Whipping up a slushy

Date: Dec. 9
Mileage: 18.1
Hours: 2:15
December mileage: 227.4
Temperature upon departure: 36
Rainfall: .26"

Some days, my rides are less about physical fitness and more about psychological endurance. Unfortunately, I never know which one it's going to be until after I leave the house.

Within two blocks, I had no doubt about what kind of ride I was in for today. The roads were an absolute nightmare. Still mostly unplowed, a continuous cold rain had saturated yesterday's snow, which traffic stirred up into a substance that is best described as a dirt-flavored slurpee. I don't believe there's a bicycle invented that can efficiently navigate this stuff, or a car for that matter, and I found myself walking (walking!) my Surly Pugsley on the road (on the road!) to reach the trails.

The trail itself was devoid of traffic of any kind - not a footprint, not a pawprint, not even a shuffling porcupine track. Not a single soul had attempted to slog up the trail, and that wasn't big surprise. Imagine taking six inches of already wet snowfall, letting it melt a little over night, then injecting it with a quarter inch of rain, and you have a thick blanket of sludge that is only slightly more pliable than peanut butter, but a lot more slippery.

I walked for a while up the trail, holding out eternal optimism that any moment it would become rideable, and muttering my mantra that trudging with a bike is an important skill to forge. But even without me on top of it, the bike occasionally slipped out and fell over, or I slipped out and we fell over, and the whole thing was so stupid, and I was glad nobody was there to tell me so.

But it true Pugsley form, running the tires at about 5 psi no less, we were actually able to ride most of the way down. I slid around often. But not enough to crash. It was more like semi-controlled falling ... fishtailing fun ... like when I first took up snowboarding and learned that true control was an illusion, but true disaster was easily avoidable.

To be honest, I'm not sure why I don't just give up on rides like today's, rather than pushing through two planned hours on the cusp of either laughing out loud or screaming obscenities. I think it's because I believe that any hardship, real or perceived, is good for my mental fitness. I also fear that once I let myself give up on one thing, no matter how minor, I'll start on that steep and slippery slope that ends in me throwing in the towel on the whole Iditarod dream.

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.