Not pretty

Date: July 9
Mileage: 38.2
July mileage: 244.2
Temperature upon departure: 51

The day started out so well. Drizzling rain tapered off early. I rode a light tailwind out to the valley and managed some strong intervals on the Glacier spur road. Mileage increased rapidly, and just as I was thinking “this whole summer cycling thing is way too easy,” the brunt of the storm blew in.

It was the kind of storm that earns its own regional designation. I think in Juneau they’re called "Taku Blasts" or something equally ominous. But no matter where you are, these storms always feel the same to a cyclist - headwinds that suck the air out of your lungs, sideways rain that could pierce a helmet, and an unexpected drop in temperature. I fought the storm like an outnumbered conquistador all the way home, knowing defeat was imminent because I was going to have to maintain my early pace just to make it to work on time.

Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror after a ride like this? I try not to, but it’s like trying to look away when you pass a particularly disgusting lump of road kill. The bloodshot eyes caught my attention first - swollen and framed by dark shadows. My entire face was checkered with blotchy red patches and spatters of mud; wet hair clung to my forehead and dangled in snarled strands over my neck. To top it all off, I had a stream of snot oozing down my upper lip. I didn’t even notice it before because my entire face was numb, like my hands, but I still know attractive when I see it.

I always wonder how much of this image lingers even after I’m showered and blow-dried and sitting at my desk in my khaki pants and turtleneck. Can my co-workers tell how I’ve spent my morning? Is it obvious to anyone that just an hour earlier, my face looked like a half-rotten salmon laboring for breath in the shallow end of a creek? I may never know.

Baby fireweed

Date: July 8
Mileage: 25.1
July mileage: 206.0
Temperature upon departure: 54

The Fireweed 400 wrapped up this weekend. Geoff crinkled his face as I read him the results. "Who would want to ride on a road for 400 miles?" he asked. I would! I'm pretty bummed I couldn't get healthy in time to train and plan for this ride. I thought in passing a week ago about buying a plane ticket just so I could go out there and try to survive it, but I shed the thought pretty quickly. Luckily. But still I wonder ... how would it feel to be completely wrecked right now? Even if I ended up sprawled on the finish line, drooling and moaning, it would still feel so great to go full-bore into something and not worry about long-term consequences. Of course I would, though. That's why I'm not there.

As it is, I'm still trying to limit my recreational riding to four days a week, tops. It helps me avoid repetitive-motion flare-ups, and also build strength through other activities. I'd like to get out more often on my mountain bike, but the trails are starting to become icky. The rainy season approaches. And as fun as they are, I'm going to have to limit Sugar's BikeSwim outings if I want him to last another season. But the touring bike just keeps on plugging and plugging away, even as rust creeps across the bolts and bearings. It would have performed brilliantly in the Fireweed 400.

As for the rest of my "season," I'm shooting for a full-12-hour ride by the end of July, the 350-mile Canada loop in mid-August, and then more hiking to prepare for the Grand Canyon in September. None of that is racing, so I guess it's not very interesting. But it gives me enough goals to keep the edge on while I think about taking up Ultrasport training in October. Scary.

Return to cripple valley

I did a great hike today with friends on the Dan Moller trail. As we ambled up the long and narrow strip of wooden planks, the seasons changed with each mile. The full bloom of summer faded into the stunted grass of late spring, which regressed into the skunk cabbage and mud of early spring. By the time we reached the cabin, we were clawing through petrified snow drifts. Somewhere beyond there, winter still lingers. But no matter where I am on the Dan Moller trail, winter is all I see.

The Dan Moller trail is one of those places that represents an abrupt hiccup in my life. For some reason, the remnants of emotions and memories from most of my personal upheavals come to rest on very specific places. There's a park in Salt Lake City that I couldn't bear to walk through for years after one of my first boyfriends broke up with me. My early frustrations with Juneau always come flooding back when I pass Mendenhall Lake campsite No. 5. And now, I can't walk up the Dan Moller trail without thinking about all the painful steps I took through the packed snow earlier this year.

It feels strange, because I didn't think this trail ... this experience ... would haunt me. It probably shouldn't. But it does. There was a time in March and April when I hobbled up the Dan Moller trail two or three days a week, just to get out, because I went so stir crazy sitting inside. Now, I look over my shoulder to a faintly familiar valley shrouded in heavy clouds, and I think about how far I've come. I think about how far I have left to go. I think about how everything's changed. I think about how the landscape looks the same. I think about never having to go back to last winter. I think about the ways it still blocks my path. I tromp through yet another snowfield, and I think about never completely escaping.

As I was leaving work this evening, I caught a rare glimpse of the sunset. People were stopped on the bridge, just standing there, watching it. What makes sunset so stunning some evenings, so mundane others? Maybe it's because an experience can never be defined by its place in time and space. Experience doesn't have to be attached to anything. Experience just ... is.