I ain't scared

Date: May 29
Mileage: 21.1
May Mileage: 428.7
Temperature upon departure: 61

This isn't shaping up to be so bad a month, mileage wise, even though it feels like I haven't invested near the bike time that I have in previous months.

Still ... I haven't been training at any kind of a level even close to to what I had originally hoped for. That's OK. After all, I really only have two distant hell-days to face in a summer full of hiking and barbecuing and halibut fishing and scenic tours. In one month, I have the 24 hours - and, well, 24 hours is 24 hours no matter how you slice it up, right? In two months, the Soggy Bottom 100 - 10,000 vertical feet. If you break that down, that's about two vertical miles in 100. On one hand, I could obsess about the gut-wrenching switchbacks and tear-inducing drops of the Resurrection Pass trail. Or I could instead - through the magic of statistics - iron it all out for a gentle average grade of 2 percent. I feel better already.

I'm OK with my ride. Really.

I did it for the views

Date: May 29
Mileage: 30.8
May Mileage: 407.6 (inc. 19.4 on May 24)
Temperature upon departure: 67

My dad likes to participate in the well-tread ritual of calling home from the top of a prominent peak. Like drink 'n' dial - this is hike 'n' dial. He usually lands an exasperated comment from my baby sister ("You calling from some peak again?") or a utilitarian conversation with my mom. Still ... there is something cathartic about sharing that triumphant moment (or covering up failure with a little white lie, as we overheard from a group in retreat just shy of the peak: "We're at top. It's beeeee-autiful.") So, as we stood atop Mount Olympus on Friday afternoon, he dialed a quick call home.

That's something I love about my dad. Even though no one else in my family is remotely interested in clawing their way up a 65-degree slope strewn with loose scree, he still tries to include them in the reward. Of course, it's impossible to understand unless you're standing there, on top of the mountain, looking out over the colorful sprawl of the Salt Lake valley. Some hikers like to spout off the numbers: One-way distance: 3.75 miles; Elevation gain: 4,060 feet; Elevation at peak: 9,026 feet (Low, but still surprisingly free of snow.) For them, the reward is in the journey. But I like to take a picture of what matters: the view.

There are varying degrees of effort one has to expend for a good view. This second shot, an overview of Chugach State Park, only took a dead-sprint from Gate B62 to gate B28 in the Denver Airport to catch a connecting flight to Anchorage. Then there's the other extreme - the weeks of hard mountaineering one as to go through just to see the top of the highest point in North America - Mt. Denali - as Geoff's friend "Ed the Head" did on Thursday. But there are perspectives that you work and claw and fight for, and then there are perspectives that matter.

Ed was set to visit us upon his return from the peak; we haven't heard from him since his accident, and it's hard to say now if he will come to see us. But there are the views that life saves only for the luckiest and most humbled - perspectives hidden even from those who stand atop the highest peaks or within the deepest wilderness. I have a feeling that Ed's seen the full 360-degree panorama.

Utah, again

Quick trip this time around. Just enough time to see my little sis get hitched, then it's back to Alaska tomorrow. The wedding activities were actually a lot of fun. I always thought I'd be much happier getting married on a mountain top or even the Luv Chapel in Vegas, but Lisa's wedding actually made me rethink the whole traditional reception thing. I don't think my mom feels the same way. She actually sewed every dress in the above picture (my dad called them the most expensive bridesmaid dresses ever made. It makes sense. How can you put a price on four weeks of nonstop sewing? You can't.) In fact, watching my Mom try to decompress after the gifts were packed up and the cake was stuffed in movable containers was frighteningly reminiscent of my emotional state after my first 24-hour mountain bike race. When I think about it, weddings and endurance races are actually somewhat similar - you plan, you organize, you work and sweat through months of build-up. Then, when the event actually arrives, you lose control early on and have to spend the rest of the time groping your way through the darkness, running on little more than adrenaline fumes. I really admire my mom.

And I'm happy for my sis, who was really a great bride (how can brides continue to look stunning after 12 hours of nonstop social hurricane? I don't know. But they always do). Before the wedding breakfast, Lisa was idling her car in a parking garage when an old woman whipped around the corner and smacked her head-on, putting a huge gouge in the bumper and causing my baby sister to spill an entire vase of water all over her dress. A lot of brides would let something like that ruin their entire wedding day, but Lisa took it really well. I admire that.

And me, well, while I was pedaling around Alaska, I missed out on all of the months of planning and agony that actually went into the wedding. All I did was show up on the red-eyed flight, dizzy and dazed from two Dramamine and exactly zero hours of sleep, and march through the motions. I am a total wedding slacker. But I did get a lot of comments for the fact that I was wearing a dress and stumbling around in high heels. I didn't think I was too fargone to pull off those kinds of formalities, but I guess in many of my relatives' eyes, I am.

And you know what? That's OK. Maybe someday I'll get that mountain top wedding after all.