Whew

Date: June 28
Mileage: 22.3
June mileage: 562
Temperature upon departure: 67

What a week. I feel like I've been locked in a dead sprint since the morning we left for Whitehorse a week ago. Every second of that "vacation" was about moving moving moving. Then, to make up for it, every second since has been about working working working. So I sit at my desk stewing in a steambath of my own sweat because I work in a building with no air conditioning - which would never matter, if the sun would just go down once in a while. The deadline crunch weighs down when I have nothing but fumes left. My vision is blurry. My mind is oatmeal. And, to top it all off, my legs and arms have turned into a colorful cacophony of scratches and bruises ... most from collisions I don't even remember.

The best one yet happened the night before last. Unable to sleep in my bed, I was thrashing to and fro on the floor, nearly unconscious, when I somehow kicked the iron base of the bed with a force I didn't even know I was capable of. After several eternal seconds of writhing and whining, I woke up enough to realize that I hadn't shattered my foot. But by then, the adrenaline surge had taken over. I was up for several more hours, reading New Yorkers and watching dawn grow brighter and brighter. It's a terrible biological joke ... the more fatigued I am, the harder it is for me to rest.

So I've been taking my breaks on the bike. When there are a dozen other things I should be doing - grocery shopping, laundry, dishes, unpacking - every pedal stroke is like a deep breath into a fog of soothing sea sounds. There are days when I can meditate really well while I ride, zoned in to ebb and flow and nothing else. I hit my destination and remember almost nothing that came before, but I feel oddly relaxed and rested. You would think that kind of feeling would come from puttering along out there, but that never seems to be the case. I check my speedometer and usually find that I ride faster than average when I'm zenned in. I think this is the case because when I'm conscientious, I do entirely too much thinking about headwinds and hills.

And I think about those guys out there pedaling the Great Divide route, and how even at my hottest, sleepiest, more stressful part of the day, they still have it so much harder than me. I think about that old cliche about how the worst day on a bike is better than the best day at the office, and I laugh because that's so completely untrue. I laugh, and I feel peace. And I ride.

T-shirt not included

I am feeling much better about my knee today. I put in an hour of interval "running" on the elliptical trainer and didn't even notice the kickback. The soreness seems to be fading almost as quickly as the after-ride fatigue. I think I just had to vent a little yesterday. It just wouldn't be my blog if I didn't complain about my knee.

I also spent a decent part of the morning pouring over the logistics of the Yukon Gold Ultra. It's a 100-mile mountain bike or trail run held in Whitehorse at the end of July. I had looked over elevation profiles and maps and rules and was nearly definite on wanting to do it until I came across the price.

$400 CDN. Ouch.

Triple-digit entry fees seem to be the norm for most ultra-biking events. I can't say I blame organizers. There's a huge amount of work involved in putting these races together - marking out dozens of miles of trail, positioning volunteers, enticing participants with T-shirts and decorative mugs. The price is likely justified, but it definitely puts events like the Yukon Gold Ultra out of my reach.

If I really wanted to ride a summertime hundie, I feel like I could map out my own course, support my own self, and be happier with the experience in the long run. I can see this becoming my longterm trend. I think as I become more immersed into the world of endurance cycling, I will find myself wading further from organized "races." This seems to be a habit for a lot of people - evident in the recent explosion of popularity in grassroots endurance rides: Kokopelli Trail, Arizona Trail, Kaibab Monstercross, Grand Loop, Great Divide. All self-supported. All only loosely organized. All free.

These events had their fair share of growing pains this year, with government regulation filtering in, fines, and participants haggling about the "rules" of the ride. I think the result of this is that some of the events are going to blow up into "real" races, with thousand-dollar entry fees. And some will slip further underground. I'm beginning to think I'd like to follow the underground crowd.

As for planning (and training for) the rest of my summer, I'd still like to ride the loop between Haines and Skagway (especially now that I have driven the Skagway-to-Whitehorse leg and am more terrified of it than ever.) I may try to head out to Anchorage in September for the Soggy Bottom 100 if I can swing the travel costs (though as I recall, with a $60 entry fee, this event is more reasonable than most.)

But beyond that, I like knowing that the sky's the limit. I'd love to plan a long mountain bike ride in the Whitehorse area. But I don't have to hold myself to the confines of the Yukon Gold Ultra if I'm willing to do my own legwork. And for $400, I could definitely afford to do a little legwork. It's hard to be self-motivated. But at the same time, I believe it also makes accomplishments more rewarding. I can see myself perched on a ridgeline in a frigid downpour, gasping for breath and trying to choke down a Clif Bar, all the while knowing that if I just turned around right there, nobody would care. There would be no DNF attached to my name if I quit; no win if I continued. To move forward in those conditions - cold, tired and absolutely anonymous - would, I think, be a great test of mental strength. It builds the kind of confidence you can keep in the vault for years.

And there are so many options out there for that kind of adversity. After all, $400 will buy a decent plane ticket. (Or a ferry ride to Prince of Wales Island. Hundreds of miles of abandoned logging roads in Southeast Alaska. Anyone else game? I could name the event the "Rain and Tears Trail Race.")

I still think it's going to be a great summer.

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.