Afterthoughts

Date: June 26
Mileage: 13.2
June mileage: 539.7
Temperature upon departure: 66

Today was a downer day for sports fans. Three guys dropped out of the Great Divide Race, including the only two I've actually met - Dave Nice and Pete Basinger. I know this kind of thing is a given in a race as difficult as this, but now I feel like I have nothing left to look forward to in the GDR. I guess the way in which that superhuman JayP is calmly chipping away at the record is pretty exciting. Still, I'm a bit bummed. Le sigh.

This morning I felt fairly strong, so I thought I'd head out for the obligatory "recovery" ride to see how all the parts held up. I was thinking back to the 24 Hours of Light and how that ride couldn't have gone more perfectly for me. The highs were many and the lows were nonexistent. If there had been any low points during the event, I know I would have instantly used my bum knee as a reason to drop out. But the low points never came. No muscle fatigue. No saddle sores. No stomach pain. Not even a decent enough crash to give me some writhing time on the ground to think of all the better things I could be doing to burn up an afternoon. There was nothing to even stop me beyond a vague idea of an injury caused by overuse that could likely be re-injured by overuse. But at at what point in the healing process does conservative become over-conservative? When does nurturing become babying? When do reckless leaps of faith become necessary steps forward?

In the day following the ride, I spent some time considering that precarious line. Because at some point, I'm going to want to be competitive, and I'm going to have to make a decision to ride long and push hard. After Sunday, I became convinced that I was ready to take that plunge. But today's recovery ride has me backpedalling again. After 13 easy road miles, I have a lot more soreness now that I ever had during, before, or after the 95 miles of Saturday. Maybe those 13 miles were the proverbial straw on the mountain biker's back? Or maybe this is just my body's way of saying that I wasn't quite ready for 12 continuous hours of Light. Something to think about as I hobble to bed tonight. Like I said, kind of a downer day for sports fans ... at least, for this sports fan.

But an e-mail full of random photos from Whitehorse definitely perked me up. Here's a few, in no particular order, courtesy of Jen:

The Vomit Comet. If you rode this spray-painted single-speed beauty with a blow-up doll mounted on back, your lap counted as two.

Anthony and Ben model their ultra racing gear.

Anthony sports his homemade hydration helmet.

Geoff and Brian head out for the last lap of the day.

The illustrious cowbell.

The downhill free-riders prep for some sunset madness.

Antonio was gunning for the combo best shirt/heaviest bike award.

Geoff scarfs down some midnight pizza. Ben becomes tired just looking at him.

Me and Chuck after our respective "last" laps (although I technically rode one more.) These are the 1 a.m. faces of people who know the pain is over and now it's time to really let loose.

Brian from Anchorage passes off the baton to Whitehorse Ben and his noble steed, Donkey.

Best ... 24 ... ever

Date: June 23
Mileage: 95.4
June mileage: 536.5
Temperature upon departure: 18 C ?

So, I have a new theory. I haven't had much time to think about it, as Geoff and I walked off the race course at 1 p.m., took a quick shower, drove two and a half hours to Skagway and caught the 4:30 p.m. ferry to Juneau ... but I think I've figured out the perfect recipe for a unfailingly successful 24 hour race. First, bike like a maniac for 12 hours. Then party like a rock star for 12 hours. Seriously, you can't go wrong. Of course, Geoff thinks you should just bike like a maniac for 24 hours, net nearly 200 rough dirt miles and break the course record. But what does he know?

It also helps if, on the way to your race, you catch a motivating glimpse of a Yukon Cow. Bears and those northern Canada skeeters will keep you moving fast ...

So the 24 Hours of Light. Where even to begin with a race like this? Within one hour of arriving in Whitehorse, we had met up with the captain of a team-of-eight-minus-one - the "Magnificent Seven" - were offered a place to spend the night, made friends with a fun group from Anchorage and were served delicious tuna burgers and grilled vegetables at a complete stranger's barbecue. The next day, when we arrived at the race start, I met up with more Whitehorse locals and walked around looking at their bikes, talking to them about their trails, marveling in the dry air and tiny spruce trees piercing terrain that's literally webbed with hundreds of miles of singletrack. Within 18 hours of arriving in town, I was already forming plans to sneak over the border in the middle of the night so I could take up residence as an illegal alien in the Yukon.

The race course itself was rough and fun. The official course description called for 12.5-kilometer laps with 300 meters of climbing per lap. I measured 7.9 miles per lap, and 300 meters converts to just less than 1,000 feet. Ouch. Tough, too, because nearly all of the climbing was on sandy double track and most of the dropping was on tightly-wound singletrack. Either way, it's pretty slow going for a technically challenged gimp like me. I hooked trees a couple of times and body checked many others. But fun, so fun. And physically, I felt amazing. I made frequent mental notes about how my bad knee was feeling and, despite being relatively out of shape, wasn't prompted to worry about much else. I just kept a really comfortable pace and only had to endure a health lecture from Geoff every three laps, which is how often he lapped me.

As to doing a bunch of loop-de-loops ... I really don't mind. I still had a great time. How many 24-hour loop races net you views like this? This picture was taken during my "Midnight" lap by the way - 11:35 p.m.

Midnight also was the time I hit my "best case scenario." I promised myself if I rode for most of the first 12 hours, I would definitely not ride any more. As it was, 12 hours more than doubled the most time I have spent in the saddle since my knee injury. Not a smart jump, and definitely not smart to go any higher. But honestly, I was bummed when midnight came around. I was feeling great, and eating well, and generally keeping my pace of 1-hour laps with a 10-minute break between each one. But my knee was starting to feel sore. So I stopped, loaded up the ice, and took up residence with the "Magnificent Seven." A coffee cart in the parking lot was dolling out free drinks to your heart's desire, and I went on a caffeine bender that filled most of the so-called "dark" hours (which is when the orange light of the sunset/sunrise hovers on the horizon, and nonlocals realize why the only rule in the 24 Hours of Light is "No Headlights Allowed.") In that time, we munched on soup and bread and collected free schwag, danced to thumping 80s/techno mixes and clanged a cowbell as wig-clad racers flowed through.

At 3:30 a.m., the party was winding down. I still had a couple of gallons of lattes to move through my system, so I committed with a team racer from Anchorage to ride one "sunrise" loop, to compliment by last "sunset" loop and make it an even 12. I thought at the end of that lap I'd have a dirt century. But at that time of night, I really can't do math.

The final lap was amazing. After three hours of rest and soup and lattes, I felt like I had the ability to ride out and conquer the entire Yukon. I was soaked in late-night delirium, pumping and mixture of endorphins and caffeine and feeling no pain. I rolled onto a long stretch of singletrack that follows a steep ridgeline and looked out over the river valley. The pink reflection of dawn floated over tree tops and blazed gold in the still water. The landscape was bathed in light, as it had been and seemed like it always would be. It's hard to describe the feeling of moments like that once they've been lost to the haze of sleep and memory. I do know that I reached for my camera, and then for some reason thought better of it. Maybe I sensed that any image of that moment would only disappoint me.

I finally did pull out my camera to take the clock view of the end of my last lap. I have no idea how it ended up being nearly 5 a.m. I felt like a rode that last lap in 20 minutes, I felt so awake and a alive. But that's what a 4 a.m. high will do to you ... it will make hours seem like minutes, whether you're circling yet another loop or standing awestruck on a ridgeline shrouded in hypnotizing light.

I knew even before I returned at 4:47 a.m. the lap 12 was going to have to be it for me. My knee was stiffening up. There was no doubt about that. And once I stopped for sleep, I knew all of the effort of the afternoon was going to catch up with my out-of-shape body. Plus, I had no choice but to stop for sleep, because I was the designated driver. Still, so many voices in my mind just kept saying "Go! Go! Go!" There was so little left to say no. Some people have a crack habit. I have a bicycle habit. But we all suffer and sing for the same reasons.

As it was, I had a restless nap and was back up at 8 a.m. to continue cheering on Geoff. He was riding an amazing race - which I'm sure he'll describe on his blog soon enough. But it was his first mountain bike race - endurance or otherwise - after spending most of the summer training to run what is essentially a wilderness marathon. But in that bright Yukon air, he was inspired to ride 25 laps ... just shy of 200 miles and 25,000 feet of climbing ... and capture what many in the Whitehorse crowd believe is the course record. I finished with 12 laps ... about 95 miles and 12,000 feet of climbing. Despite only riding half of the time, I still won my class. There was only one other female racing solo, so it was a bit of a shallow victory. But I will take the win, and all of the beauty and good energy that came before it.

Now, 12 hours later, my knee has loosened up considerably and feels OK. Driving up and over White Pass at 3 p.m. was by far the most painful and difficult part of the entire endeavour. I'm still riding a bit of an endurance high and it feels pretty good. I made a bunch of new friends and maybe someday I will talk them into shielding me from Canadian immigration officers when I decide to skip the border. But until then, I will always have the 24 Hours of Light.

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.