer River Valley, deep snow in Denali State Park and Talkeetna, Willow, a puddle-jump flight into Cordova and Yakutat, onto gray and misty Juneau, Douglas Island, the wet pavement of Thane Road and wind-blasted ridge of Thunder Mountain, then high over 1,500 miles of empty wilderness to Alaska’s gold coast, Nome, the frozen sea, Cold War relics on Anvil Mountain, and back to the streets of downtown Anchorage. After all of that, it was time to turn north for the last leg — Fairbanks and the White Mountains 100.

 The White Mountains 100 felt a little like something carelessly tacked on at the last minute, although I'd been planning to race it since I found out I "won" the entry lottery last October. I did enter that lottery, even though I knew that at best I'd be stale (if not injured) after the 350-mile march to McGrath, and even though I knew it meant an extra week in Alaska after Beat needed to return to California. But how could I not enter the White Mountains 100? It's difficult to describe why it's is the best race ever, but it really is. Fun community, superb organization, dedicated volunteers ("I can't get rid of them," race director Ed Plumb said of those that kept coming back. "It's harder to volunteer for this race than it is to race it.") And the course is sublime — a hundred-mile loop through an Interior Alaska mountain range that really does feel far away from anything, but just happens to contain stellar trails courtesy of the Bureau of Land Management. It fosters the kind of experiences that draw a person back again and again, hoping to recapture some of the magic. It felt greedy in every way to remain in Alaska to race the White Mountains a fourth time, but I was grateful for the opportunity.

Sunday morning dawned clear and frosty, about 5 degrees and completely calm on the often windy Wickersham Dome. I felt strangely at ease as I stepped out of my car and looked out over the rounded hills, bristling with pipe-cleaner spruce trees and drenched in pink light. The White Mountains have become a familiar place, more like a distant friend rather than a sinister wilderness filled with things that could kill me (the place is still filled with things that could kill me, but it's funny how familiarity breeds comfort.) I had no expectations for race performance, having spent the winter training for a week on my feet dragging a sled 350 miles to McGrath, and being four weeks off of doing just that. I joked that slogging was all I was good for this season, and the only way I'd do well in the race is if it turned out to be a "bike push" year. All pre-race indications pointed to the opposite. Lack of new snow, warm daytime temperatures, and cold nighttime temperatures promised well-packed, fast trails.

Late March at Latitude 64 means nearly 14 hours of daylight, and the sun was already high in the sky when the field of 65 took off at 8 a.m. I started near the back and spent the first mile riding beside faster runners — Joe Grant, who was carrying a pack that looked to be about the size and weight of the vest I wear on six-mile trail runs near my home in California, and Houston Laws, a cheerful young guy from Juneau who I met a few weeks earlier. I have to admit that I sort of envied the runners. That's also tough for me to explain. I love riding bikes, I'm built to ride bikes, and this year's course conditions all but promised to be the best yet for bikes. But there's something raw and compelling about setting out to cover a hundred miles on foot. You all but assure yourself a full spectrum of emotions and experience, not to mention the time to fully soak in the vast landscape. Someday I'd like to come back and run this course. I hope when it's my chance to do it, I enjoy an equally runnable year. This race could actually work quite well as a "fast" 100-mile course for a runner like me. But it could just as easily be a sled-and-snowshoe year, and take 48 hours.

 But I digress, because yay bikes! Beat's awesome Moots machine floated over the hardpacked trails, maintained great traction on the climbs and confidence-inducing suspension down the mogul-rippled descents. I must have been pedaling the thing because last I checked no one installed a motor, but the burnt spruce forests flashed by, and in what seemed like no time at all I reached checkpoint one, which is something like 17 miles into the race. Seventeen miles! In the Iditarod Trail Invitational, seventeen miles was more than a third of a very long and hard day. I munched on some Oreos and left the checkpoint with Max Kaufman and Amber Bethe, who turned out to be the men's ski and women's bike winners in this race. Wow, I was feeling fast!

  Amber stayed in my sights until the Cache Mountain cabin, which is 39 miles into the race. Thirty nine! I couldn't believe I was there already. It felt early in the day, and it probably was (I wear a GPS watch but rarely use it to actually track the time.) I had no concept of how fast we were really moving, and assumed it was mid-afternoon, as it usually is by the time I arrive at Cache Mountain (it was actually around 11:45 a.m.) Amber left quickly and I re-upped my water bladder and mulled the baked potato with chili that I promised myself I wouldn't eat. ("But it sounds so tasty. And I feel great. But it's a hot day. And Cache Mountain Divide is a long, strenuous climb, and heavy food in the stomach is a bad idea.") I settled on two cookies and checked out something like five minutes later, which is just nutty for checkpoints as nice and inviting as White Mountains cabins. But it was a beautiful day and there was still much awesome riding to be had.

 I rode much of the climb with a woman from Anchorage, Laurel Brady. We were nearing a half century on fat bikes loaded with a decent amount of gear, and my legs were finally starting to feel the burn. The early part of the climb is more gradual, and Laurel easily outpaced me on that section. Every time I pushed the pace to keep up with her, sharp pains grabbed my left knee and my legs became exponentially heavier. But if I backed off just a little, back to my own pace, the knee settled in and the pedaling felt natural again. I suppose if you train for long-distance endurance and a "forever pace," that's exactly what you'll have — one pace. If you want the speed it up, you need to train at something faster once in a while. Who knew?

 But the truth is, I am blissfully content at forever pace. It's one thing to feel fast, and another to feel like you can propel yourself enormous distances without pain or fatigue. I guess I'm more of an exception in the racing crowd, but it must be obvious by now that I'd choose the latter over the former.

As Laurel and I crested the sun-drenched summit of Cache Mountain Divide, I was entering a near perfect flow state. Miles were unraveling behind me and stunning mountains were unfolding before me, and I was an entity beyond myself, almost void of self-consciousness, a cyclist and only a cyclist, pedaling into a place of pure joy.

 Flow state can only persist when the mind is completely calm, which isn't always possible amid the inherently scary surroundings of Alaska backcountry still locked in winter conditions. Still, even the scary sections were known, and the weather was unbelievably friendly. There was no wind on the ice lakes, and only the thinnest film of standing water. Even though I know these "lakes" are simply a creek bed that fills with layers of overflow, the cracks and groans in the breakable top layer make my heart flutter every time.

 I brought microspikes to wear on my boots so I could walk the ice sections. The ice lakes went on for about a mile and a half, and I even ran a bit because I was feeling good. Of course, Laurel came fearlessly riding by, expressing disbelief that I did not have studded tires (I wanted to get all old-timey on her ... "Back in my day, fat bike tires didn't even have tread, let alone studs, and there was only one to choose from, way back in 2007.") Of course, she was riding glare ice and couldn't slow down to wait for my response.

 The descent off Cache Mountain Divide is pretty much always a vat of mashed potatoes. This year was better but not an exception, and the lead pack had ripped up the trail enough to leave wheel-throwing ruts. Just like previous years, I had a couple of spectacular crashes, tearing down the trail at 25 mph, spotting a deep rut, swerving to avoid it, catching the edge of a tire and launching into the air with hope in my heart that my body would find the cushion of a snow bank and not a tree. Both times I did land in a soft bank and got up laughing. This is why I prefer snow biking — even crashing is fun.

 After the initial steep grades off the Divide, the trail follows a rolling descent beside craggy limestone cliffs.

 It's a little like miniature Alps. In past years of the White Mountains 100, the sun was already starting to set by the time I reached this section of the course. With the glaring mid-day light and blue skies, I was beginning to understand just how fast these trails were carrying me this year.

Coasting down the canyon, eating bagel chips out of my "gas tank" top tube bag, and soaking in some rays. At Windy Gap, mile 62, it still felt ridiculously early in the day and I was almost too full for the famous meatball soup that they serve at that checkpoint. But I ate a little because it's the kind of indulgence I just can't let myself pass up. In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that I don't even think the meatball soup is all that good. It's just frozen meatballs in broth with plain white rice. But in 2010, the first running of this race, I arrived at Windy Gap at dusk, feeling shattered after a hard push up the Divide, followed by a terrifying crossing the ice lakes without microspikes through three to six inches of standing water on top of glare ice, a fierce crosswind blowing my bike like a sail, and temperatures around 10 below. A volunteer, Dea, who has since become a friend, handed me a Styrofoam bowl with thin soup and three meatballs. I slurped it up while it was still too hot to swallow, an amazing elixir of life and energy, and sheepishly asked if I could have some more. "No," she said with a strain in her voice, probably because she had been asked that same question by many that day. "There's only enough for everyone to have one serving." The rationing earned her the unfortunate joking moniker "Meatball Nazi," which stuck even though she personally assured there has been enough for everyone to have six meatballs every year since. And I now have a permanent wistful place in my heart for the Windy Gap meatball soup.

 Back to flow state, winding through the narrow corridor of Fossil Creek. Miles continued to roll away, and I was so focused on the simple task of pedaling that my mind seemed to leave my body altogether, floating somewhere above the moving bike to play its own filmstrip of near and distant memories.

 Often my thoughts turned to the reality that I would be leaving Alaska soon, and what this past month and the things I experienced here meant to me.  I was so lost in thought on this 20-mile segment that it passed in what truly felt like an instant. A burst through space-time and suddenly I was at Borealis, mile 82. Perennial checkpoint four volunteer Carleen has also become a friend, and served up ramen soup. I still didn't feel terribly hungry (my body must have been mindlessly snacking on something while I floated along), but asked her if she'd put extra flavor powder in it, because I was feeling quite salt-depleted. It had been a hot day for the Whites — although probably never above freezing, close to it — and I was overdressed with two pairs of tights, fleece and vapor barrier socks, and gaiters. My thick fleece jacket was my only wind-blocking layer, which felt necessary when riding "fast." But the whole combo was causing me to sweat a whole lot, and I was both overheated and dehydrated — and this was the first point in the race I actually acknowledged that. In truth I was riding pretty hard. I was racing, as hard as I could, within reasonable happy knee range and my own cardiovascular limits. This was also about the first point in the race I acknowledged that fact as well.

I drank as much water as I could stomach and re-upped my supply before leaving checkpoint four. Acknowledging a race mentality left me wondering just how far in front of me Laurel was by now. Amber was undoubtedly hours ahead at this point, but second place might be within reach (at the time, I didn't yet know that my friend Erica Betts got into the race at the last minute. She was first on the wait list and drove all the way out to the start of the race, hoping for a no-show, which there was! I'm thrilled she got in as she trained hard over the winter and had a great race in the Whites.) Since I never saw Laurel at the checkpoint, I was surprised when I got my answer just a few miles later, approaching a rider in a black jacket on the climb to the low ridge between Beaver Creek and Wickersham Creek. Truly a racer, she looked over her shoulder and cranked up the pace.

 I passed her by blowing past the non-mandatory trail shelter checkpoint at mile 89, but wasn't granted a Lance Mackey-like sneak-through because the volunteers spotted me on the trail and called out to get my number. Hee hee. Laurel again passed me while I walked across the overflow of Wickersham Creek. We started pushing up the Wickerhsam Wall together and I exclaimed, "This is my favorite part!," which is such a bald-faced lie. The Wickersham Wall — an 800-foot climb in less than a mile on often loose and punchy snow — has single-handedly broken me more times than any other segment of any other race. I broke down in tears on this climb in 2011, for reasons I don't even remember. But I've since dragged a sled up this thing at 20 below, and in truth it's a pretty short hike-a-bike in the grand scheme of things. The knee wouldn't let me stay in the saddle this time either, but the surface was relatively hardpacked and I briefly considered running with the bike, as a move like that might be my last chance to gain an edge in the race. But I'm not quite willing to act that ridiculous in the name of racing, so Laurel and I walked up the hill together.

 We reached the top and I sort of knew that was it for racing. Although the remaining six miles of the course is rolling hills that gain overall elevation, there wasn't enough climbing left to catch Laurel. She took off as soon as the trail reached rideable grades, and my feeble efforts to follow resulted in fierce knee pain. I did briefly consider whether my knee could hold out for six miles of sprinting without permanent damage, but that instantly seemed like a stupid question. "Or, you know, I could just enjoy the last six miles because it's a beautiful evening and the sun's still out and I feel great." Back to flow state, happy, excited be finished but also wishing that somehow this could continue for another hundred miles.

 I rolled into the finish at 7:34 p.m., for a time of 11 hours and 34 minutes. I was the fourth woman; Laurel finished third two minutes before me, Erica was second in 10:47, and Amber won in 10:33. The fastest male cyclist, Josh Chelf, torched the course in 7:53. This was an amazingly fast year for bikes; I was 24th overall and still finished nearly an hour before the first skier, Max. My own previous best time on this course was 17:55 — but chopping more than six hours off that doesn't mean a whole lot. I wasn't necessarily smarter or stronger this year, just luckier. Snow and weather conditions are pretty much everything in winter racing, which is one of the things I love about it! It was pretty awesome to finish in the daylight, with friends who I know to be fast riders still hanging out in the finish line tent eating brats. But still, I did miss out on the Northern Lights, 10-below overnight lows, and eerie silence of a night in the Whites. I had an amazing ride and a lot of fun, but not quite the full spectrum of experience that I like to seek in these endeavors.

Oh, White Mountains, I will be back. On foot? Don't hold me to any promises. ;) 

Following the White Mountains 100

 Beat revived a tracking page that he set up for the White Mountains 100 a few years ago, so I'm going to carry a SPOT tracker so friends and family can follow along with the race. If I recall correctly, the icon of a little person riding a fat bike plots my progress along the course, and changes to a little person pushing a bike when forward progress slows enough to indicate walking pace. Afterward you can replay the track, so it's a fun record to keep. The tracking page is here:

http://www.beultra.com/routes/main_new.php?course=WM14_b

And if that doesn't work, this is a direct link to the SPOT page.

The White Mountains 100 race doesn't have GPS tracking, so this is just a personal page that doesn't indicate my position in the race. But the race volunteers do post regular updates to the Facebook page as well as the official race Web site.

I'm excited to get started. I attended the pre-race meeting along with several people on the wait list who were hoping to nab a spot. Someone on the roster drove all the way up from Anchorage and showed up 15 minutes late, only to learn his spot had been given away to Jay Cable, who I believe is the last remaining person to have participated in all five years of the event (Myself and others have managed to make it into four; I rode in 2010, 2011, and 2012.) I'm not sure who lost their spot but word is they were pretty miffed, understandably. That's the cutthroat nature of popular endurance races. Getting in is the hard part. I set two alarms to ensure I don't sleep in, or I'll lose my spot as well.

I enjoyed Thai dinner with a bunch of runners — the trio from Juneau, Joe Grant, and a few others. Some were under the impression that I was running the event as well; one even asked me about my sled. The concept has become so foreign to me at this point that I just stared blankly for a few seconds ... ("Sled? What sled? Oh, no, I have a bike.") Most of the runners are only carrying small packs anyway, as the White Mountains 100 does not have required gear. It should be a fast race for them as well. Weather looks like it will be partly cloudy with daytime temperatures in the high 20s to low 30s, and nighttime temperatures in the single digits, down to 10 below in low-lying areas.

I packed all the clothing I think I'll want to wear on the bike if it gets down to 10 below, spare hat and gloves, repair stuff, a small med kit, microspikes for my boots (my black ice incident in Anchorage has me spooked about attempting to ride anything icy), two headlamps, spare batteries, camera, and about 3,000 calories of fruit snacks, peanut butter cups, and bagel chips. My food plan is to mostly nosh on this stuff and perhaps checkpoint cookies until Windy Gap at mile 62. The Cache Mountain baked potato always makes me feel icky going over the Divide, so I'm going to try to resist it (no promises). I have a good amount of experience on this course, plenty of endurance and a lot of enthusiasm. The only thing I'm missing is fast legs. But I hope to find the stamina and happy knee place to push as hard as I can tomorrow.

Speaking of enthusiasm, I went out today for one last shakedown spin that turned into a 20-mile ride through the Goldstream Valley and up 1,200 feet on the Eldorado Creek trail. Beat, Liehann and I dragged our sleds for half that distance on this route back in December at -34 degrees, chasing the fading early afternoon sunlight up the ridge for a strenuous three-plus hours. This ride was just about the polar opposite of that — warm, glaring sun, and absolutely flying (well, relatively flying) on a fat bike. With all of the happy slogging I've done this winter, the sheer efficiency of a bike still astounds me. I can't wait for the Whites! 

Cramming

Right around the equinox, springtime came to Alaska in a big way —glaringly clear skies, sunlight, and temperatures in the high 30s and low 40s. Although Beat returned to California on Monday, I'm lingering for a few more days thanks to plans to race the White Mountains 100 in Fairbanks. Beat had to quickly go back to work and routines — always a difficult transition amid the mental and physical recovery of a month-long journey. I feel guilty about remaining in Alaska to play, but I also have been struggling with feeling overwhelmed myself — managing logistics and deadlines amid a tight timeline, thinking about the many projects I need to finish, the summer plans I need to begin preparing for, and also just wanting to be home with Beat. I feel like I should smack myself in the head because it's early spring in Alaska, the weather is beautiful, trail conditions are superb, and I need to DO ALL THE THINGS before it's too late. 

Perhaps I'm a little travel weary. Just about the only hours I don't feel anxious or overwhelmed are when I'm outside riding my bike. I also got in one great run this week, my best since before the ITI. I ran six and a half reasonably fast miles on the packed snow of the Chester Creek Trail on Tuesday evening, after it finally became "cool" enough to run. (The mid-day "heat" here, although barely scraping the 40s if that, still feels abnormally warm under direct sunlight. I have no idea how I'm going to cope with 80-plus degrees once I return to California.) I was stoked about this run because I felt strong for the first time in weeks, with none of the shin pain or dead leg fatigue that I experienced in Juneau.

So I had a good run, but mainly I have been putting in some medium-length rides on my bike to assess both bike and body conditions ahead of the White Mountains 100. The front brake of the Moots fat bike somehow imploded. After two weeks of adjusting the lever and riding it when I possibly should not have been, I realized the caliper was leaking fluid and had to have it replaced with a mechanical disc brake (Argh. But I can't ride the hilly White Mountains 100 with my skills and only one brake.) As for my body, I have some concerns about my left knee, which begins to develop sharp patellar pain (my usual knee-bike issue) after three hours. I'm going to try testing different saddle heights, but it already feels the best when the saddle is on the cusp of being too high. All pre-race reports point to fast and largely rideable trail conditions, so I might have to adapt for long hours in the saddle without much pushing. To be honest, 100 miles of biking kind of scares me right now. I suppose this is a good thing.

On Monday I managed a 36-mile ride in Anchorage that was almost entirely on snow. I love that I can leave my friends' house in the middle of town, and in two minutes reach a groomed pedestrian path that leads to a huge network of well-packed singletrack throughout the Chugach foothills. Anchorage is awesome in that regard — you can ride dozens of miles in city limits entirely away from vehicular traffic and often on trails. One thing I don't deal with very well are singletrack mazes. I get disoriented easily and it doesn't take long before I have no idea where I am or which direction I'm going. After riding a fun trail called Moose Meadow, I could not relocate the Rover's Run connection. I inexplicably kept returning to the same intersection until I thought I might be losing my mind. This intersection was in view of a paved road, so I opted to veer over to the road and coast a mile down to a known trailhead. The sun was setting, and all of the day's snowmelt had solidified into black ice. I still didn't have a front brake at this point. Coasting down the road at 20-plus miles per hour, I lightly tapped the back brake, which sent the rear wheel into a sharp skid that jack-knifed the bike sideways. I really thought I was going down; I even envisioned the impact in slow motion, the way you sometimes do in that heart-sinking second before an inevitable big crash. But as I let off the brake, the bike somehow righted itself, and I was able to coast to the bottom of the hill with terrifying momentum because I knew I couldn't hit the brake. Once I reached the trailhead and returned to the safety of snow, I could not stop shaking. I put on all of the clothing layers I was carrying, but it didn't help. I was a shivering wreck for all of the six miles home.

Wednesday's ride went much more smoothly. I sprinted out the Coastal Trail to Kincaid Park to check out the trails there. The hillsides of Kincaid were nearly snow-free, and in some ways reminded me of trails I ride in California during the wintertime — golden hillsides, narrow singletrack cut into steep side slopes, and big, gnarled trees that resemble the oaks back home. Could I actually be feeling homesick for California while riding in Alaska? Hard to accept, bit I think that was the case. The Kincaid Trails were not California friendly, though. They were pretty much a sheet of ice covered in a thin layer of loosely packed powder — about as slippery as surfaces get. Without studded tires I was not able to ride much. I was about to give up anyway when I encountered a moose blocking the trail, so I turned around and sprinted home. Not counting time wasted on trail ambling, that ride netted 29 miles in just over two hours. Super fast snow conditions.

On Thursday I headed north, opting to rent a car and drive up to Fairbanks. I love this drive, probably because I've only done it in good weather, but Thursday was an absolutely spectacular day for a cruise on the Parks Highway. The big mountain was out in a big way, and I'd stop at all of the still-closed roadside viewpoints and stomp through the snow to get another glimpse outside the car. Denali is such an impressive mountain. Standing at a point near sea level and staring up at something 20,000 feet higher gives me chills, every time.

I hadn't necessarily planned to ride on Thursday. But as I approached the small town of Cantwell, I wondered about the conditions of the Denali Highway. This 135-mile gravel road is unmaintained in the winter, but is well-traveled by snowmachines thanks to a couple of lodges along the way. Three friends and I bike-toured part of this route from the Paxson side last year, when trail conditions were so soft that we had to work hard to maintain a 4-mph average. Thanks to the low snow year, current conditions are smooth and hard-packed. Having ridden the much of this chunky gravel road in the summer, I'd say the Denali Highway is in better shape for biking right now than it is in June. There was some glare ice that I had to walk around, and further out the road the surface started to become progressively softer. A stiff headwind fought forward motion on the inbound ride, and made the 25-degree afternoon feel quite brisk. But wow — fast and fun conditions right now.

I had some dinner plans in Fairbanks, but the fun riding and amazing scenery kept pulling me eastward. I finally tore myself away after 17 miles, when a long climb was really starting to become tedious and guilt about being late for dinner and "saving the legs" for the White Mountains 100 started to kick in. Still, 34 miles in three hours, not too shabby for the Denali Highway during the winter.

Today, my friends Joel and Erica guided me on an 11-mile loop on equally fast and fun trails in Fairbanks. So I actually managed a solid week of fat bike training, 110 miles. Yes, it was the week before the race, when I should have been tapering, but I figured it was the only training I was going to get. Anyway, it was important to get re-acquainted with the fat bike, and work out a few kinks. The White Mountains 100 begins Sunday morning. I'll try to post an update on Saturday with some links. All in all I feel pretty good about the race. I'm worried about my knee, and feel some pre-emptive regret about squandering a potential "fast" year when I feel a lot less than fast. But I have confidence in my endurance, and a plan to waste as little time as possible (there probably will still be plenty of photos and inevitable checkpoint slumming.) I'll do the best I can, and love it because it's the Whites.

Trail's end

Shana and I stayed up late again, carving away the small hours with dark chocolate and stories about her childhood in Papua New Guinea versus mine in suburban Salt Lake City. We'd just met 36 hours prior, when I showed up at her doorstep in Nome with a suitcase and a forlorn homeless puppy look on my face. She graciously offered a bit of floor space to sleep while I waited for Beat to reach the end of his journey. And in typical small-town Alaska fashion, Shana opened a broad window into her life until I felt like we were old friends and I'd lived in Nome for years. I'd run the ice-coated streets at sunset, waving at drivers on four-wheelers and children playing without hats or mittens at 20 degrees. Jumbled sea ice piled up against the horizon, not so far from Russia, but even that stark and forbidding view felt familiar. This tends to be my pattern in Alaska — wherever I go, it feels like home.

As we cleaned up the remaining dishes from dinner — a conglomeration of wilted, end-of-the-road vegetables that somehow transformed into a delicious curry — Beat called one last time from the trail. He was about eight miles outside of town, he told me. "But still a long ways out," he added. It was just after 1 a.m. I suited up and left the warm comfort of Shana's home to greet a stiff Northeast wind, piercing the eerie silence of night in far western Alaska.

Beat warned me he'd be slow on the sugary trail. I knew its condition, because I tried to ride out that way earlier in the afternoon. I borrowed a fat bike from Nome hospital administrator Phil Hofstetter, who recently completed the human-powered journey to his hometown, finishing the Iditarod Trail Invitational in just over 12 days. His bike was slightly worn out from the trip, with tires that couldn't be aired down without going flat. The Iditarod Trail was covered in new snow and wind drift. The soft surface had been churned up by racing snowmachines, and was only marginally rideable on a fat bike. Running parallel to the trail is a gravel road that is unmaintained and apparently not widely used by anyone in the winter. But I wondered if I'd make better progress braving the drifts and glare ice of the road rather than pushing the bike through the flat sugar trough that the Iditarod Trail had become. I might not make better time, I thought, but at least I'd have more fun.

Heavy machinery had cut and piled solidified snow chunks up to four feet high, which served as a wind barrier to capture all of the drifting snow. I waded in drifts up to my thighs, then rode 100 feet of glare ice, and then waded for another quarter mile or more — and then repeated this slow pattern for more than seven miles. Why I kept at it, I'm not sure. Hours trickled by. The sun drifted low on the horizon. I was moving well under three miles per hour, and Beat was still many miles away. If I'd been able to ride, I would have covered enough distance to spot him; but at this pace, no way, not unless I waded around out here until midnight. Still, the irrational hope remained. It had been so long, and he'd come so far.

At mile 13, the setting sun and the fact it was going to take another three and a half hours to get back coaxed me to turn around. On the return trip, I took advantage of low light to spot shimmering surfaces of rideable crust near the road. Riding cross-country over the windswept tundra was actually faster than adhering to the oppressive conditions of the road or trail — a freeing notion.

With the onset of darkness, I knew I'd have to stick to the trail to see Beat. I figured I'd only outpace him by a small margin, probably 5 mph versus 3, and I'd have to ride for about an hour to spot him. My legs felt heavy and a bit stiff after "riding" six hours earlier in the day. But then again, any effort compared to a Nome effort is not much of anything; so I shrugged it off and pedaled as hard as I could, which is the minimum such trail conditions demand. Temperatures had dropped to single digits under clear skies, but the wind made it feel much colder, and I shivered as I worked up an unavoidable sweat.

Just as I began to resent that I'd decided to come out here rather than snuggle up in my sleeping bag at Shana's house, I passed the final electric light at the edge of town and looked forward into unbending darkness. A sliver of moonlight framed the sharp edges of white mountains, and the northern horizon was filled with an undulating band of green light. I turned off my headlight and craned my necked sideways to stare at the Northern Lights, as slack-jawed and wonder-filled as I was the first time I watched them. The way they shimmer, the way they dance as though directed by some kind of cosmic choreographer. The bike swerved and pitched off the trail, and I didn't mind.

The wind moaned but everything else was quiet, almost unnervingly so. The flight from Anchorage to Nome spans hundreds of miles of pretty much nothing — no roads, very few visible lights, very few signs of any kind that modern humans could and have traversed that distance under their own power. I varied my gaze from the sky to the vast darkness in front of me and wondered at the world Beat had come to know over the past 17 days since he left me behind in McGrath. How magnificent the landscape must seem, and how tiny one must feel in comparison.

Through my sustained fixation on the Northern Lights, I nearly missed the unmistakable glow of a headlamp making its way toward me. I pedaled harder until the headlamp glow framed a dark silhouette, and then my own headlamp caught the reflective tape patterns I'd come to know so well over 350 miles of trail to McGrath. They danced in their familiar way for the final seconds before Beat and I were standing next to each other. He was so focused on the task at hand that he continued facing forward and marching toward the city lights I had so recently left behind. We chatted about the kind of things you chat about on the Trail — weather, surface conditions since he left White Mountain, how long he stopped to rest, how much further he had to go. "Four miles," he announced after looking at his GPS. I knew the number already, of course, but I nodded in that vague way I use to muster eternal if misinformed optimism. "Maybe less," I agreed.

After several minutes I pedaled forward to let Beat enjoy the final miles of his journey in his own head space, which is the way such miles should be savored. Twenty minutes went by and I could still look back on the sea ice and see his headlamp, and then my cell phone rang. "Do you see the Northern Lights? They're so amazing!" Indeed, the green band had spread across most of the sky, shimmering and dancing with renewed vigor as virgin white streaks sliced through the heart of the arch. Back in town, I returned the bike to Phil and walked over to Iditarod's burled arch, which marks the official finish. Front Street was completely deserted at 3 a.m., save for a single rusted taxi that rolled up and down the empty street, probably hoping I would change my mind about loitering and request a ride.

Beat waited until he passed the Nome Liquor Store to veer off the sea ice and climb the bank to Front Street, arriving in Nome at 3:52 a.m. after 25 days, 12 hours, and 52 minutes on the Iditarod Trail. It was his second finish of the thousand-mile trek, one of each on the Southern and Northern Routes. He let me give him a hug but refused to let me help him lift his heavy sled onto the platform, reasoning that he couldn't accept help until he "finished."

"How do you feel?" I asked.

He leaned against the wooden pillar and smiled. "Tired," he answered. "Pretty much just tired."

I didn't have the long perspective of the walk, and couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. "I'm so proud of you," I said, and hugged him again.

"I'm glad to be done," Beat said. But as he spoke I noticed him glancing west, as though looking for the trail's non-existent continuation.

Modern Romance, part four

Four years ago, I wrote a series of posts about communing with a mountain in Juneau called Thunder Mountain during the winter of 2009-2010. You can read them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

Rain patters the windshield, accumulating in a conga line of drops dancing joyfully as the wipers chase them off stage. I watch this with old eyes, a strip of exposed film that was long ago shot, and forgotten, and unintentionally spooled through the camera again. The double exposure confuses me. I am driving on memory auto-pilot, but where am I going? "Oh yes, this is Egan Drive, and soon there's going to be a turn. What was the name of the road? Glacier Road? Mendenhall Loop? And then there was another turn, on a neighborhood street. What made me think I'd remember the exact turn? It's been four years since I've been here. But, four years, how is that possible? Where have I been?" The rain continues to fall as it always falls, at least in the view of my old eyes.

I park the car and launch a familiar ritual — strapping snowshoes haphazardly to a pack, pulling up the hood of my waterproof shell, putting mittens on my hands and microspikes over my shoes. Standing up straight, I see a familiar profile coyly lurking behind satin curtains of mist.

 Hello, Thunder Mountain.

 My old eyes scan the forest floor for hints of a trail. An inch of new snow covers the mulch and moss, effortlessly erasing any sign of the path. There are pieces I remember — the blueberry bush mud shoot, the deadfall staircase, the root wall. But I have to admit to myself that these distinct fragments are just that; they do not form a whole, and they won't guide me through the maze of moss-coated spruce and skeletal devil's club. My mind flips through the double-exposed film, exposing it again. There's the creek that the rotten wood boards spanned in the summer time. There's the big overturned stump whose image always enters my thoughts when I ride my bike through redwood forests near my home in California. California? Is that where I've been? Did all of that really happen?

 I begin the mittens-on-roots climb up the mountainside when I locate tracks. Human tracks, three sets of them, so far only pointed in one direction, and at least one set distinctly belongs to a person wearing XtraTufs. Who around here wears rubber boots to hike up this particular mountain in decidedly crappy weather on a Monday? A grin spreads across my face. "Bjorn," I think. Bjorn is an old Juneau friend who introduced the basic mountaineering concepts that enabled me to begin visiting these steep mountains in the wintertime. Thanks to his simple tips and encouragement, I found new courage to pick my way up an icy slope, trudge through thigh-deep drifts, chip ax steps up a snow wall, and face the mountains in their quietest, harshest, most raw state of beauty. I could see them with new eyes, and fall in love in a whole new way.

 After another 800 vertical feet in something like a quarter mile, I encounter the makers of the tracks I was so gratefully following, making their return trip. Sure enough, it was Bjorn and his brothers, and I so expected the tracks to belong to him that the serendipitous nature of the encounter didn't even register. Bjorn and I actually met on a mountain, in much the same way, and I can barely remember ever seeing him off the mountains. We embrace, exchange quick catch-ups, and he warns me about fresh wolf tracks near the trail. And that's it — just a short reunion, but it gives me pause. "It's kind of strange," I think, "to just bump into Geoff on a mountain on Friday, and then Bjorn today." In both cases, their groups were the only other people I saw out there, in four-plus hours on the trail. People flicker in and out of our lives so unceremoniously, like blurred figures burned into double-exposed film. They look like ghosts now, but there was a time when we stood side-by-side at focal points, sharp moments in our lives when all of the noise of the present converged, and we could see the lines to our futures, and everything changed.

 After another 700 vertical feet, my cell phone rings. Beat is calling on his satellite phone from a shelter cabin between Koyuk and Elim, two weather-ravaged villages on the Bering Sea Coast, about 150 miles from Nome. His voice sounds more ragged every day. It breaks my heart, every time, even though I can hear the happiness in his words, too. I don't cope well with thoughts of his suffering, even while I relate to the intense dynamic of it all, the soaring highs and soul-rending lows of life on the Trail. My own life is far away now — in Juneau, in the recent past — and I struggle back to the surface to take in everything he has to say. His current conditions report is falling snow, and wind, and snowshoeing through deep and sticky powder at 31 degrees. He asks me how my day is going. "I'm out for a snowshoe hike," I say. "It's snowing, and windy, and yeah, I'm pretty sure it's even 31 degrees. I'm in the trees now, but once I get up on the ridge, the wind is probably going to be really bad. I will go there, and I will think of you."

 The ridge juts skyward at almost impossibly steep grades, covered knee-deep in wet powder, and my progress slows to almost a standstill. One step forward nets two sliding back, scrambling on all fours like a goat trying to climb a water slide. I have no intention of going all the way to the top of the mountain, as the final pitch is a twenty-foot vertical headwall that Bjorn, in the past, has described as "avalanchey" in new snow events. But I figured I could climb to a hundred or so feet below the headwall, down in the last stand of scraggly trees on the ridge, before turning around. Still, this effort is ridiculous. The headwind is ripping through cracks between hastily applied goggles and a buff. Occasional gusts drive brief whiteout blizzards so intense that snow packs into the arm openings of my coat. The surface has almost zero traction — heavy powder sitting on top of an icy crust layer. I wouldn't make much slower forward progress if I started crawling backward. But I think of Beat, and his struggle, every day in storms for so many miles, so much worse than this. Solidarity is as good a reason to climb a mountain as any.

 Thunder Mountain, I already know, does not care about love and solidarity. Thunder Mountain does not care that four years have passed since I walked its slopes, bearing my soul to the wind and to the silence. Thunder Mountain does not care that it was right here, on this ridge, that I found the courage and made the decision to quit my job, leave this town, and strike out into the unknown without even knowing what I was looking for. Thunder Mountain does not care that I since went on to move away from this state I so love, met an amazing person who has helped me explore a much wider range of the world, formed a new passion for traveling long distances on foot, and found the freedom to pursue something that has been a core part of my identity since I first took a red crayon to lined paper and organized known letters into still-unknown words. Thunder Mountain does not care that an infinitely small amount of time has still managed to accumulate a lifetime's worth of incredible experiences, and burned them onto the filmstrip of my memories with bright and bold colors that shine through on the grayest of days. I think about Beat and feel a murmur in my heart as cold blood sinks to my toes. Four years ago I convinced myself I could love only mountains and live with the ghosts. But now I know that I was wrong. I cannot live with ghosts alone. Beat is far away and here on Thunder Mountain I feel only the icy sting of loneliness, because Thunder Mountain does not care.

Time is on fast-forward now, moving too quickly, swirling through the snow before it's whisked into the gray expanse. I see a set of big canine tracks running parallel to my own, and remember that Bjorn and his brothers did not have a dog with them. Once I return to the relative safety of the forest, I turn on my iPod to chip away at the unsettling quiet. After shuffling through several songs, but not enough to make it seem anything but serendipitous, I find "Modern Romance" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. In a rare showing of Shuffle patience, I listen to all the minutes of static silence after the song, which arrives at the hidden track:

"Baby, I'm afraid of a lot of things 
But I ain't scared of loving you. 
And baby I know you're afraid of a lot of things 
But don't be scared of love."