5.7 Earthquake

Date: Jan. 9
Mileage: 25.1
January mileage: 231.7
Temperature upon departure: 18

This is the second time this has happened to me. During the darkest part of the morning, right before dawn, the bed lurches forward and jolts me awake. My initial reaction is to squint at the alarm clock, 6:49. But the creeks and groans grow louder and the mattress continues to rumble beneath me. So I freeze in position and hold my eyes shut, hoping against a frightened child's hope that if I just pretend I'm not here, it will go away.

But then the tremors subside and the semi-conscious disorientation fades, and I can drift back to sleep with the comfortable assurance that it was only an earthquake.

This was the largest one I've experienced yet: 5.7, but its epicenter was 120 miles north of here. A lot of my coworkers didn't even feel it. My neighbor thought it was a gust of wind ... a 5.7 earthquake ... which I think is a good indicator of how bad the wind really gets here.

Any time Juneau skies clear up a bit, strong wind is pretty much a given. Some of the gusts create chills I don't even know how to describe ... they burn in their intensity. They burn in such a way that when I take off my outer shell, my top-most base layer is coated in ice ... frozen sweat. But I need the shell to block the wind. And so we dance.

Nearly every time I ride out Douglas Island around noon, I see the same pedestrian on the side of the road that I call "Backpack Guy." He saunters down the road with a walking stick and an external frame backpack bursting at the seams with all kinds of gear ... clothing and shoes and canvas stuff that looks really heavy. He walks against traffic and so we cross paths windburnt face to windburnt face, squinting against the icy sting of errant ocean spray. He always just smiles and I nod. I like to think that he's out here training to climb Rainier or Denali or some far-off, scarcely-charted ridge in the Himalayas. That while he's building his shoulder muscles, he's steeling himself against the unforgivable ravages of exposure and elements and cold.

And I can't help but wonder what Backpack Guy imagines I'm doing out here.

200

Date: Jan. 8
Mileage: 23.0
January mileage: 206.6
Temperature upon departure: 28

I don't have much time to post tonight because I read somewhere that the weather is supposed to be mostly sunny, and I'd like to wake up (mostly) early. But I'm indulging myself because I'm feeling good about hitting my mileage goal this week (Tuesday through Monday is a week.) Despite my illusions of being an endurance biker, that would have been one of my better weeks last year - and these were mostly snow-covered miles. And I don't care what they say in Anchorage ... snow miles are hard.

Today's ride was a quick (um ... two-hour) out and back to the end of North Douglas. It snowed hard the whole way out, dumping about an inch and a half of new powder in the hour I was riding north. Then it cleared up a little, and I did some beach riding. According to the local weather observer, there has been 22" of new snow since Jan. 4.

While I'm self-indulging, I might as well throw in a shameless plug for the 2007 Bloggies. These awards mean nothing. They pay nothing. There are about 74.5 million blogs on the Web, and at least 38.6 million of them are better then mine. Still, if you feel so inclined, you could take a minute to nominate your favorite Juneau-based bicycle blogger. Even if it's not me ... at least one of us deserve a Bloggie.

Like a virgin

Date: Jan. 7
Mileage: 34.0
January mileage: 183.6
Temperature upon departure: 29

As far as bicycle riding goes, 2007 is going really well so far. I figure I put in 14-15 hours this week, just on the bike. Since I'm not counting New Year's Day (and who has the energy to do anything on New Years Day?), I'm on pace to have a 200-mile first week. This morning, we had about 3 inches of new snow and patches of actual sunlight. My ride took me through five miles of deliciously difficult trails around Dredge Lake.

The best part about this first week of January is how diverse all of my rides have been. I started the week on the road bike and moved to dirt singletrack with Sugar. The past three have been snowy bike path jaunts with snippets of trail riding. Despite a parking lot full of cars, I just couldn't stay away from Dredge Lake today. The area is a tight network of trails cutting through a glacial moraine. I've been dying to try it all winter, but I'm afraid of receiving dirty looks from skiers (the trails are not groomed, but that doesn't make cyclists any less evil. Never mind that the skiers' unleashed 150-pound dogs make a lot more postholes than I could even if I tried.) Today I threw caution to the wind, looked both ways to make sure nobody saw me, and slunk toward a low-traffic side trail. Snowshoers had set up the surface nicely, and after about 20 minutes of steady cruising, I was hopelessly lost in a snow-drenched maze.

Another great part of this first week of January is the unexpected bursts of joy. They hit in subtle moments, moments when I am shimmying my handlebars away from the powder pull, when my thoughts are stripped of miles ridden and morning headlines and uncompleted projects, and my senses are engaged in nothing but the intense focus of flotation. With a mind bleached white and a perspective to match, a snowdrift throws me sideways and I narrowly miss hitting a sheet of thin ice. I slip off the bike as though waking from a dream. Where am I? How did I get here? Raising my head toward the river, I suddenly see Alaska as I did the first time I woke up in this state - stepping out of a tent into the loneliest wilderness, muskeg flecked in the soft gold of 4 a.m. sunlight, a jagged black-spruce treeline slicing through eternity.

It takes a minute to come back to frozen, winter, Southeastern reality. The trail continues forward and I am not lost. I am right where I have always been.