Color and light

Date: Dec. 20
Mileage: 12.3
December mileage: 286.1
Temperature upon departure: 29
Sunrise: 10:05 a.m.
Sunset: 4:04 p.m. (tomorrow, the same)

The light is fading, but tonight I ride.
I ride with a remnant sunset,
and its flecks of cayenne pepper
searing the lavender sky.
Beneath sunset, Mt. Augustine looms
in steam and subdued silhouette,
fighting the twilight for distinction
before the pitch descends
and shadows contract.

I ride with the pitch,
only a dull yellow beam between me and nothing,
only the ice spray glittering like disco glass,
and screaming descents into nothing.
Moose tracks dig empty holes.
Great tussocks roll over snow,
and I bump. I ride.

I ride until there's no distinction between trail and field
until the white opens wide beyond darkness,
until strips of green stretch over the northern horizon.
Could be the apocalypse.
Could be the aurora.
The world is fading,
but tonight I ride.

... Tonight's ride was sponsored by Kevin, a yearround rider of the truest type down in St. Paul, Minn. The bicycle poetry was, well ... OK. I don't usually do poetry. But I felt inspired in that direction this evening because today, one day before solstice and 11 days ahead of my deadline, I surpassed my Susitna fundraising goal and subsequently put a check in the mail. I entered the Susitna 100. I'm in the race. There's no turning back now. And it feels good. Really good. I'd really like to thank everyone who helped me reach this point.

It doesn't end here, of course - not even close. I have a lot of training to do, so I'd like to set forth a new proposal. Between now and Feb. 15, I'll ride two miles for every dollar raised. One mile ($0.50) will be donated to the Lance Armstrong Foundation to support the good fight against cancer. And the other mile ($0.50) will help pay race expenses, including food, lodging and transportation (I'd love to ride my bike the whole way, but the race does begin almost 300 miles from my house.) And from now on, the wimpy roadie miles don't count. Unless, of course, all the snow melts.

Then it's time to rethink my decision to live in southern Alaska.

Bright spots

Today I learned through the reporter grapevine that a prowler was lurking around the building I work in one week ago Sunday. He hauled in several gallons of gasoline and set them down in strategic spots throughout the halls. After successfully shutting off the sprinkler system and making away with a fair amount of merchandise from a hardware store, the would-be arsonist fled for unknown reasons and left everything behind. My initial thought upon learning how close my employer-issued iMac came to being an friedMac was "Joy to the world, the school burned down." But then I remembered that losing my job might be a bad thing, even on a Monday in the midst of the holiday slew.

But I successfully made it through at least one day; three more to go. Such is life. I came home after enough hours in the cement box to fill in two healthy shifts. I rode the trainer for an hour so I could watch "Arrested Development." (Yes, I do get nearly four channels on my analog, antennaed television.) Then Geoff, our neighbor Jen and I enjoyed a lavish Indian feast. If there's anything Geoff has down pat, it's Indian food. I knew I moved to Alaska for a reason.

It's funny how even the most dreaded days can turn out surprisingly well ... or at least seem so in retrospect to the alternative. I avoided being a victim of arson and even arrived home in time to watch the only show I care to watch on TV. And before you ask, 'who in the world watches 'Arrested Development' anyway?,' I have this to say: There are dozens of us! Dozens!

Oh, I'm stressed

Date: Dec. 18
Mileage: 43
December mileage: 273.8
Temperature upon departure: 39

Today's ride was sponsored in part by my good friend, Jen, who is currently freezing her ski tips off in Alta, Utah. Jen is the bomb. This picture of a "b'eagle" kick'n it atop Salty Dawg also is for her. Go B'Alaska!

I get the sense from some of the e-mails and comments I get that many believe I live a charmed life up here in the not-so-frozen north. And I do, really - the scenery, the strange encounters, the wildlife, the biking. I love it and that's what I write about. But I still have my desk-jockey alter ego to contend with, and she is having a hard time sitting out this Sunday, knowing that when Monday comes there will be so, so much to do.

I don't typically get the Sunday blues, but this week before Christmas is going to be tough. The phrase "I'm going to be so busy this week" is pretty vague, and doesn't really get to the heart of what most of us do in our off (i.e. non-biking) time.

I'm a journalist ... a small-town journalist. I work for a weekly community newspaper. Weeklies are nearly universal in their penchant of hiring ridiculously small staffs to multitask (i.e. stumble) through each issue, and I was hired to multitask that multitasking. I sometimes write in my blog about my work as an arts and entertainment reporter. Despite the fact that I usually write between 3 and 5 articles a week, reporting is only a small part of what I actually do. What makes my job a job is my work as a production editor. I am the person who each week takes a random jumble of ads, photos and haphazardly-written stories, throws them on a computer, shakes them around a bit, and hopes beyond hope that a coherent and even well-designed newspaper comes out. Sometimes, I find a nice flow. But most weeks, I feel like I am staring down a 5,000-piece puzzle with a 2 p.m. Tuesday deadline.

It's especially hard this week because my boss has been laying on a beach in Hawaii for three weeks, and the staff shortage has finally caught up to us. The reporters already don't turn in their stories until the 13th hour, so on Friday afternoon they piled on me a couple of sickly-sweet holiday stories that I need to interview for (and write!) tomorrow. Why can't I start on them until tomorrow? Because the people I need to interview are busy enjoying their holiday, and won't be available until then. So, basically, tomorrow will be like trying to put together a 5,000-piece puzzle while talking on the phone, scribbling madly on a notepad and piecing together a couple of 600-word articles. Then on Tuesday I'm supposed to edit it all. Well, if a four-letter-word is accidentally dropped into the copy somewhere and makes it to press, don't blame me. (I'm just kidding, Carey! I don't think my boss reads my blog ... but you can't be to careful.

OK. I'm done ranting. But everyone needs a chance to vent once in a while. One of the reasons I went on a 43-mile bike ride today was to work out some of that anxiety. I think I'm feeling better now. I usually am able to deal pretty well with stress. In this profession, you really have to be. No matter what size of publication we work at, journalists live and die by deadlines, low salaries and public scrutiny. So most of us become either a.) a person who actually thrives in stress situations and becomes more productive (or crazy) in the process. Or, b.) a person who dies of multiple ulcerations of the stomach at 41. Every once in a while I worry I might become that second person. Then I remember - "oh yeah. I'm signing up to ride 100 miles over ice on my bicycle, by choice." That makes me feel much better.