Cyclists' block

I am in need of some serious motivation. Like Matt Foley kick-down-your-door-and-enlighten-you-about-your-future-in-a-van-down-by-the-river-type motivation. I have a serious case of cyclists' block, and I'm not sure how to get through it.

It was so easy in the winter. Basically, I had a plan to do this frozen-tundra century that was so overwhelmingly terrifying that everything (and I mean everything) seemed pleasant in contrast. Now I'm facing decidedly easier conditions. Sure, the "paved" roads are so riddled with frost heaves that I can get some serious (and I mean serious) air on my road bike. And sure, a fierce west wind coupled with 25-degree temps dropped the wind chill down to single digits today. And sure, the slow-moving spring break-up causes all (and I mean all) surfaces to turn to soup. But still, there's no excuse for my inability to get out and ride.

This morning I woke up, dressed in some cycling gear, went downstairs and stared at my bikes. Just stared at them, for several minutes. Then, almost inexplicably, I went back upstairs, grabbed my gym outfit and keys, and left for work in my car. I can't explain why I didn't want to ride this morning. I just couldn't face it. Then, after I left work, I had this idea to pick up where I left off and go for an evening ride. But once outside, the wind hit me like a blast of freezer burn. I grabbed my iPod and high-tailed it to the climate-controlled elliptical trainer.

As I turned the hamster wheel and browsed a great article about Edward R. Murrow, I thought about writers block and the way it can feel like it's never going to end. I'm starting to think that maybe cyclists experience the same thing. It's frustrating, after a full-steam winter, to suddenly hit a wall. It's even more frustrating because summer, the actual bicycling "season," is just about to begin. But I'm still holding out hope that my cyclist's block ... much like the ice-choked Tenana River ... will soon collapse under pressure from the relentless Arctic sun and melt into the even flow of summer.

Where's the inspiration? Where's the passion? Where's Chris Farley when you need him?

Back from the trenches

This weekend was the first time I'd spent more than a few hours in the City of Anchors since I moved up here. Anyone (in any profession) who's ever attended a conference already knows what I did: ate greasy mall food and overpriced-but-still-greasy bistro specials for three days straight; spent the daytime hours sipping lemon tea and purified water in stale, 80-degree hotel conference rooms; absorbed a lot of industry knowledge laced with a touch of trademark self-importance; stayed out way too late every night in crowded reggae clubs; and tried in vain to sleep in a frigid hotel room with snoring coworkers.

Talk about exhausting. It was a lot of fun to meet the denizens of Alaska's alternative press, including the folks of Insurgent 49 and The Ester Republic. Through it all I only really got out once, on Saturday, for an eight or nine-mile run along the coastal trail and the perimeter of the city. That small tour of Anchorage made me feel more homesick than I have since Christmas. There are so many similarities between Anchorage and Salt Lake City. I actually spent much of my outside time entrenched in moments of de ja vu: the apartment decks lined with bicycles; the nondescript architecture; the sun-lit viaducts; the big, barren body of saltwater nearby that seems to be largely ignored. Both cities feature towering mountains wrapped around nearly-tapped-out suburban sprawl. They both have populations in the quarter-million range. They're both clinging to the fading soul of their downtown area while the parking lots and trinket shops quietly move in. Salt Lake and Anchorage could be sister cities, if it weren't for Anchorage's insistence to put a moose, bear or eagle on just about every enterprise in town.

All in all, I overindulged and spent too much money, but I met some passionate people and did a lot of speed learning. Will I be a better journalist for it? I don't know. You got any more of that lemon tea?

Racing twilight

Date: April 5
Mileage: 17
April Mileage: 53
Temperature upon departure: 37

I'm going to be on hiatus for a few days here so I can go up to Anchorage and hobnob with real journalists during the Press Club conference. The bikes are staying home, too, which means I'm going to have to spend the weekend sucking in those city fumes and making a mockery of running with my 10-minute miles. Maybe I'll get lucky and the hotel will have a fitness center. Maybe I can even challenge my boss to a treadmill race.

On second thought ... scratch that. But one thing's for sure - I do need to start thinking about training again if I am going to attempt any major summer events. I can't believe there's less than two months until June! I still leave the house every morning in the shadow of massive banks of snow. The old-timers tell me the spring thaw will wipe it out quick, but, really ... I'll believe it when I see it. For now, I feel pretty confident in my belief that I am currently living under the beginnings of a new glacier.

Today I had already put in about 10 hours at the office and driven home when I had to return to town for a literary reading by some local authors. I wanted to get in some riding today, so I took my bike. The reading was good but dragged on until a little after 9 p.m. By the time it ended, the sun was well below the horizon, and I was facing my usual epic hill climb on a road bike with no lights and about a half hour of twilight left. So I scrolled through my iPod until I found some old-school Rage Against the Machine and I pumped it, hard. I even began to slip into that place where I hear nothing and see nothing but gasps and flashes of light - "the tunnel," as I've heard it called. It's a hard place to force myself into, believe me, but I really am that scared of traffic.

When I arrived at home it was 9:30, which means my average for the climb was about 10 mph - far faster than I've ever done it. So maybe there is hope for me yet.