Congratulations, Wilco

Date: March 24
Mileage: 31.3
March mileage: 247.2
Temperature upon departure: 34
On the iPod: "Waiting for Something" ~ Sense Field

This is Wilco van den Akker, and he's someone you've never heard of. Google his name, and all you'll see is references to a site called Sleepmonsters and a bunch of stuff supposedly in Dutch. But don't be fooled by his obscurity. This guy is one hardcore adventure racer.

This morning, Wilco won the 1,110-mile Iditarod Invitational march to Nome in something just shy of 27 days. He's one of only two people who attempted to finish the race past the 350-mile mark, after nearly two dozen dropped out. He's spent nearly a month hiking through this godforsaken Alaska wilderness, watching dogsledder after dogsledder go by - and seeing few other signs of civilization. When he finally arrived in Nome, at 12:04 this morning, the only people there to greet him were two local police officers - who were probably more concerned about the motivations of this punch-drunk, frozen stranger stumbling into town in the middle of the night than they were interested in greeting the man who quietly won the "other" race to Nome.

I continue to be amazed just how little attention this race receives, even locally, when this has got to be one of the toughest - if not the toughest ultramarathon in the world. In the modern world, we like our races bigger, badder, faster, longer. We like to watch athletes push the extreme until there's nowhere to go but over the edge. These guys have reached the edge. It really doesn't get a whole lot harder. So why the disinterest? A local columnist made a good point about it recently:

"And we, who sleep in warm beds almost every night, think the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race is a spectacular challenge," Craig Medred wrote in the Anchorage Daily News. "That would make the Invitational a truly unbelievable event. Maybe that's why it gets so little attention."

So I just wanted to give a shout out to Wilco, even though he's a runner in a race I wanted to see go to the cyclists. But all the cyclists quit. And Wilco didn't. That's saying something.

Speaking of laboring in obscurity, I also want to encourage anyone who has a soft spot in their heart for acoustic punk rock to check out Hamell on Trial. I interviewed this guy today and he's hilarious. Imagine what would happen if the Dead Milkmen sold their bitchin Camero and tried to raise a toddler (a child who happens to feel righteous indignation against the current administration) - and you have Mr. Hamell. His show should be hours of fun.

Slogging blogger

Date: March 22
Mileage: 15.4
March mileage: 215.9
Temperature upon departure: 33

It's light enough to ride now until 8 p.m. 8 p.m.! The sunlight has turned everything into a slushy, soggy mess. Since I usually ride in the evenings, I get the worst of it. Today I felt up to a short ride, but had a hard time coaxing myself outside because:
1. I still have a cough.
2. The trails were too soft.
3. The roads were a mess.
4. My new fenders haven't arrived in the mail yet.

But I still went out. Coasting downhill was a bit like being sandblasted with wet chunks of mud ("The goggles! They do nothing!"). Riding uphill I learned that snow is in fact not the slowest surface for two wheels. That distinction belongs to a dirt road that is still frozen up to the top inch or so, leaving only the thinnest layer of mud to soak up massive quantities of melted snow.

I think I'm going to try to ride more in the morning, when everything is still nicely iced up. That, or I'll incorporate a plastic garbage bag into my cycling attire. Yes, Tim was right. There is no spring joy for the cyclist in Alaska, save its choppy but inevitable march into summer.

But what of summer? I hear the annual daylight explosion inevitably sends sun-starved Alaskans into a manic pursuit of recreation that leaves them exhausted by fall. Just today, I was looking at the sunrise/sunset calendar and realizing that come June, I could work an eight-hour day, clock out at 5 p.m., ride a leisurely century, throw a halibut barbecue, bake a blueberry pie and still have enough daylight for a game of Baci Ball before bed. What good can come of that?

I'm not here right now

The sick is starting to loosen its grip, but it still has me grounded just as the weather took a turn for the warm (hit 40 degrees for the first time since ... December!). Three days off the saddle may be the longest I've gone without a ride since ... December. Sugar looks so dejected right now - tires deflated to 20 psi, the front wheel still detached after being carted home from Caribou Lake, and coated with the trail grime of the ages because I haven't mustered up enough respect to drag him out on top of my feet-deep snowpack with a garden hose. At least he's not wired to the life support of a magnetic trainer like Roadie is (which I haven't ridden any actual distance since ... December.)

Today was a day full of monotonous tasks and the inevitable zoning out that these tasks cause. Do you ever experience this? One minute I'll be copying and pasting articles into html, washing the dishes or - heaven forbid - driving. Then, suddenly I'll find myself slipping into a lucid daydream. These daydreams are always anchored in very real but rarely extraordinary moments buried deep in my memory - swimming across the glass waters of an Eastern Texas lake, or pedaling a rolling plateau beside the San Rafael Swell. These wisps of past moments float through so convincingly that I get entirely caught up in reliving - to the point where falling back into reality is more than a little disconcerting (and often followed by the realization that I just held the space key down for several column inches.)

Maybe this means I'm crazy. I don't know. I do know that it probably means data entry is not the job for me. But I must say, I really enjoy these boredom-inspired visits back to places long buried in the illusion of the past. Today I revisited this sunrise, the distant glow that stripped away an unending night, and it felt as warm and as welcoming this morning as it did when it was more than just a photograph, an involuntary firing of synapses and a distant sigh.