Real headwind

Date: Jan. 19
Mileage: 15.6
January mileage: 274.3
Temperature upon departure: 12

No picture today. Geoff's computer is currently in 179.5 pieces, and the browser on my archaic laptop (connected by 28.8 dial-up) won't let me upload anything. Oh well. You can't win 'em all.

I left for my two-hour ride today at about 5:30. The thermometer read 12 degrees, but a stiff wind and swift circulation of floating ice particles made it feel much colder. I can't really account for the "feels like" temperature, but tonight's was definitely the chilliest ride I have done to date. So I tried a piece of gear today that I hadn't tried before, my neoprene face mask. Onward I churned up the first hill as twilight slipped below the jagged treeline, sucking down the moist backflow of my own breath. As I crested the hill, my vision suddenly darkened several notches, and everything else felt airy and light. I squinted and swallowed, for the first time noticing the subtle noose gripping my neck. The combination of the neoprene mask and my helmet strap were somehow blocking my airflow. I tugged at it for a while to no avail. Finally I tore the whole thing off. I'll mess with the logistics tomorrow. But the temporary oxygen shortage gave me a nice rush to start off the ride.

The first two or three miles are always the hardest. No matter how much you "warm up" before the ride, your legs turn to licorice the minute you step outside. As you work to get your heart rate up, streaks of wind find their way through any imperfection in your layers. Nostrils and eyelashes freeze shut, and cold air tears at your throat. You begin to wonder what traumatic childhood experience drove you to such unmitigated masochism. But then ... your legs begin to warm up. Your body settles in. You pry your eyelashes open, and the stark beauty of the frozen landscape opens up before you. You move freely with winter and there's nothing about it that can stop you, and you come to the calm realization that you will, in fact, survive, and you feel entirely alive.

My proud moment

Geoff and I went to see "Wal-mart: The High Cost of Low Price" tonight. It's left me sullen and ponderous about economic downfall and corpocracy, but it doesn't benefit me much to write about things I know little about and for which shallow research will only succeed in further incensing me, so I'll write about something positive - bicycle accomplishments.

Fat Cyclist solicited cycling-related triumphs from his loyal readers today. I read through the list of impressive accomplishments but already had mine in mind. I mean, there was this one time, at band camp, that I rode my bike from Salt Lake City to Syracuse, New York. It's not the Race Across America or the Tour de France, but there are people out there that might be impressed by that. And, in my career, it's a given.

I went to the gym between work and the movie. Just as I was leaving, a woman on the recumbent bike complimented me for the hour I put in on the elliptical. I'm one of those shy people, so being complimented by strangers always catches me off guard. Especially when the compliment is directed at something so mundane. I smiled and said "thanks" but I felt as if she had just congratulated me for finishing all of my milk. Following our short exchange, there was an awkward silence and I sort of just slunk away. But, later, I began to wonder which one of us was actually being condescending.

We take our triumphs in degrees. My cycling accomplishments have slowly rended their way up from the first time I rode all the way from Salt Lake City to Draper (20 miles!) to rolling over Lizard Head Pass on my first bicycle tour to crossing the New York state line. Since I took up cycling in 2002, each triumph has had an escalating scope, but I can't say that the last was any more rewarding than the first. Now I'm planning to cross into what many tell me is irreversible territory - racing - in what is, for lack of a better term, an insane race. If I finish the Susitna 100, will it really make me feel any better than that first time I rolled up to my parent's house on the rigid, rusty mountain bike I borrowed from a friend? Or am I just locked in a punishing arc of diminishing returns, like a heroin addict hunting for the next fix? Too tell you the truth, I wouldn't entirely mind going back to a time when I would have felt great for spending an hour on a stationary elliptical machine. Is it too late for me? Am I lost?

Ash cloud

Date: Jan. 17
Mileage: 16.4
January mileage: 258.7
Temperature upon departure: 22

So the sluggish but persistent Mt. Augustine has rended its way into the national news. Today was eruption number nine - could be 10. Who's counting? Well, certainly a couple of my especially jittery co-workers are. They rushed home the second the weather service issued an ash advisory for Homer (really, people, it's not like liquid hepatitis is going to rain down from the sky.)But we picked up their slack and still got our newspaper out by deadline, complete with more volcano information than any community newspaper reader could ever possibly digest.

After work, I went for a bicycle ride on low fuel (should have had more than Ritz crackers and half of a six-inch sandwich for lunch). It was more of a struggle than it should have been, but I was already well into my loop by the time I realized it. Still, a couple of descents off the ridge afforded some great views of Augustine's ash cloud drifting to the south and shedding its liquid hepatitis over the unpopulated waters of Kachemak Bay. After dinner I put in 75 minutes on the trainer and watched "Scrubs." Um, yeah. Good day.