Fire it up

Date: July 19
Mileage: 108.7
July mileage: 561.1
Temperature upon departure: 68
Inches of rain today: .11"

The weather started out beautiful today and tiptoed toward crappy - so slowly that I didn't even notice until the headwind I was plowing into finally reached that breath-stealing threshold and the rain drops arched into horizontal daggers. But, surprisingly, my long ride today followed nearly the opposite progression.

Not that the ride wasn't chock full of suffering. There was plenty of that. I felt like I spent the entire day perpetually on the front end of a bonk. It reminded me of the month I continued to drive my '89 Tercel after one of its cylinders burned out. The car began to guzzle gas at the rate of a monster truck, but no matter how much I floored it, I could barely coax it up the babiest of baby hills. That was me today. I was the three-cylinder Toyota.

Twice today I was determined to quit. And each time I would stop, take a long break, and stuff food down my throat. I cleaned out my Camelbak. I was banking on that old cliche about never quitting until you've had some pie (And I didn't have any pie, so I had to settle for mushed up Power Bars.) Then I'd lay on the gas again, giving everything I had to my three remaining cylinders. But there just wasn't enough in there to power up.

But I think what made the ride incrementally more enjoyable - before I even noticed that I was enjoying myself - was that I did have enough in there to power through. I started the morning knowing I was worn out. I had a tough week of intensity workouts I don't normally do ... followed by a four-hour hike just yesterday that really laid into my joints. I woke up with muscle fatigue, and that is never a good sign. But I know enough about my limits to realize that I wasn't completely spent.

All of this "training" I'm doing right now - amping up for an August crescendo that is purely psychological training for a race that is seven months away - is about understanding my limits. And I didn't meet them today. In fact, my performance and mood improved noticeably when I came to terms with the idea that I was required to stay on that bike until it came time to meet Geoff at the airport. And I did meet him there. I actually beat him there, but just barely - meaning that I met my goal of spending a full eight hours fighting my demons. And despite my two 25-minute breaks, a flat tire, and several bathroom/photo breaks, I still worked my way over 108 miles. Eight hours total time; about 6:30 saddle time.

Now Geoff is on his way to Anchorage to race in the Crow Pass Crossing. I thought I was going to come home and die for a while, but that didn't happen. In fact, I feel pretty good right now. I especially feel good about the part where that bike ride is over.

Gastineau Peak

Date: July 18
Mileage: 5.1
July mileage: 452.4
Temperature upon departure: 65
Inches of rain today: o"

Today I hiked to Gastineau Peak, elevation 3,666 feet. I was gunning for Mount Roberts, but I had no idea that the trek to Gastineau and back was a 9-mile endeavour in itself. The extra two miles to Roberts was a little too much to ask of my Wednesday-morning window.

I would like to make it to both peaks one of these days, but it may be a while before I attempt this trail again. It was a beautiful day with stunning views, but I was just not feeling the Mount Roberts trail love. The lower stretch of the Basin Road access trail was lined with sketchy homeless camps - syringes, used condoms, everything. I had to sidestep a sleeping body when I accidentally wandered off trail on one of the footpaths, and that is never fun.

After that unpleasant stretch, all was quiet until mid-mountain, which was mobbed with all manner of tourists fresh off the tram. Huge, denim-clad groups clogged up the trails with their numbered flora and fauna guides and posed group photos as their children trammeled the alpine tundra in their Crocs. I became less polite about shouldering my way through them until some began to stop me with all manner of requests and time-consuming questions (I guess with my sweat-streaked face and backpack, I looked like some sort of expert.)

One man asked me to describe a ptarmigan in detail. (Um ... sort of looks like a speckled brown chicken.)

Another asked if he could reach Mount Roberts in a half hour. (Um, as your guide says, it's three miles and more than 2,000 feet of climbing from here. Walk fast!)

Another pointed across the canyon and asked me the name of the mountain and how he could access it. I began to explain that it was Mount Juneau, that he could reach it by driving from the base of the tram to Basin Road and parking at the Perseverance trailhead. "Oh?" he said. "You mean you can't get there from this trail?"

"Um ... not anytime soon," I said. (But what I was thinking was, by what ridiculous stretch of logic can you imagine this trail crossing a ravine that's 3,000 feet deep and magically appearing on a completely different ridgeline?)

I understand that most cruise ship tourists are probably intelligent people. (I also understand there are some former cruise ship tourists who read this blog.) But still, I am starting to understand why longtime residents avoid them like the plague.

Still ... all bad hikes have their silver lining:

Baby steps across the precarious snowfield. Baby steps across the precarious snowfield.

Hiking in Juneau has been a nostalgic experience for me. Above treeline, nearly everything about the trails and mountains resembles the Wasatch peaks I summitted in my youth ... the scrubby groundcover, the wildflowers, the heart-dropping knife ridges. As I hoist myself over another boulder field, I almost feel like I should be gasping in the thin air - until I remember that I'm only at 3,500 feet. Alaska definitely makes you earn your elevation.

Another reminder that I am not in Utah anymore ... all of that intense green.

This hike really took a lot out of me. I forget that four hours on your feet is much more punishing than four hours on a bike. It makes me appreciate that much more what Geoff does to stay in shape - running up mountains like this on a regular basis. Makes my biking look pretty tame. But we all have our weaknesses. And there is no shame in wearing yourself out on a little walk.

Climbing priorities

Date: July 17
Mileage: 35.5
July mileage: 447.3
Temperature upon departure: 62
Inches of rain yesterday and today: 1.09"

My aim for the past two weeks has been to trust my knee and attempt more strenuous, lung-burning workouts. Today my plan was to climb up to Eaglecrest Ski Resort at the tail-end of a 35-mile ride. I shed my usual "As Fast As I Can" goal for something more tangible - keeping the odometer above 7.5 mph at all times. Sounds slow, right? It was an all-out, red-zone effort on some of the pitches.

But what struck me most about the ride was how anticlimactic the descent was. I was coasting at 40 mph, on constant lookout for gravel patches, porcupine and deer, with instant death lurking around every corner ... and I was feeling involuntarily relaxed, and a bit dazed, like one might before laying down for a nap. In short, I was coming down.

When I was 7 years old, bicycling was all about the descents. One of my best friends lived at the bottom of a steep cul-de-sac. I remember cresting by the stop sign on my yellow banana-seat Huffy and staring wide-eyed into that abyss, lined with minvans and lurking cats. It was a moment of pure fear, like I always felt on a roller coaster when it hesitated at the crest of its first big drop. I'd watch my front wheel dip into the hole, scream as gravity yanked me into involuntary acceleration, and lift my legs skyward as the pedals spun wildly out of control, praying I could get my feet back on them in time to back-pedal to a screeching stop.

My friend and I perfected that hill one summer, enduring the inevitable climb with the trudging sense of duty that only kids can muster. I remember in the hot August sun, there was absolutely nothing rewarding about that sweaty, hunched-over-the-handlebars, pedal-mashing ascent. Our reward waited patiently for us to catch our breath in a dust cloud at the bottom of the hill.

Now 20 years have passed, and somehow, downhill doesn't capture my imagination the way it used to. It has its benefits - fun coasting, quick shots of adrenaline, easy distance. But these days, my rewards meet me at the top of the climb, just as I'm beginning to chase imaginary shadows, and dripping full streams of sweat, and pumping so many endorphins I can almost taste them. The cold wind meets my drenched body and I turned to face it, filled with a kind of satisfaction that borders on joy.

Maybe it is possible to relive those simple childhood pleasures. Even though my methods have changed, the reward remains the same.