FanGirl

So, as it turns out, venturing out for a mild 18-mile bike ride is overdoing it in my case. The effect is not unlike rewinding several weeks. I knew I had gone wrong when I woke up to sharp pains Saturday night and realized I couldn't bend my leg. Now my co-workers are commenting on my limping again. I'm aware that I've hit rock bottom .. well ... at least several times during the past eight weeks. But this has to be it. The very bottom. I am officially turning my back on cycling until I get this thing under control. The decision makes me feel at once relieved and devastated.

As my own prospects of a summer season becoming increasingly dim, I find myself drawn in to the exploits of the endurance mountain biking counterculture. I've never really been able to count myself as a sports fan - in fact, the prospect of sitting through an entire game of any sport is about as appealing to me as watching laundry dry. But ever since the Iditarod Invitational, any tidbit I can find about gonzo races and the grimy athletes who compete in them is like candy to me. The more spartan and obscure, the better. Not doing any cycling of my own only fuels my fanaticism. Gwadzilla recently made an interesting observation about the state of specatorship. When a person says they "like" baseball or "like" music, it usually means they like others' baseball feats, others' music. Now, when I say I "like" cycling, I'm often thinking about events in the coming weeks that I'm not even connected to, but yet I look forward to them with a strange kind of zeal:

Arizona Trail 300, April 13: This race is still a pretty small affair, and I don't know much about it. But of all the mountain bike races out there, I'm most interested in ones that follow a multi-day, self-supported format.

Trans Iowa, April 28-29: I get a big kick out the fact that what seems to be the most popular event in grassroots distance mountain-bike racing happens to cross the state of Iowa. Now I've only glanced Iowa - barely - on the Interstate, so I'm in no position to judge. But ... Iowa? That anomaly alone makes this race very intriguing.

Kokopelli Trail Race, May 19: As far as I understand it, this race one of Mike Curiak's inventions. He's since passed the torch to others, which is just as well in these no-fee, no-support, no-podium events. This is one of the shortest of the gonzo events. At "only" 142 miles, it seems like it would be a good introduction into self-supported endurance racing.

Grand Loop Race, June 1: Another multi-day race. This one sounds intense. Not only is it 360 miles with about 48,000 feet of climbing, but racers attempt it in the stifling heat of the desert in June. It bills itself as one of the last, true, pure wilderness events, and I buy that assessment. Dave Harris is considering attacking this route solo, sometime in May, away from the already-small crowds and oh-so-subtle hype of the race itself. I like this kind of thinking, because it reaffirms my belief that the largest and most daunting events transcend competition into something else entirely.

Great Divide Race, June 15: This has to be the grand-daddy of all North American mountain bike races, although with more experience, I might be inclined to argue that the Ultrasport 1,100-mile race to Nome is even harder. Either way, GDR is the real deal. The amazing part is, there are 17 racers who are actually planning on attempting it. Some familiar names on the roster, too. The smart money's probably on Pete Basinger to be the first to Mexico, although Jay Petervay, Carl Hutchings and others I haven't even heard of will definitely put the hammer down. This should be a race to remember. I'm personally really looking forward to watching Dave Nice tackle the trail on a fixie of all things. These people are crazy! That's what makes these events so fun to watch.

There's probably a whole slew of other races that are still outside my radar, but if I stay off my own bike much longer, I'm sure I'll find them soon enough.

One heavy February

Date: April 7
Mileage: 18.1
April Mileage: 25.3
Temperature upon departure: 41

I'm thinking I won't really ride today. I have residual regret from a relatively unsuccessful ride two days prior; my road bike is out of tune and rickety from a winter of neglect. I had become convinced lowering my seat would ease stress and pain, but my seatpost clamp is rusted shut. I wrench and wrench until the bolt is stripped. Now I'm locked in place. I can go as I am or give up as I should. But I already dressed up - layers of leggings, rain pants, fleece, neoprene socks, mittens and PVC shell, because bodily warmth is a hard thing to extract from the little ring. One mile won't hurt. Maybe five.

Roadie and I cut a tenuous line through a sold inch of road grit and gravel. I've only ridden a handful of times in two months, and somewhere in there I lost my desensitization to traffic. The cars come loud and close; I wobble and shake even on the shoulder. I think about how training wheels might help; my weak and reluctant legs don't even seem to want to balance the bike upright. And there's that odd feeling. That disconnected feeling. That precursor to burning and stiffness that makes me want to toss any bicycle within view - stationary or otherwise - directly into the sea. My odometer registers 1.7 miles, and I'm fearful it came too soon.

But I resolve to strike my knee from my thoughts, because there’s a difference between pain and fear, and I don’t want to be directed by fear. Not thinking about my knee is easy, though, because my whole body feels so strange ... distant. My quads ache and my hands and feet tingle against the constant pressure. I shake my wet mittens until drops of water fling out, but digit circulation is gone for good. Motions that used to feel natural are now foreign and difficult; and I’m discouraged by the realization that my out-of-shape regression is complete.

I squint against the rain and wonder how this once-familiar route has changed in two months. Winter still lingers in the blackened snow along the shoulder, and fall remains on strands of rotten moss that drip from spruce branches. Summer drifts in through strings of sunlight beyond the clouds, and it makes me think that maybe nothing has changed since February, or November, or August even. Juneau moves so gradually through its seasons that they’re nearly indistinguishable; but there's something encouraging in notion that I haven’t been left behind.

As I feel less out of place, comfort creeps in. I spin these circles not against my better judgement, but toward it. As my muscles relax, the chill of 41 degrees and raining begins to sink in. There is no refuge from the cold at 12 mph, so I amp it up. It feels better to pedal hard, as though I could push bad blood out of my system. There's ease in movement that I didn't remember, comfort in speed that I didn't expect. So the miles spin by more quickly, less fearfully, as they did back in February, and November, and August. There is always time for regret and second guessing; but there's timelessness in the notion of letting go and moving forward.

I reach the boat ramp at mile 9 and look across the water for the first time in two months, shrouded in clouds as it always is, landscape unchanged behind a translucent sheet of gray. There is travel I take for granted and there is travel that I cherish. And this, on a wet April day along my routine training route, may be one of my favorite rides yet.

Victory, but not really

Date: April 5
Mileage: 7.2
Temperature upon departure: 37

Today I swam for just over an hour and rode a bicycle for well under an hour, but my most rewarding activity of the day was choking down death salsa at Fernando's. For a divey little Mexican joint with regular entrees as bland as funeral casseroles, that place has amazing salsa. You scoop up a small amount on a chip - it could be a tomato chunk, or it could be a chili pepper, not that it matters. Then, you stuff the entire chip as far back in your mouth and as far away from your lips as it will go, bite down hard and chew fast. The ensuing pain is beyond what any workout could prescribe; it will stomp all over your nagging knee pains, your sore calves and burning quads. It will rip through your nasal passage, shut down your vision and shoot a steady stream of white fire into your brain. It is real; immediate and an amazingly effective source of endorphins. And I will say, I normally have what I would consider an above-average tolerance for heat.

Geoff took me out to Fernando's to celebrate my first "complete" (meaning I kept both feet on the pedals the entire time) bike ride since Susitna. The salsa was the clincher, though, because I was definitely feeling a little down. I had only planned to ride 5-10 miles, but in the back of my mind was hoping for longer. Before this afternoon, part of me was convinced my injured phase had nearly ended. Part of me feared that I had made no progress at all. The reality is, as it always is, somewhere neatly in between. This is progress, though. I think I count now four outdoor rides in six weeks. The first, I only made it 50 feet without pain. The next, about 500 yards. The third, just over a mile. And this, pain only right at the end, mile 7. I can say that I am becoming better at judging when harshness is approaching, and turning my butt around accordingly.

Improvement? Yes. Miracle cure? No. It's all in good time. And at least I know now that if cycling doesn't work out, I'll always have death salsa.