Susitna 2, Chapter 2

(Our good friends in Palmer followed us to the race start to cheer us on and take pre -race pictures. You know they're good friends when they're willing to get up at 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning and stand for 45 minutes in subfreezing cold.)

Trying to pilot a bicycle on top of snow and ice is unpredictable at best, and impossible at worst. I think this single aspect, more so than even the cold, is what makes winter cycling exciting to me. Trail conditions range from glare ice to packed powder to sugary powder to slurpee mess. And the best part - they can change from one hour to the next. The trail I see is not the same trail the race leaders or the bring-up-the-rear riders see. It is in constant flux, a fluid surface bending to the whims of motion - the wind's motion, the weather's motion, my motion.

Winter cyclists always talk about finding the perfect line - the place where the trail's the hardest packed. Often, it's no wider than the ski of a snowmobile or another cyclist's four-inch tires. Sticking to that line is a practice of patience and focus. Lose it once, and the consequences could mean twisting your knee in a posthole or endoing over the handlebars when you plant your front wheel. I am usually scatterbrained when I ride, my mind always in flux between the past and present. But when I try to find and keep that line, I am a picture of concentration. It's the closest I've come to Zen.

I rode all the way from Eaglesong to the Susitna River, about 8 miles, locked in that trance. I didn't acknowledge the time passing, and don't even remember that stretch except for a random glance at Mount Susitna looming over the horizon beneath a smooth glaze snow. I was momentarily unaware that any time had passed since Feb. 18, 2006. That was exactly where I was one year before, looking at the same mountain as it basked in the same sunlight. For a beautiful moment I was lost in a consequence-free flashback. Then I heard the crackle of snow beneath my wheels. I felt mild headwind biting at my cheeks. And I realized that I had come a fair distance since one year ago, and I still had a long way to go.

Thirteen miles separate the Susinta River from the second checkpoint, Eaglesong Lodge. It's a lesser-used trail - even a private trail in stretches, I believe. I noticed how much slower the snow became. With a sugary layer on top, it often felt like plying my way through desert sand. I remember riding 100-yard stretches of sand in southern Utah that left me doubled over at the end with a heart rate of about 190. It's strange that I now seek out the very conditions I once almost killed myself trying to avoid, back when attempted to crank up slickrock stretches that were way beyond my skill level. Maybe this is the paradox of getting older - the immediate risks become less intense as long-term efforts grow to be almost unfathomable. My 19-year-old self laying on a stretch of Moab's Slickrock Trail with a bloody leg would never, never have been able to imagine where life would take her eight years down the road.

I left Eaglesong just as the sun was beginning to set. This was the first point where I realized that I was actually a ways behind where I was at this point last year. I had made it over eight more miles of trail by sunset in 2006. And this was the worst stretch of trail yet - built solely for the race and used only by racers, it was tracked out and postholed by moose and human feet beyond being any real use to me. I trudged along slowly, hoisting my bike out of the holes and taking advantage of the snail pace and free hands to choke down some turkey jerky and walnut/cranberry trail mix (for the record, not the most palatable combination.) I heard some quiet footsteps approaching from behind. And when I turned around, I wasn't really surprised to see Geoff.

(We just returned from the post-race party, where a race official confirmed that Geoff did indeed break the previous course record, which was 22:15, by more than 30 minutes. It was fun to go to the party and actually meet the racers. I didn't recognize anyone without multiple layers of winter gear on. I have an early flight to catch tomorrow morning, so I'm headed to bed. But I'll get this thing typed out eventually.)

Susitna 2, Chapter 1

(Thanks to Ben for providing the picture. This isn't me at the finish. It was very, very dark when I finished the race. This picture was taken while I was still perky and warm at Eaglesong Lodge, Mile 47.)

Like most people who relish in getting themselves in over their heads, I tend to be a bit superstitious. I treat weather reports like religious text - true to the sense that you believe them - and never speak of them lest they come back to bite me. The night before the race is an important ritual of stress and acceptance. Then, the morning of the race is a reality check of clutter and chaos.

I believed it an interesting omen when Geoff momentarily lost control of the truck we were driving, with my bike thrown haphazardly in the back, on a patch of ice near Big Lake. I believed a more ominous omen when I pulled my overturned camelbak out of the truck to find it soaked and empty of water (I actually knew that camelbak bladder leaked out of the top and still took it, thereby making one of the worst decisions I could possibly make.)

During the frantic starting-line search for water, I lost all extra time for pre-race gear preps. My friends helped me strap on my bags, which I could only hope I packed correctly, and I tested my electronic gear ... headlight, headlamp, blinky light and iPod.

The first song that came on was Steven Sufjan's "Chicago" ... "If I was crying, in the van, with my friend - it was for freedom, from myself and from the land." I believe it to somehow be the right omen. This race wasn't going to be about me.

A calm settled over me as I lined up at the starting line with Geoff at my side, fiddling with his sled. Directly in front of me was John Stamstad, a legendary endurance cycling pioneer, standing with his stroller sled and getting ready to run his own race. I watched the leaders straddle their truly fat "FatBikes" at the front. The sunrise hung low on the horizon and reflected off the snow-frosted trees in steaks of pastel pink. I thought about the strangeness of being locked in such a crowd, so close to the solitary remoteness of the Susitna Valley. I never heard them say "go." As the crowd of 60 or so racers on bike, skis and foot lurched forward, I followed the flow.

I'm about the most conservative cyclist there is, but I can't help but go hard at the beginning. Part of the urgency stems from staying ahead of the skiers, who can completely block the narrow trail for miles if you fall behind. But it also feels really good, on that groomed dog mushing path, with the leaders still in sight, to crank out a 10 mph average and believe for a few beautiful miles that you might actually be able to maintain that clip. That lasted for almost three miles. Then, another cyclist nudged me as he passed me. I put my leg down to catch myself and lost it in a posthole up to my hip. As I struggled to climb out and lift my 60-pound, overturned bicycle, I watched a group of four skate-skiers scoot by. I was riding the Susitna 100, and there are some things time and training just can't change. I couldn't help but smile.

One thing time did change was my memory of how hilly the first and last 15 miles really are. I didn't even register the hills last year in the midst of deteriorating snow conditions and plummeting morale, but the rolling terrain caught up to me this year. Most of the racers in front of me got off their bikes and took off their skis to march up the hills, leaving a wake of whipped powder snow. It's about the slipperiest surface this side of glare ice, and I could not control my footing up the steeper slopes. Some hills had me crawling on my knees, dragging my bike - overturned on its side - behind me. As I clawed my way up, I hated everything about its heavy, dead weight. I would learn to appreciate it a lot more later.

(This is another picture that I stole from a MTBR forum. Apparently, someone who rode the 50K has a sense of humor.)

At mile 16, I passed the famous - and usually missing - Nome sign. From that spot, Nome is only 1,049 miles away. I thought about the scope of the Iditarod trail, and the distant dream of actually riding a bicycle all the way to the end of the continent - to a frozen village locked against a frozen sea - and the sparse, starkly gorgeous landscape that would carry you there. A simple thing like a Nome sign makes those sweeping images that much more real, even if they never are anything more than a dream.

Once on the Iditarod, the trail is flat and fast - as fast as a trail can be when you're trying to pedal and overweight, comparatively skinny-tire bicycle through an inch or so of new snow. I was already fading a little, and I realized I was going to have to find a more comfortable pace. Frozen swamps and lakes burned blinding white in the sun. I dug out a pair of old sunglasses that I haven't worn in about a year and leaned back like a Harley biker chick out for a Saturday cruise.

The first checkpoint is at Flathorn Lake, mile 25. This checkpoint alone could singlehandidly strip all bragging rights about riding a completely self-supported race. They lure you inside a warm cabin and ply you with oranges, brownies and hot water. They won't even let you get your own water or food. It's full service through and through, all out of the goodness of heart of a few race volunteers who happen to own property in what I consider one of the most beautiful areas of the world. It's after this checkpoint that I start to realize I'm not necessarily riding a race. I'm a tourist in this land. And later, when fatigue creeps in a darkness masks all but the immediate, painful future, the promise of Flathorn really helps ...

Cold ride

Date: Feb. 17
Mileage: 102.9
February mileage: 361.1
Temperature upon departure: 11

I have some more cognizant thoughts about the Susitna 100 that I'd like to write about when I'm a little less sleep-deprived. But today, between my Sunday duties of eating food that all tastes overwhelmingly like salt (why does dehydration do that?) and physically hauling a crippled Geoff from the car to the couch to bath to bed, I wanted to post a quick race report.

First of all, Geoff not only persevered through his injury, but he came back full force to shatter the old Susinta 100 foot course record (according to some people we talked to this morning. I'm not sure yet if it's official.) He finished in about 21 hours 40 minutes. Just behind me :-). In fact, we hopscotched during a fair portion of the race. It was a little demoralizing at first, but the fact is ... Geoff's a strong runner, and I'm not all that fast on a bike. For me, snowbiking - even in good conditions - is like constantly riding uphill or into a strong wind. The resistance is fierce, and I'm fairly happy to maintain 6-7 mph over a fairly hilly course. And obviously, Geoff can run that speed no problem. But who knew he could do it for 100 miles?

I'm actually pretty happy with my time. It was about three hours slower than I was shooting for, but 4.5 hours faster than last year. We had great trail riding conditions. Most of the trail was hard-packed powder, but there were about two new inches of snow that made things slower going. And, of course, I never take into account that the trail use out there is so varied. At least 10 percent of trail will always be soft or postholed, and I'll have at least 10 miles of walking at 2.5 mph (This year, including long uphills, I think I walked a total of 14 miles.) I think the secret to increasing my time is the practice faster pushing ... buy lighter gear ... and the fattest snowbike I can find.

I felt like I rode close to my aerobic capability most of time, but I didn't struggle with either that or the trail conditions this year. No, this year, my nemesis was the cold. My training in moderately temperate Juneau didn't quite prepare for for the subzero conditions I met out on the trail (some reports I got put checkpoint lows at -4 before windchill. Based on past experiences, I wouldn't be surprised if it was colder than that in pockets.) I thought I prepared well for the cold, but it hit me hard. At my lowest point, I was riding through a wooded stretch at about 2 a.m. Even though I had changed into all of the layers I was carrying, I could feel my core temperature dropping. (I had even changed my base layer just a couple of hours before, so I was not drenched in sweat.) Light shivering started even as I was riding. Since I figured at that point I was about 20 minutes away from pulling off the trail, starting a fire and bivying, I turned to my last resort before desperation ... chemical heat warming packs. Those things are little miracles. Inside my boots and mittens, my hands and feet warmed up pretty quickly ... and I think my digits may have been the original source of my cooling spell. I had one chemical warmer in my bike jersey back pocket, and one in my pack with the hope that it would thaw my frozen water bottle a little. That miraculously staved off the worst of the chill, but there were always little things to deal with ... eyelashes that kept freezing shut, not being about to pull my hands out of my pogies to feed myself, an insulated camelbak nozzle that kept freezing solid (yes, I always put it inside my coat and blew all the water out of the hose). It would only unfreeze after an extensive period under my arms.

Geoff did contract a little bit of "frost nip" on the tip of one of his toes, though you can hardly tell with all of the blisters he has anyway. I suffered no ill after-effects from the cold.

It's funny, because there were racers from Fairbanks who thought -4 was downright balmy. I really think it's a matter of acclimatization, and also having confidence in what systems work best under what I consider extreme conditions. If it's 35 and raining, I know exactly what to do. But spending 20 hours in subzero to scarcely-double-digit cold, and I definitely have a lot to learn. Last night, I was never in any real danger. I was chilled, but not hypothermic. I definitely know that value of stopping and trying to remedy a situation before hypothermia even begins to set in. I was just concerned that I was closing in on that point.

Anyway, it was an amazing experience. I can't wait to write about the things I saw and felt, which for me, is really the most valuable part of the race.