Signs of Spring

Date: March 26
Mileage: 54.0
March mileage: 301.2
Temperature upon departure: 38

Free Roadie: Can you imagine the frustration of sitting in a corner all winter long, watching the mountain bike go out day after day, knowing you'll only get a few spins when "Arrested Development" is on the TV. Then, one day, even that goes off the air. And you watch the snow piling up outside, thinking you may never, ever have relevance again. It's been a long winter for roadie. The snow may still be high. The chill still has its bite. But March is nearly over, so it seemed high time to drag roadie outside for a real ride.

Watching the tide: "It's like getting behind the wheel of a BMW after spending a winter driving a truck," Geoff said. Road bikes are so light and smooth. We were coasting ... flying ... effortless speed. It gave us a lot more time to look around. Taking in swift gulps of salt-flavored air, I had one of those "Oh, yeah, I live by the sea" moments. I often forget this fact, but it tickles my desert-dweller self every time I remember.

Ferry returns: And with it those people from faraway corners of Alaska and the Pacific Northwest, who bring a satisfying sense of renewal, change, and new dreams of profiting off tourists. I've always wanted to set up a booth by a pier and draw grotesquely exaggerated charactures of celebrities.

New neighbors: There are some who are willing to brave these still below-freezing nights to stake a good spot on the Spit. As temperatures warm up, many will follow. They'll amass atop the tide-worn pebbles with their tents and folding chairs and Coleman stoves. Their's is a carefree civilization, a simple sort of life, a utopia. Non-Alaskans might call it a shanty town. I lived in this veritable tent city for a week one night - July 4, 2003. It's amazing I ever came back to Homer.

Line Outside the Theatre: Judging by the sheer numbers of actors roaming the streets, passing out fliers, and calling me on the phone - Homer often feels like a chunk of Hollywood broke off the mainland and floated north. They put on more community productions than the title character in "Waiting for Guffman." But I don't even think the Pier One Theatre is open yet. These eagles are really jumping the gun.

First Road Rash: While staring dreamily at another cluster of eagles gathered on the fishing hole ice floes, I broke the cardinal rule of roadie etiquette. That is, if you must insist on tailgating another cyclist (roadies get away with this by calling it "drafting"), do try not to hit them. I knew I had forgotten my manners as I heard that awful, split-second scrape indicating a direct hit. But all I could think about, as I slammed into bare, dry pavement at 15+ mph, is how wonderfully merciful snow can be, and what a bitter grudge the road can hold.

Sorry to end my photo essay with such a graphic picture. I tore up my knee, my hip, and my favorite pair of cycling pants. I dislodged a spoke, and I still had 10 miles and the 1,200-foot climb left to ride before I could limp home and try to pick the gravel out (gaaa-oowwwww). Roadie might be grateful for these signs of spring. I could probably use some more snow.

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?