Re-learning this snow-riding thing

Date: Dec. 8
Mileage: 22.2
Hours: 2:45
December mileage: 209.3
Temperature upon departure: 32
Snowfall: 6.5"

I spent nearly three hours this morning grinding away at 22 miles of trails, beach sand and a fair amount of road. Everything was covered in about an inch and a half of wet snow that increased to more than three inches by the end of the ride. That's not exactly a lot, and I tried not to think anything of it ... even as the hours passed and the miles crept along and I ground my legs furiously for traction through the wet, sticky slop. My quads are still burning.

Snow riding hands out some hard lessons, and its time to wend my way around the learning curve, again. Every season, I start school with a new bike. You'd think snow-riding on the Pugsley would just come naturally, being the tank that it is, but it has its own issues. Its slack turning makes it harder to control around sharp, slippery corners, and the lack of tread in the tires has a hard time gripping in the sloppy mixures of snow, slush and mud that are so prevelant in Juneau. I spent a lot of time playing with the tire pressure, until I finally just let enough go to find the control that had been eluding me all morning long. I was also making loops on a small trail system, and by that point had doubled over my own lines enough to leave a thin semblence of a groomed track; that probably helped, too.

This was only my third or fourth "snow ride" of the season, but I just wasn't all that into it today. I'm missing the cold and sun. Temperatures are forecast to just keep warming. This snow isn't likely to stick around long, although there's already more than six inches on the ground from today's storm. But what an incredible workout. Despite the skidding and pedal mashing, I could not come to grips with the idea of two measly inches of snow getting the better of me, and I pushed really hard. I think I'm more tired now than I was after riding nearly 100 miles on Thursday. Of course, that might have something to do with riding nearly 100 miles on Thursday.

In other news, I talked to the friendly people at NPR's Bryant Park Project again. Interview No. 3 is located at this link. I'm also writing a weekly update for the radio show's blog. It's basically just a condensed version of this blog, with some editor-injected humor. The blog is at this link: "Biking the Iditarod." I hope you enjoy it!

Eight hours in photos

Date: Dec. 6
Mileage: 97.4
Hours: 8:15
December mileage: 187.1
Temperature upon departure: 20

Some bloggers that I read have been participating in this cool project called "12 Hours in Photos," in which they take a picture each hour for 12 hours in a typical day. I had this plan to do a long ride - at least eight hours - this weekend, and I wasn't all that excited about it. So I thought, why not do that once-an-hour photo thing? It will give me something to look forward to, and help pass the time on a long ride. As it turned out, I couldn't have asked for a more beautiful day of riding. Temperatures ranged from about 15 to 23 degrees, with partly cloudy skies and light winds. I felt strong, and made lots of little stops, and came home with a photo essay: "My training ride, Dec. 6, 2007"

9 a.m. Crossing the Juneau-Douglas bridge shortly after sunrise.

10 a.m.: Venturing out onto the Mendenhall Lake to weave through an iceberg playground. My nubbins of Kenda studs surprised me with their grippiness on glare ice, but I didn't really have the ability to stop once I got going, so I had to take it pretty slow. Still, it was crazy fun. If it wasn't for the bone-chilling cold that crept in as I was coasting along at 8 mph, I probably would have stayed out there all day.

11 a.m. I had enough fun at Mendenhall Lake that I only made it as far as Auke Rec after more than two hours of riding.

Noon: For lunch, a chilled PB&J.

1 p.m. The coastal mud flats of the Lynn Canal were coated in all sorts of beautiful ice formations. It was here I began to realize that I dressed way too lightly for the long day. I need to remember that what works for two hours won't necessarily cut it for eight. Stopping for just a few minutes to wrestle my Camelbak nozzle out of my jackets or take a picture would leave me instantly uncomfortably chilled, and it would usually take 15-20 minutes of riding to return to normal again. It wasn't uncomfortable enough to discourage stopping altogether, but I did begin to neglect eating and drinking despite my knowledge that doing so would only make me feel colder.

2 p.m. Moving south again after a short time in the northland.

3 p.m. A subdued sunset and a subtle feeling of nausea. The calorie deficit I'd been running finally caught up to me. I stopped to remove the Camelbak that was deeply buried in my layers by then, and removed my current favorite anti-bonking therapy: Wheat Thins. I threw the whole baggie in my handlebar poggies and munched at will.

4 p.m.: I took this photo in the midst of a small disaster. Throughout the day, my Camelbak nozzle kept freezing. I gnawed at the end in an effort to thaw it, then buried it deeper in my layers. The chewing process must have slowly loosened the nozzle from the hose, and right around 4 p.m. it popped off. By the time the water seeped through a fleece jacket and a bicycle jersey to soak my skin enough to notice, I had lost the nozzle and most of my water. The lost water had completely coated the top of my right leg and one shoe. Luckily, it froze before it soaked through. The nozzle was leaky and crappy and I'm glad that it's gone, but its absence forced me to hold the hose to the wind until it froze enough to keep more water from pouring through. I hate Camelbaks.

5 p.m.: Yeah, there's just not much to look at once it gets dark. I made up a lot of lost time in the last hour because having a wet torso coaxed me to fire the engine up a notch or two. I wasn't too thrilled to be out of water. By the time I neared home, all of my fleece layers had frozen together. But I still felt warm; in fact, I felt fantastic. And I took home some valuable lessons. I have got to get a better water system dialed in. And next time, I will follow my own advice and dress to take things off, not wish they were there.

Transformation

Date: Dec. 5
Mileage: 11.7
Hours: 1:15
December mileage: 89.9
Temperature upon departure: 13

I just read Mike Curiak’s blog post about how he got his start in endurance winter cycling. I began to wonder just how I found my way into this sport. I still have a hard time pinpointing the exact moment when I decided, “Hey, riding a bike through the snow for a long time in extreme cold ... that sounds fun!” It shouldn’t be a hard time to remember. It was only two years ago. I blogged the entire thing; I have a record of the whole process right here in the sidebar. But I still can’t make sense of it. It all happened so quickly, and quietly, sometime in November 2005. One day, I was a former Utahn recently transplanted in Alaska with a seldom-used mountain bike, a passing interest in winter sports and absolutely zero racing experience ... endurance, cross-country, Thanksgiving Turkey Trot or otherwise. Then something happened ... maybe a bolt of lightning, or a lucid dream, or maybe just a hiccup in life’s slow creep. But something happened, and I changed. The next day, I was an aspiring ultra-endurance cyclist with little talent but a lot of enthusiasm. Life is strange like that.

Choosing to enter the 2006 Susitna 100 was a huge leap of faith for me. It’s almost comical to think back on my inexperience heading into that race. I had never ridden a bicycle for more than six straight hours, and had no idea if I could last longer than that. I had never spent more than a few hours outside in the winter, and had no idea if I could survive longer than that. I showed up on the worst kind of newb bike for a snow race ... a full-suspension 26’er with studded tires (heavy and nearly useless on packed snow.) Then, when the race finally started, I struggled and dawdled just long enough to become caught in the worst kind of snowbiking weather ... 40 degrees with wind and rain.

I remember stopping at the last checkpoint, 75 miles into the race. I settled in to eat some food and wring out my clothing. I peeled off my top layer, which was soaked, to find my next layer soaked, and my base layer soaked, and, in fact, everything I had with me was soaked ... as soaked as if I had jumped directly into a cold lake. The melting, rain-pocked snow had rendered the trail into an unrideable slop for the likes of my newb bike, and I had to walk beside it for most of the last seven miles into the checkpoint. I had 25 more to go, and no idea if I’d be able to ride any of it. I remember thinking that I’d pay $100, $1,000 to get myself out of that situation. I spent an hour considering it, quite seriously. But then something happened ... a bolt of determination, or a lucid daydream, or maybe just a hiccup in the race’s slow creep. Something happened, and I changed my mind. I slithered back into my sopping wet clothing and set out into the dark and stormy night, on foot. Racing is strange like that.

It took me the better part of nine hours to finish the last 25 miles of that race, almost entirely by hoofing through a deteriorating trail of heavy slush. I walked just fast enough to stave off the creeping wet chill that was scarier than any sensation of cold I have felt before or since. When I finished the race on the slow side of 25 hours, I was supremely disappointed. It took me another year of endurance racing and dedicated cycling to realize that I couldn’t have asked for a greater challenge. I have technically won a race or two since then, but just finishing the 2006 Susitna 100 remains the best performance of my short “career.”

The 2008 Iditarod Invitational is no less of a leap of faith than the Susitna 100 was in 2006. The intense challenge, along with the fear, anxiety and hard lessons it brings, are much of what draws me to the event. Time will tell how it will play out, but I know this: I will take my comically inexperienced body and latest newb bike, and I will wring out everything they have to give. If I slog into McGrath several days after I expected to finish, coughing up the last fumes of my energy and more willing to kill myself than pedal another stroke, I’ll know - eventually - that I couldn’t have asked for a more valuable experience.