On the Arctic Blast

Date: April 19
Mileage: 18
April mileage: 270
Temperature upon departure: 29
On the iPod: "Grey Ice Water" ~ Modest Mouse

"You're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the weather
you had yourself a crazy lover
becoming frozen trying hard to forget her
you got a job up in alaska
it's easy to save what the cannery pays
cause there ain't no way to spend it

at home on a boat, it's a fish trap

You're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the weather
you took the path of least resistance
on the phone cutting out talking
short to long distance

at home on a boat, it's a fish trap

you're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the water
you had yourself a crazy lover
become unfrozen trying hard to forget her
you got a job up in alaska
it's easy to save what the cannery pays
cause there ain't no way to spend it

on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast"

Picture: Chris on the Sagavanirktok River; June 5, 2003

Me vs. All

Date: April 18
Mileage: 56
April mileage: 252
Temperature upon departure: 45
On the iPod: "To the Sea" ~ Razorlight

After several days of snow, it felt warm out today. Downright balmy. I forgot about windchill. Now my throat hurts. But I wasn't the only one who emerged for spring's first, best gasp.

Ever have one of those days when you feel like you're in a constant competition for space? I wanted to put in a 50-mile day while it was nice out, but I didn't have any interest in venturing into the great beyond just yet (North Sterling Highway. Fresh snow banks. Scary.) So I did my favorite 17-mile loop - thrice - with an extra 5 miles to say hi to Geoff. The problem with this strategy was that I had to ride out and back the Homer Spit, thrice.

It seemed like everyone and their dog took to the Spit today: the walls of walkers; the precariously swerving mountain bikers; the streams of cars; and the road riders donning their shiny new lyrca, which had obviously been stuffed in a dark closet since Christmas. I had the most fun with the road riders. They were probably out for their first or second ride of the year, whereas I've been riding all winter, but they don't know that. All they see is this awkward cyclist clad in baggy fleece and riding a roadie with flat handlebars, fat touring tires and a Subway cup full of watered-down Diet Coke stuffed in the water bottle cage. I must have looked ridiculous out there, which is why it was that much more fun to blow by the roadies, humming some silly song as if the process was effortless (although, I have to admit, I was huffing a little myself. Some of those fair-weather roadies must have indoor trainers.)

The pedestrians, however, often presented an insurmountable obstacle. When the Spit is busy, it's impossible to win as a cyclist. If you take to the road, cars will honk and swerve and generally act more aggressive than usual because There Is A Bike Path Right There. But if you use the bike path, you will undoubtedly approach a group of oncoming walkers, as I did today, strolling side by side and taking up the entire trail with no intention of moving out of your way. Today I approached four women on a narrow part of the trail, after a long straightaway - which meant they had a chance to see me coming for several minutes. Within about 50 feet of them, it became apparent that my only options were to: hit the guardrail, drop off a 15-foot embankment, slam directly into one or more of them ... or stop. I practically had my foot down on the pavement before one woman reluctantly slipped a little ways to the left, giving me about a 10-inch space to wedge through. Grrrrr.

I guess I can deal with it if it means the weather stays above 45 and sunny. It's not likely, but still - I'll take the pedestrian clog over sleet any day.

Easter ride

Date: April 16
Mileage: ~25
April mileage: 196
Temperature upon departure: 27
On the iPod: "Back to the Earth" ~ Rusted Root

When Dutch explorer Jacob Roggeveen "discovered" Easter Island in 1722, he Christened it with a name that evokes images of a springtime oasis with chirping birds and flowers. Then he wrote in his log:

April 5, 1722 (Easter Sunday) "We originally, from a further distance, have considered the said Easter Island as sandy; the reason for that is this, that we counted as sand the withered grass, hay or other scorched and burnt vegetation, because its wasted appearance could give no other impression than of a singular poverty and barrenness."

April 16, 2006 (Easter Sunday)
9:20 a.m. "The goal"
So the plan is to take advantage of the crust snow to find a trail through the wilds of Crossman Ridge to the oasis of Bridge Creek. All of the kiddies and their snowmobile-riding parents are down in town combing the muddy fields for half-frozen eggs and those individually wrapped marshmallow things that taste like glue. There should be no disturbances. I anticipate smooth riding.

~9:35 a.m. "No Water"
Still five miles from the trailhead, I realize in the midst of my first climb that I forgot my water bottle. Shoot.

~10:20 a.m. "Hit snow"
Long climb to the trailhead only to discover several hundred yards of thick mud before I can climb on top of the snowmobile trail. I find it to be glassy and as solid as concrete, if a snowmobile had torn through the wet cement prior to its hardening. It's a technical mess of ruts and divots, but it's fast. So, so fast.

~10:35 a.m. "So Fast"
Despite several snow drifts that stop me altogether, it only takes about 15 minutes to whittle away all the elevation I gained in an hour. I am bouncing and turning, rolling on top of ruts and dropping back in. I am unstoppable.

~10:50 a.m. "Hmmmm"
The snowmobile trail I was following has mysteriously petered out into the woods. I don't see any opening through the trees, so I'll have to turn back and find a different trail.

~11:20 a.m. "Hmmmmmmmmmm"
I've found remnants of a summer trail - an interpretive wooden marker. But no sign of a main trail. Just snowmobile tracks heading in every direction.

~11:30 a.m. "I forge my own trail"
I have an idea of the general direction of Bridge Creek, and the crust snow allows me to ride atop it through the woods. I weave in and out of trees but the woods become too thick. I'm off the bike and walking, tripping over stumps and the emerging skeletons of bushes until I arrive at an impassable ravine.

~11:45 a.m. "Climbing back"
I follow my own trail back to the snowmobile tracks I originally left, only to realize that they seem to go in all the wrong directions.

~11:55 a.m. "I pick the wrong trail"
Still hoping to find the magic route through the woods, I follow a single snowmobile track downhill, again flying, bouncing, having a great time ... until the trail dead ends.

~12:10 p.m. "I'm thirsty"
It's hard work walking back up these trails. They're steep and what little traction they provide make it nearly impossible to ride, so I get off the trail and mash my way through the breaking crust as I pedal uphill.

~12:20 p.m. "Snowmobile maze"
I begin to wish I didn't use the trails at all. My tracks are indistinguishable from the ruts and divots of the snowmobiles. I have no idea which trail is mine. I have no idea where to go.

~12:25 p.m. "I'm lost"
I begin think I'm not on my original trail. I'm veering way too far north. I think I may be dropping into another valley all together.

~12:40 p.m. "Definitely on the wrong trail"
Now I'm practically to creek elevation, in the wrong canyon. I thought the downhill would be a shortcut back to the reservoir but I was so, so wrong. Time to climb again.

~12:45 p.m. "I'm thirsty"
Need ... water.

~12:50 p.m. "I eat snow"
It tastes like dirt.

~1:00 p.m. "These woods are a wasteland"
I never really noticed how many of these spruce trees are dead, or how many skeletal branches clog up the woods. And what's underneath all this snow? Probably a bunch of dry grass that's going to ignite into massive wildfires come summer. But would it really be so bad for someone to build a cabin down here?

~1:05 p.m. "I begin to regain my sense of direction"
I'm pretty sure I'm heading due south, so if I can just push through these woods, I should come to the trail just above the reservoir. Just walk in a straight line.

~1:10 p.m. "I hit drifts"
Beneath the trees, the crust hasn't set up as much. I think the sharp ice shards are cutting holes in my pants; doesn't help that I'm sinking up to my thighs.

~1:15 p.m. "I find the Homestead trail"
Rejoice! Rejoice!

~1:25 p.m. "I make it back to the reservoir."
I pedal as hard as I can while mud splatters everywhere.

~1:45 p.m. "I make it home."
And drink about a gallon of water and weak Gatorade.

Happy Easter!