The longest day

"I'm an American on the Canadian Shield
And I'm putting down roots in your frozen fields
It gets cold but you feel so good to be a stranger in town
Where you're understood" - Sam Roberts

The sun rose today at 3:51 a.m. It set at 10:08 p.m. More than 18 hours of full daylight, six more of varying levels of twilight, but the day doesn’t really feel that long. It will this weekend.

I spent the morning prepping my bike, organizing my gear, debating whether or not I’m going to bring a frilly dress to wear during the late-night loops. I’m taking a minimalist mantra with the 24 Hours of Light - minimal effort, that is - so every second spent trying to pry rusted parts off my snow bike and not reading GDR updates felt like an indulgent waste of time. But I guess it is important that my mountain bike have some sort of headlight mounted on it, despite promises that there's no need (I know twilight can get dark 'neath the black spruce shadows.) Also better if I don't continue to ride on the worst seat I own. It wasn't much, but I was working slow enough that I had still wasn't done by the time I left for work.

Geoff has been pressing me about what I’m going to eat during the race in Whitehorse. I don’t really know and kind of like not knowing. I’m curious to see if I can make a go of the provided race foods, be it French fries with gravy or those ketchup-flavored potato chips (you know, Canadian food.) But just in case, I have a stash of 10 Power Bars, 10 “Finding Nemo” fruit snack baggies, and some turkey jerky. I’m totally prepared.

Geoff also has been pressing me to form a “best-case scenario” plan. This would be my set plan to stop myself at a certain point should I by some miracle make it through more than several laps and still feel as amped as a roller derby star on speed. Truthfully, I don’t have a plan because the best-case scenario has drifted far from my thoughts. I’m too busy limping on the wrong knee to be worried about the right one. I’m vaguely aware of forecasts for thunderstorms and rain and cold and honestly, I hope they come true. They’ll give Geoff and his Juneau training a real advantage, and I have some New Yorker magazines I’ve been meaning to catch up on. I’m totally prepared.

But I think the most important thing about keeping my preparations on the pseudo level is that I’m completely at ease right now. Last year - just about exactly a year ago - I was nauseated with anxiety for days before the 24 Hours of Kincaid. It was an unnerving state, because Kincaid was my “C” race and the one I thought would be the easiest (in some ways, it was.) Still, it was 24 hours on a bicycle, an idea I would have never been able to even wrap my head around if it wasn’t for a fairly arduous Susitna 100. I had a vague idea that I could ride the duration of the race, but not fast, and I was sick with the kind of performance anxiety that dictates that you must do something badly in order to succeed at all.

Then I lined up at the start. I took an early wrong turn, had to backtrack nearly a mile, and ended up chasing the back of the pack. Kincaid was a tightly-wound 10.5-mile loop, made mostly of steep gravel pitches and teeth-chattering drops over rocks and roots. My heart rate was through the roof and I was sick to my stomach by mile 6. It was about then that something clicked. I was trying too hard. I was taking the race too seriously. Did it really matter that there was no one behind me? I had 24 hours to get it right. So I calmed my breathing, slowed my stroke, and rode my way to fifth place. Overall. Top third. I had made peace with my inner turtle. All was sublime.

So now I head into the 24 Hours of Light a three-legged turtle (well, more like two; it’s too bad I don’t have one of those bikes you can pedal with your arms.) I definitely don’t have any expectations for myself because I didn’t train, didn’t plan, and haven't even healed completely from my injury(s).

So my best-case scenario? It’s that I’m even able to ride at all. I’d like to keep it that way. The rest is just detail.

Wish me luck. And some pictures for the weekend:

Another view of Nugget Falls. I think the falls themselves are more striking without the glacier in the photo.

I have to file this one under my "Sometimes I have way too much fun with the self timer" folder.

I am not my bike commute

Date: June 20
Mileage: 36.3
June mileage: 441.1
Temperature upon departure: 53

It’s time for me to admit my secret shame.

I don’t bike commute to work.

I bike commute to a lot of other things. Barbecues. Errands. To get my sushi fix. Shopping (and I’m still trying to figure out a good way to haul a 36-pack of Diet Pepsi the five miles from Costco.)

But not to work. It’s three miles from my home. I ride right by the building every time I head to the Mendenhall Valley (which is often.) Still, I haven’t been able to cowboy up and straddle all of the obstacles that make riding to work and back on daily basis a mounting inconvenience.

I am so ashamed.

When I started riding again last month, I decided I was going to start working on the logistics that would allow me to phase out my car. Today I made a dry run to see what a typical bike commuting day would be like.

First of all, I planned to do a bit of extra riding beforehand and then meet a friend in the valley. Because I wasn’t going to make it home between these plans, I packed up my camelbak with everything I’d need for the ride and work - water, bike lock, mittens and a coat because it looked like it was going to rain. After that, I was barely able to wedge in my work shoes. So all of my work clothes - business casual, no less - had to be bunched into a plastic grocery sack and stuffed in a messenger bag, which I then tied to the Camelbak. (I can not wear messenger bags the way they’re intended. They always swing in front. I don’t know how commuters do it.)

So with that awkward setup, I set out for a fairly easy spin north, riding with the wind and amping up my usual average mph. It did rain a little but not hard. I had mostly dried out by noon. But in the time crunch, I didn’t have a chance to eat and soon it was time to sprint to work. Had to crank it up a notch to make it by 1 p.m., no time to stop, locked up my bike and skated into the office in my bike shoes. I took a quick paper towel bath in the restroom and loaded up with the deodorant I was carrying, but after 33 miles I really should take a shower. Unfortunately, the closest available one is at my gym, which is two miles from my office and less than a mile from my house anyway. If I was going to go to all that trouble, I’d just go home. And then I’d be back where I started.

So maybe I smell. My coworkers wouldn’t tell me ... I know they’d just lie if I did stink. I did ask. But I also had that no lunch problem. I bought a soda from the vending machine and ate the ancient Clif Bar in my camelbak, along with a baggie of fruit snacks and a granola bar that I had in my desk. Lunch of champions. Now I have to wedge out a long enough break to bike home for dinner. If I can’t, it’ll be a vending machine dinner.

I do have a few kinks to work out in this whole bicycle commuter thing.

But I guess it’s not that bad, in the end. At least, it won’t be bad until the rainy season really kicks road grit into full gear. Those will be some epic paper towel baths.

Addendum: So I did find the time to bike home for dinner. I pedaled up to the first intersection and passed a woman who was sitting on the curb next to an overturned bike, looking dejected. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me that her chain had fallen off and she was trying to get ahold of her boyfriend. "Oh I can fix that for you," I said, and did, getting only the smallest amount of grease on my index fingers in the process. I crossed the street feeling like a hero, but when I came to the bike path I mindlessly tried to make the impossible 25-degree-angle turn required to jump on it without stopping. Realizing my misjudgement only when I had essentially stopped moving, I toppled over before I could click out of my pedals. I took an Ergon Grip right to the stomach, instantly making me feel nauseated and out of breath. Those things may be comfy for hands, but they pack a mean punch. Also, I bashed a fist-sized goose egg into my left (good) knee. Now it's all stiff. My good knee. Just in time for a 24-hour bike race this weekend. Misadventures in commuting continue ...

Choices

Date: June 18
Mileage: 25.1
June mileage: 404.8
Temperature upon departure: 49

Yesterday I penciled in a weightlifting session at the gym and this morning I scratched it out. Instead, I chose to go out for yet another bike ride. I chose to go for a ride because my eyelids felt as heavy as my legs. I chose to go for a ride because I should be “tapering” for whatever “race” I may be registered for this weekend. I chose to go for a ride because it was 49 degrees out. I chose to go for a ride because it was raining.

But I chose it, so therefore I’m free.

I moved against the wind at a decent clip, fighting my way north in a barrage of rainwater that didn’t concern me, with a slight chill that didn’t affect me. I chose the rainwater. I chose the chill. I chose the subtle pangs of muscle fatigue. I had nothing left to fear.

Beyond me was a world I cannot chose, so it is more fascinating than anything I can imagine. Drapes of clouds drooped over the mountains. Heavily weighted by water vapor, the clouds fell beneath treetops and rose again in swirling puffs of gray. The view was strikingly similar to that of a forest on fire, spewing streams of smoke into a hazy sky.

I wavered on the pedals a moment, only because I remembered the way the mountains burned. When we were kids we would mash our fixed-gear Huffy’s all the way to the top of the highest neighborhood street, where an unobstructed view of Lone Peak revealed the source of the brown smog, and it choked out the horizon. Smoke rose from rows of charred brush. It was dull gray like the overcast sky, but in spots it was as black as our magic-maker-colored fingernails. The air smelled toxically sweet, like barbecue-flavored potato chips gone horribly wrong, or the time Andrea stuck a Barbie in the oven, just to prove that things melt. We’d crinkle our noses and lick our lips to taste the carbon, and we’d gasp as faraway wisps of fire stabbed at the air. We’d say it was ugly but we knew it was beautiful, with its crimson-filtered sunsets and flames that glowed orange in the blackest part of night.

Even long after we stopped riding our bikes, and bought beater cars and moved to the city, we’d still drive to the benches and sit for hours, just to watch the mountains burn.

Now the wildfires are far away, replaced by a world cold and drenched in natural flame retardant. The air smells sweet like springtime, with earth doused in moss and lupine. But the image remains.

Will I ever chose to live in the desert again?

Will I ever chose to not ride a bicycle again?

Will I ever have it taken away from me again?

I think I may be destined for it all. But beauty will always be a choice.

(I realize I basically took this exact same photo yesterday. But today there were fewer boats, more distinct reflections, and otherworldly blue light on the glacier - which didn't really register in the image, but just the same ...)