It's Christmas to me

Well, I tore into the Christmas care package my parents sent me today. For the record, I let it sit almost 18 hours before I finally thought to myself - I'm 26 years old and I'm spending the holidays 3,000 miles from home. I'll open my Christmas gift whenever I want.

On top of a generous helping of calorie and nostalgia-laden peanut butter balls was a pair of CZIP Gloves. They were a cool surprise because they actually are so perfect for my two favorite winter sports - ice biking and snowboarding. Plus, they are unforgettably linked to my long past of physical limitations and subsequent accomplishments.

See, the gloves were designed, patented and are now being marketed by my playground nemesis, Eric Vaughn. I went to kindergarten with this guy, as well as every grade thereafter. And before my childhood experiences faded into the gloss and glamour of memory, he held a special, cold place in my heart.

I was always the kid who was bad at sports - threw the baseball in the dirt five feet in front of me; couldn't launch a kickball to save my life. He used to tease me for it. That's all, really, but these things tend to stick to impressionable minds. I once owned a notebook with at least five pages full of the repeated sentence: "I hate Eric Vaughn."

Eric, of course, grew up to be a athletic, charming, good-looking guy. I didn't play sports in high school, but I started long-distance hiking. I took up snowboarding. I never played kickball again, and I got over it.

In October 2004, my dad and I were planning a trek across the Grand Canyon. We latched on to the annual excursion of the Vaughn clan, including - (cue obvious plot twist) - Eric Vaughn. Hiking the Grand Canyon from rim to rim isn't exactly a Sunday stroll. It's about 26 miles long, with an elevation drop (and subsequent gain) of 6,000 feet. October temperatures at the rim can hover just above freezing. Temperatures can also climb to 100 degrees at the river - during the same day. It's a tough hike. Some might say a physical accomplishment. And there I was, 24 years old and and hiking with the kid who teased me for planting baseballs when I was 6. So, needless to say, I was feeling pretty competitive. I decided that day, no matter what, I was finishing that hike. I wasn't going to let any donkey drag me out of there - not unless I was fully and irrevocably unconscious.

And I think I did pretty well, all said and done. With a relaxed pace, we finished in about 11 hours, including breaks and time spent waiting for people who had to drag a little more. I felt energized when it was done. And, with Eric pulling just ahead of me - a little bit redeemed.

Now he's a big-time outdoor merchandising entrepreneur. And, I gotta say, he designed a really good pair of gloves. The upper glove is attached to a zipper so you can free your fingers without removing the glove - perfect for quick flat tire changes or stuffing down a Powerbar. With a thin pair of neoprene liners, they may be perfect for the Susitna 100 - if for nothing else, to remind me that I gotta keep plugging away. Lest I want to go back to being that picked-on kid, staring at a baseball in the dirt and wondering if it will ever go any further.

Boom

So they tell me Mt. Augustine's about to blow. It's rated "Code Yellow," for what that's worth (just like the United States has been in a code yellow terrorism alert since, well, since the British were coming.) This photo is actually Mt. Iliamna. It could be Mt. Redoubt. I don't know. What I do know is - I live near a lot of volcanoes. And one of them, they tell me, is about to blow.

I never really thought about volcanoes before I moved to Alaska. An active volcano is something that belongs on a tiny tropical island, somewhere deep and warm and surrounded by chanting natives hoisting a screaming virgin up the face. No one told me that Homer was surrounded by these things - one big geothermal hug.

So I came into work today, wide-eyed and clutching the Anchorage Daily News with a shot of a big, steam-spewing cone on the cover. My co-worker just laughed at me (she has lived in Homer since the beginning of time, or at least since 1986 - the last time it blew its top.)

"It's not so bad," she said. "It just gets really foggy and dark, and everyone stays home for a couple of days."

"You can't even go outside?" I asked.

"Oh, you can go outside. Just try not to breathe too much."

I wonder what it would be like to ride a bicycle in a few inches of fresh volcanic ash. I imagine it would be a lot like riding in powder snow - airy, slow and locked in ethereal silence. It would probably be really enjoyable ... except for the not breathing part.

Unfortunately, I didn't take advantage of the still-available oxygen in the air to ride my bike today. I did manage a good, sweaty 75 minutes on the elliptical trainer at the gym. I feel it was an accomplishment only because I managed to ignore a leering bodybuilder that entire time. But I do have a deficit of cycling mileage that I owe - and this makes me very happy. I want to thank everyone who's helped me out in my miles-for-dollars Susitna 100 bid. I am close to my goal, and with any luck I'll be able to file my application to the race toward the end of this week. In answer to Fritz's comment yesterday, I am good for every mile. Come wind, ice, blizzard, or the most horrifying condition - rain, I'll bike it. I have until Dec. 31, so bring it on!

Night crasher

Date: Dec. 13
Today's mileage: 14.2
December mileage: 177.5
Temperature upon departure: 25

I have a better picture from Sunday, but this is one I actually took today, so there you go. I'm still aiming for journalistic realism. Today's ride was sponsored by Cyclelicious, a great read for everything from unfair cycling legislation to calendar girls who can't ride a bicycle to save their life. Also, Cyclelicious is one of the top-ranked bike blogs online, so I thought I'd make today's affiliate ride a good one.

By the time I dismounted from my swivel chair and left the cement box, the sun had already set. I decided to grab my headlight and head up to the reservoir - try my skills on the snowmobile paths up there. Unfortunately, after the thaw some ATVs and other wheeled vehicles drove up and down the trail, creating deep, frozen ruts that all but trapped me once I dropped into them. I tackled the trail with all of my lung-searing strength going up, remembering that speed and balance often go hand in hand. However, that theory didn't work as well coasting down. With only my tiny yellow headlight to guide me, I weaved in and out of those ruts and tried to keep my unmoving pedals just above the berm. Eventually - although a more appropriate word is probably inevitably - I overcorrected just enough and slammed right into one of those ATV canyon walls. Instead of jumping over it, the wheel lodged in the snow and I stopped dead. Or, rather, the bike stopped dead. I went for an extended ride over the handlebars.

Usually snow is pretty forgiving. However, snow that has soaked up four days worth of rain before freezing again is about as soft as concrete. I knew the moment I hit that I wasn't injured at all. But I lay there for a while anyway, staring at stars as they slipped behind wisps of clouds and thinking only of blunt pain and the repeated word "hard, hard, hard, hard." I got over it soon enough, though. I stood up, brushed off the powder, and worked my way back to the road ... humbled, but determined to keep trying.