Remind me why biking is fun

Date: Jan. 14
Mileage: 23.0
January mileage: 342.9
Temperature upon departure: 35

I had a terrible ride today. Just awful. It was like a really bad B-movie, almost comical in the way that all of the wrong elements fit perfectly together. It may even qualify for the over-the-top rating of “Worst ... Ride ... Ever.”

Not really. But by the time I set out today, all of the freezing rain had turned into plain ol’ regular rain, which streamed in torrents down the glare-ice-covered roads. I took my studless snow bike because I assumed I’d just ride in the snowy shoulder. But the rain-stewed slop that remained from Friday’s snowfall was nearly impossible to negotiate. The conditions were a sourdough starter for mushy disaster. On days like this, I should learn when to cash in my chips and hit the gym. But I can be pretty stubborn when I want to be. After all, I had just spent a half hour designing a new wet-weather ensemble, and I wanted to test it for butt-cheek-warming and dry-feet capabilities. (Addendum: After two hours, I still came home with a cold butt and wet feet.)

You know a ride is bad when three miles in, you’re already cursing cars just for being there. I wove through the slick slop in the shoulder, spinning at skin-freezing slowness just to stay in control. I wanted so badly just to ride on the smooth, icy road, but it was too risky with the vehicles. It was too risky period, without studded tires. But I ventured on to the road once I passed the Eaglecrest access road, where about 99 percent of the traffic turns off. It was slick but manageable - as long as I kept my butt planted on the saddle. It was good practice for steering Snaux Bike on ice, anyway.

But then I hit the boat launch. There, the forest canopy gives way to a narrow cliffside that is fiercely exposed to the sea. Intense wind gushed up the channel. I hadn’t noticed the tailwind before, riding as slow as I was, but there it was beyond ignoring. It pushed me faster than I cared to go. Since braking wasn’t really an option, I decided to test how far I could ride without pedaling. It turned out to be far. Really far. Almost two miles far. (OK, I pedaled a little in there.) At the turnaround point, I managed to finally stop the bike and dismount. But as soon as I had both of my N.E.O.S. overboots planted firmly on the wet ice, a huge gust tore the bike right out of my hands and blasted me several more feet up the road. That’s right. I was standing on my two legs on the road, continuing to be pushed forward by that tailwind.

I couldn’t even keep the bike rubber-side down just standing there. It was clear that riding back was not an option. Walking on the road wasn’t even an option. I had to climb over the guardrail so I could trudge through the sometimes knee-deep snow. I definitely built some good bike-pushing muscles doing that.

As soon as I hiked back to the relative shelter of the tree canopy, the rest of the ride was a fairly predictable slushy slog into a headwind. It lacked the drama of the wind-blasted ice road, but there was enough stinging rain to make it miserable enough.

And the best part? I went to bed last night thinking I would wake up to a fun, tasty trail ride today. That won’t really be an viable option until it cools down again. Until then, I’m back to remembering why December nearly drove me to register for a season of indoor spinning classes.

Freezing rain

Date: Jan. 13
Mileage: 36.1
January mileage: 319.9
Temperature upon departure: 29

I have heard about these storms hitting the Midwest, but I have never actually seen freezing rain. The concept doesn't even make sense to me. If temperatures are below freezing, and it's precipitating, why wouldn't it just snow? But I set out today in a cold drizzle that settled as droplets of clear ice on everything. Soon enough, the front end of my bike was covered in a frozen shell, and my coat and pants looked like I had been blasted with shaved ice. The rain made quick work of the snow-packed roads, too. Nine inches of new powder fell yesterday, so the shoulders were soft and deep. But the plow-scraped areas became as slick as hockey rinks. I made a solid effort to stay out of the path of traffic, even though it meant plowing my own path through several inches of ice-crusted snow. Such an interesting weather phenomenon, this freezing rain.

I have been feeling a little on edge lately. I think it's because this month I've increased my daily exercise routines from 1-2 hours to 2-4 hours. This has cut noticeably into my free time, but since I'm as yet unwilling to give up my other habits - you know, like blogging and sleeping - I feel like I'm constantly rushing around.

Also, my appetite's gone nutty. There doesn't seem to be enough carbs in all the land to fill me up. I'm trying to be conscientious about my food intake (after all, I'm not burning that many more calories) but the sugar cravings have broken me down more than once. Maybe SAD has returned, or maybe my body's just trying to figure out what it needs. I try to cover up the constant hungry feeling with caffeine, but that just makes me more edgy. I've actually snapped at people at work. Those kind of uncontrolled outbursts are rare for me.

Anyway, I'm off to bed to squeeze in the eight hours of unconsciousness. I noticed that my knees are pretty sore after the weekend's hike. I think sometime soon I need to take the bike out on some deep trails for a push-fest, build up the hike-a-bike muscles that will likely come in handy. But tomorrow, with a fresh coat of new snow expected, I hope to find some freezing rain-coated goodness.

I'm learning

Date: Jan. 11
Mileage: 25.1
January mileage: 283.8
Temperature upon departure: 17

Geoff and I spent the weekend at the John Muir Cabin, one of a handful of wilderness cabins that pepper the Tongass National Forest. This one is a pretty quick jaunt up ... about 3.5 miles, 1,550 feet of climbing, all of the clean, dry snow and open bags of marshmallows you could ever hope for. We cranked up the wood stove as outside temperatures dipped below 0, ate some kind of terrible reconstituted Indian lentil mush by candlelight, and watched the city lights of Juneau twinkle beneath thin strips of clouds. I slept for 11 hours last night, curled up in a -20 degree bag even though inside temps couldn't have been much below 60. I don't know what it is about wilderness cabins ... they always lull me into happy hibernation.

So I was even feeling a little reluctant to go out hiking this morning, but Geoff was excited to do some backcountry skiing, so I strapped on the snowshoes and waddled behind him as he scooted further and further away. The cabin sits on a high plateau, a thinly-forested meadow smothered in snow. Light snow was falling and the effect was flat lighting to the point of blindness. It was a sea of white.

I stayed to the right of his track and broke my own trail, cognizant of little else than those ski tracks and the slow movement forward. I could have continued that way into oblivion, but instead suddenly and unexpectedly plunged six feet into a sinkhole. My body instinctively lurched forward - I realize now that such an action could save one's life in thin-ice situations - because the tips of my toes were dangling in icy water with no bottom ground to speak of. I managed to pull myself out with an uncharacteristic surge of upper-body strength. I do not know how deep the creek was at that spot. I couldn't find the bottom by probing it with my outstretched arm and a ski pole.

I was fine and my feet weren't even all that wet, but the experience shook me up. I sat on the trail for quite a while, staring bewildered at the indiscriminate blanket of snow and thinking that any minute, at any step, there were sinkholes waiting to pull me toward icy depths. I was paralyzed by the uncertainty, unwilling to move. But after several minutes, the common-sense synapses started to fire. I became aware of myself, sitting helpless on the snow. That wasn't good for the kind of cyclist I wanted to be. It wasn't good for the person I wanted to be. So I examined the sinkhole a little closer. It was completely obvious what it was - the whole area sloped down pretty dramatically, indicating a gully where moving water would likely congregate. Geoff had purposely walked uphill of it. I just blindly plunged right into the depths. It was my fault, I realized, and I had the power to prevent it.

So instead of crawling back to the cabin in tears, I got up and continued down the trail, eyes wide open and watching for signs of the danger. Suddenly the landscape wasn't flat white. It was contoured with the subtle shapes of rolling hills and shallow depressions. I tried to picture where the water would flow, and made a conscious decision to stay high.

Environmental awareness. It's an invaluable lesson.