Crazy race

Ok. I admit it. I never really "followed" racing. I don't even actually understand what those guys do in the Tour de France. I know I see a lot of cyclists and they're going really fast. But the actual strategy the event escapes me. (Yellow, polka dotted jerseys? Does it ever strike avid pro cycling fans that some of the revered traditions of the TdF may seem a little, well, kooky to the untrained eye?)

Now, having admitted that embarrassing fact for all of the bicycle-blogging world to see, I also have to admit that I have become absolutely captivated by the Iditarod Trail Invitational. With nothing more to watch than spare, often long-delayed reports on racers' current placement on the trail, I have been caught up in a whirlwind of imagination about their trail conditions, method of movement, weather, and just what exactly they might be thinking about as they gaze across endless dunes of windswept snow over the treeless tundra.

The three leaders in the race took nearly 40 hours to pedal/walk/trudge the 90 miles between Rohn and Nikolai. They're pushing five days now to make it the McGrath, a very respectable time in which to finish the race. Five days. 350 miles. Those TdF guys do 350 miles in, what, like three hours?

But I can't help but feel awestruck respect for the racers struggling toward McGrath. Here they are, in their physical prime, clawing through blowing snow and temperatures plummeting to negative-double-digits with 15 mph headwinds. They're living on power bars, jerky, disgusting trail food, the occasional hamburger at a checkpoint. They're relying on human-powered transportation in one of the few places left in this overpopulated world where you can travel 100 miles between a human settlement of any kind. They're doing it all as fast as they can, as hard as they can, and all for this blurry-eyed, sleep-deprived slump over the finish line. Then they can return to their homes in Anchorage, London and South Africa, read their name in the massive scrunch of small gray type in the Anchorage Daily News, and tell their friends that they completed the "world's longest winter ultra race" - which, of course, none of their friends will have ever heard of.

This isn't the Tour de France. It's not even the Iditarod dogsled race. There aren't any television cameras, news reports or big payouts at the end. Whatever these racers do out there, they're doing entirely for themselves. You gotta respect that.

Take a left

Date: Feb. 28
Mileage: 18.4
February mileage: 433.3
Temperature upon departure: 10

A friend of mine is back in town after an extended trip home to Venezuela. She told us that the phrase her family uses to describe Alaska literally translates to "go to the end of the world, then take a left." (of course, it sounds much more alluring in Spanish.)

Today was a ride of subtle annoyances and short attention span. It was frosty out with a sharp, sustained wind (another friend informed me that the wind-chill factor was "minus 17, at least.") Lo these past few months, I've gotten pretty good at looking at the thermometer and knowing exactly what to wear, so I never felt chilled. But today conditions were just perfect for "cold headaches." You know, the kind you get when you suck down a Slurpee too fast? Yeah. You can get those cycling, too - especially if you're heading up a steep hill, right into the wind, and you start breathing too hard.

I rode an all-too-familiar route and completely zoned out. I probably wasn't pushing myself very hard at all, because I started thinking about writing projects from years ago that I'm curious to dredge up, and suddenly I was wheeling into my driveway. Have you ever done that in your car? Arrived at a destination only to realize you have no memory of the journey? Yeah, you can do that cycling, too.

My "camelbak injury" is still really bothering me, and I'm starting to wonder if it's something else (sustained muscle soreness in my lower left shoulder). As it is, I haven't carried a camelbak and therefore haven't had any water to drink on rides since the Susitna. But, what can you do? I've gone to see doctors about these strange injuries before. The best they've ever done is prescribe painkillers, so I guess I'll keep eating Ibuprofens.

I'm still watching the Iditarod Trail Invitational. Based on some of the checkpoint times these bikers are posting, I can see a lot of similarities to the Susitna 100 - conditions started out pretty good, (much colder, but good) so the leaders got through pretty fast. They're pushing on now to the last third of the 350-mile race. The bikers who were left behind, though, seem to be bogged down in conditions that quickly went to hell. One biker took nearly 36 hours just to clear 40 miles between the second and third checkpoints (and at last post was only 130 miles into an 1,100-mile slog.) Ug. It seems like racers are dropping out left and right, and I can only imagine what it must be like out there right now. But that's my problem. I can imagine. So I watch with fascinated empathy - and this dark (masochistic) side of myself even feels envy.

Float on

Well, I'm back to my Monday night routine, running on the hamster wheel at the gym, thereby inadvertently devoting an hour to wandering thoughts about ways to make life more interesting.

Today, for no reason, a mundane conversation I had with a coworker about a year ago suddenly popped into my head. It's been buried in the back of my mind, and I have no idea why it's even stored in my long-term memory - except as a glaring statement on how much I've changed since I moved to Alaska.

My coworker was training for the upcoming cycling season, and was trying to plan a fitness routine he could stick with. He hated the hamster wheel/spinning bike/whole indoor workout setup more than anyone I know. So he asked me what I knew about studs that you could attach to bike tires. He thought they might help him navigate icy Idaho highways during longer rides.

I remember shooting back a reply that was something along the lines of "That's crazy. Why in the world would you want to ride outside in the winter when you have a well-lit, climate-controlled gym at your disposal?" (I was a big hamster wheel advocate at the time.)

He told me he was training for a double century, and needed to keep a pretty strict routine that required him to step up his mileage soon. And he just couldn't put in the time indoors.

"But that's crazy," I replied. "Why would anyone want to ride a double century?"

Not only did I not have any advice to offer, but the whole idea turned my stomach. I promptly forgot the unpleasantness - until today, only one year later. I'm still plugging away on the hamster wheel, but this time with big dreams of double triple-digits running through my head.

There are a lot of things I want to do this summer, but I think the first event I might like to plan for is the Fireweed 200, a 200-mile highway ride from Sheep Mountain to Valdez. The race is slated for July 8. That's a little too close to 24 hours of Kincaid (June 24) to feasibly train for both (there's another similar event I specifically told another coworker she was "crazy" for doing - in her case, the 24 hours of Moab race.) So I do have to make some decisions, and map out a plan. The Fireweed 200 has a nondrafting division that appeals to the rabid soloist in me, so my early pull is for the road race. (However, some have suggested that I consider riding the entire Fireweed 400. While I do have a plug-along attitude that has gotten me through some tough spots, I'm not exactly an ultra athlete - and the Fireweed 400 is not only Four Hundred Nonstop Miles, but also 28,000 feet of climbing! UltraRob has done it. But UltraRob is UltraRob. He's one of those RAAM people that even the current me would call crazy.)

But I am excited about the prospect of training for and riding in these "ultra" races - if nothing else, to spite my 2005 self for being so self-depreciating and cynical. I do not need Cat 5 status or quads of steel to ride 200 miles or spend 24 hours on a mountain bike. I have love! I have Power Bars! I'm good to go.