My two homes

(Picture taken Sunday at Knik Glacier, Alaska, posted with

other great pictures on a MTB forum thread.)

(South Window Arch, Arches National Park, Utah)

Geoff and I have started planning a spring trip to Utah. In the back of my mind, I'm thinking, "Do I really want to go back to Utah this spring? Why not save the vacation time to do something really cool ... like bicycle camp my way to Inuvik?" Despite the appeal of visiting friends and family, sometimes thoughts of Utah dredge up a 'been there, done that' sentiment.

I still can't deny - despite my current location in Juneau and 'born and raised' familiarity with my state of origin - that I'm completely enamored with Utah. I've become more lost inside myself within the shadows of towering sandstone canyons than I have in my wilderness treks through trail-less Interior Alaska. I've been gripped with more primal fear in the rushing rapids of the Colorado River than I have standing in the path of a grizzly bear. I'm always quick to defend my home state when Alaskans ask me how many 'sister wives' I had back home, or when they tell me how much Salt Lake City "stinks." ("You mean like that smell wafting in right now from the salmon hatchery?" I say.) But when people ask me when I plan to leave the land of snow and ice to return to the land of salt and sand, I always reply with a confused stare. What? Leave Alaska?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm here by the sheer pull of similarity. Utah is home to the many of the most remote areas of the Lower 48. Alaska is just remote. Utah has the suffocating heat and desolation of the desert. Alaska has the paralyzing cold and desolation of the tundra. Girdwood is basically Park City with a hippy problem. Anchorage is basically Salt Lake City with a moose problem. Homer could double for Moab if you replaced mountain bike and ATV-riding with halibut fishing. Even where I live, Juneau - which often seems like no place I've ever seen before - could find a lot in common with the Beehive State residents who live to ski and ski to eat (someone here told me once that Alaskans eat the most ice cream per capita. I had to dispute that one loudly, too.)

But there's something about Alaska - something that draws me further away, even as I spend my nights dreaming about redrock. Something that keeps me up at night, scheming about all the places I have yet to see. It's big. It's wild. It's full of life (Isn't that right, Anchorage tourism board?)

And it's my home.

Better days

I spent less time wallowing in self pity and more time snowshoeing today. It worked out a lot better for me. The trail hadn't been broken since the big snowfall yesterday (about a foot at the trail head ... and seemingly exponentially more as it went higher.) I was buried to my shins in soft powder, swinging my hips dramatically to take the strain off my knees. The fluid motion felt vaguely familiar. I couldn't quite place it. It was like walking in quicksand, or running in a slow-motion dream. My arms skimmed snow drifts that topped out at shoulder level, sending clouds of ice crystals air-born. That's when I realized where I had felt this before. I was swimming.

....

I received a reply from the Fireweed 400 folks. They told me what I was expecting to hear ... No, you can't ride our race unsupported. But the assistant director, George Stransky, did take the time to write a thoughtful suggestion:

"Last year, a friend of mine entered the 200-miler (which we support with Aid Stations every 25 miles and discourage support vehicles and crew), then turned around and rode back to Sheep Mountain. He was not an official finisher of the 400 and did not qualify for RAAM or John Marino points, but he did ride the "400 miles" unsupported. He was just not part of the race. He did, however, get the T-shirt, recognition in the movie (see the interview with number 500), and the satisfaction of completing the distance. And, we were NOT responsible for him on his return journey from Valdez."

Sounds like a win-win situation. The thought of entering the shorter event crossed my mind. After 200 miles one way, I'd have to find some way back to the beginning. Why not just ride it? But as I considered it more, I thought ... why enter the race at all? If I'm not an official racer, why not just ride it at a more convenient time? Better yet, why not ride several hundred miles in a more convenient place? I've always wanted to ride the broken loop from Haines to Skagway. At 350 miles, it would be a good week-long tour. Or a crazy 36-hour sufferfest. I can't decide which would be more fun.

But deep down, I know the reason I enter races is to cement motivation for the long preparation. It would be too easy to drop out of a self-styled quadruple century. I have little doubt that I'd never do it, even if I set a date and bought a couple of ferry tickets. There's something about an actual race that brings heavy shame on the heads of the do-not-shows. Better to finish dead last than to not show up at all. Maybe it's those T-shirts they send you. ("Oh, you like this Fireweed 400 shirt? Isn't it cool? Well, no, I didn't race it, exactly. No, I was sitting on my couch, eating Oreos and watching the Food Network. But I entered it. And look, I got this RAAM mug, too! Can you believe they were five for $16.95 at Big Lots?") Who would dare wear a shirt from an event you paid for but never attended? You might as well just slap on a scarlet "L" for "Lazy."

Either way, I'm surprised I'm still considering it so seriously. I need my knee to heal up fast, and get back on my bike soon, before I enter anything crazy. The last thing I need is another T-shirt.

Still can't ride

Date: March 2
Mileage: 1.1
March mileage: 1.1
Temperature upon departure: 11

I tried. I tried.

The bike box was covered in several inches of snow by the time I finally dragged it into the house and sliced it open. I went to work restoring Snaux bike from a duct-tape-covered mass of aluminum and cables to something that might move forward again. But I had to make sure.

Juneau was in the midst of a "blizzard warning," but it seemed pretty tame ... about nine inches of new snow and only light powder falling at the time. Most of the streets weren't yet plowed, so I couldn't just coast and spin easy for a while. I had to set right into the crank, and the knee pain came instantly. I winced through it for a about a half mile, thinking that my knee was probably just stiff and needed to loosen up. But it just became worse. Eventually, my leg started involuntarily jumping off the pedals. If I had pedal cages, I probably would have just let it dangle there. But I needed the leg's dead weight just to keep the crank turning, and the angle of the up-stroke of was too much. I got off the bike and pushed it home.

As I was carrying my bike down the stairs, it somehow slipped out of my hands, bounced a few times and dropped into the yard. I'm not really sure what happened then. I lost it, a little bit. I plopped down beside it and had my own private temper tantrum, right there in the snow, swiping up clouds of cheek-stinging powder and everything. After that humiliating little pity party subsided, I propped up the bike and got out my camera to document the meltdown. I'm not sure why I did that, either. I'm still really embarrassed about it. Why am I writing about it? But it seems important to remember the low points. And today was definitely a low point.

I can't say why I became so consumed with frustration. I'm not exactly suffering, and there are people out there - like Lynda, who broke her collarbone in a mountain bike race on Feb. 17 - who obviously have it so much worse. But I guess that, as with any injury, there is always a lingering thought that "this knee is never going to work again." It's easy to push the thought in the back of my mind when I have an inexplicable little injury with no known origin and no real reason to exist. I can even tell myself that it's all in my head. But when that thought of permanent disability comes raring back ... no amount of denial can hold it off. And there I am, sitting in the snow, clenching my mittens so tight that my fingers hurt and thinking, "It's not supposed to happen like this. Not here. Not now."

I know. So much melodrama. I'm usually even-tempered, but every once in a while I revert back to the maturity of a 16-year-old. It's a good emotional release. I'll be OK. I promise. I even went a short snowshoe hike after that. With all of the new, deep snow, I really worked my calves without putting much pressure on my knee.

I have an appointment at a sports medicine clinic on Tuesday. I look forward to finding out that it really is nothing, that it's all in my head, and that I'm just acting like a toddler.