Heat wave

Date: Feb. 14
Mileage: 40.2
February mileage: 199.5
Hours: 4:00
Temperature: 39

I set out today under drizzly skies and my very best slush suit. The weather forecast called for 42 degrees.

I shimmied the handlebars over what after three solid days of rain has finally returned to bare pavement. The studded tires crackled and I tried to remember the last time I rode this mountain bike; before I moved - two weeks, at least, maybe three. The last time I rode this mountain bike, the hub froze. Today it darted across the pavement, light and fast. A cool 35 pounds lighter than my fully-loaded Pugsley. I felt an invisible burden lift away.

The rain started to dry up just as the sweat started to flow. I stopped to peel off my layers - balaclava and gloves stuffed in pockets. The fleece hoodie tied around my waist. Bare skin and a 15 mph tailwind. Only the decimated snowpack betrayed an exciting sensation of summer.

I arrived at the glacier in what seemed like record time - something more akin to summertime mileage. My fitness goals behind me, I pulled the bike up to the edge of the lake and made myself a comfortable seat in the snow. I pulled a Clif Bar out of my handlebar bag, soft as a freshly baked cookie. I took tiny bites as I gazed at the skyline of the surrounding mountains, the way the glacier curved downward like a shattered S, the reflections in overflow across a plane of rotting ice. I wondered if I had ever lingered in one spot at the glacier this long. I've always been on the verge of rushing off somewhere else ... the pursuit of mileage; the urgency to stay moving and stay warm. Today even my wet feet felt toasty in their cocoon of Neoprene as I sat, still, for a while, soaking it all in.

I thought this may be a nothing ride. Junk mileage. And everything I needed.

Apprehension

This has been a rough few days for me. Even with copious hours of help from Geoff, it seems like all I have done is work on my bike. I’d wake up in the morning and do the washing, the gear prep, the tinkering, then come home from work at night for more gear prep, more tinkering, then wake up the next day and do it all again. I was relieved when I finally hoisted my boxed-up bike across the wet ice that was once the FedEx parking lot and watched an all-too-cheery delivery guy haul it away. I half hoped I’d never see it again.

That’s another thing I’ve been struggling with since, oh, about Monday - a vague (or sometimes very acute) sense of dread. The kind of dread that gurgles up from my gut, casting a gray pall over the already dreary gray days, telling me that I would rather do anything than slog across Alaska tundra on my bicycle. This isn’t wholly unexpected. I struggled a lot with a similar sense of foreboding before the 2006 Susitna 100, although I wasn’t willing to admit that to myself at the time. It is all part of this great game, and that part that makes be long to wish away these next 10-odd days. Of course there will still be flashes of excitement, but I’m worried that all I may do for the next week is slink through my routine and brood.

I finally received the panic call from my dad the other day, who has been doing way more Internet research about this race than I would prefer. He informed me that, as he spoke to me, it was 43 degrees below 0 in McGrath. “Yes, yes I know it is, Dad,” I said.

“Do you know what that means?” he asked.

“Well no,” I said. “No, I actually have no idea.”

But what little I can imagine about -43 degrees on the cold side of the Alaska Range is completely lost on my friends of co-workers, well-meaning as they are.

“So, when’s your race?” they ask. I want to tell them that it’s not a race, it’s a full-on expedition with the added pressure to go fast, and I want to tell them that anxiety about performance is nothing compared to anxiety about perseverance.

“How long is it? 350 miles?” I want to tell them to take their Juneau concept of a mile and multiply it by at least four, that’s what a mile means in Interior Alaska wilderness.

“And you’re riding your bike?” And I want to say, I am taking a bike with me. I will use the bike when I can. But I have to expect the possibility that the bike will be more of a burden than a tool. That I may spend as much time pushing my bike as I do riding it. Maybe more. I want to ask them if they can understand the eternity of 2 mph when it’s spread out over 350 miles.

“And they’ll have checkpoints for you with food and stuff, right?” Checkpoints that are as much as a day apart, yes. That if you aren’t self-sufficient out there, you might as well be a couch potato with a solid training schedule of TiVo for how likely it is you’ll succeed.

“So I bet you’re getting really excited.” And I just nod, because I don’t know what to say.

But the truth is, I am excited. The Iditarod Invitational is a guaranteed grand adventure. Even if I slip on Knik Lake ice and break my arm less than one mile into the race, I will always be able to say, “Well, I dreamed it.” The most difficult step may just be showing up at that starting line. Hopefully I will be able to use some of these next 10 days to assuage some of my anxieties and get out more on my mountain bike, because this month has had entirely too much time off the bike. The Pugsley is gone and there are only a few small things I can do to prepare. The only training hump I have left to tackle is my fear.

My ride, pimped

Date: Feb. 11
Mileage: 20.5
February mileage: 179.8
Hours: 2:00
Temperature: 34

I went for one last ride on the Pugsley yesterday, fighting rapidly rising temperatures and a proportionally deepening layer of slush. When I came home, I was thrilled to find a small package from Eric at Epic Designs. Inside: The Complete Snow Bike Racing Kit® (just kidding. That's not really trademarked.) I had a mere three hours to play with it this morning, which is what I did rather than break my bike down like I was supposed to be doing. It took me more than one of those hours just to get the front bivy bag figured out. But once I did, I still managed to get my entire, not-so-conservative winter kit - minus a few small items - stuffed in these bags. And that was without much planning or thought. With a little more time, and a fair amount more practice, the remaining items (a few more packages of food, chemical warmers, ice cleats, goggles, first aid kit) should slide right in. As it is, the frame bag still has quite a bit of space. And I am already planning my Camelbak pack for the myriad small things I want quick access to, such as knife, flint fire starter, sunglasses, chap stick, batteries, bike tool, pump, etc. I am planning to mount my fuel bottle in a water-bottle holder on the fork, with my Outdoor Research bottle holder on the other side. This kit could work! And, it seems, racks are completely optional (front and back!)

This is the gravity-defying "Super Twinkie" seat post bag. I stuffed it as obnoxiously full as possible, and then some. It only grows higher and more rigid the more full it becomes. It even has straps on the bottom, which my small frame doesn't allow any clearance for, but I figured out how to cross them in order to mount a thin, tent-pole-type bag to the side (I used a rolled-up fleece jacket to test my theory.) I think such a bag would be a good quick-access carrier for socks and liner gloves. It will probably also give me just the extra space I'd need to get my top insulation layer in the seat post bag if it happens to be 25 degrees or warmer.

The good 'ol frame bag with an add-on "gas tank" above the frame. I didn't take a picture of the top of the gas tank, but it has a double zipper that can be easily opened and closed with big mittens for quick access to food while on the bike. Just for testing purposes, I stuffed it with six "teeth-shattering" Clif Bars, one fruit-and-nut Trio bar, two Pop Tart packages, and 10 fruit leathers. Room to spare! The frame bag is mostly a depository for food, but with this new set-up, it also will need to hold my stove and pot, my spare tubes and chemical warmers. Seems like that can be easily done and still have room for the ~9,000 calories I was hoping for. I pedaled this a short distance and there's plenty of clearance for my knees. Standing up involves some minor brushing against the gas tank, but how often do you stand up on a snow bike?

This is the bivy burrito, a handlebar bag that is currently resting on a front rack, but wouldn't necessarily have to. I had quite a struggle with it this morning - most of that time just trying to figure out all the details - but it will take some practicing before I can say for sure whether it is right for me and my obnoxiously large sleeping kit. But believe it or not, inside is a -40 degree Marmot CWM sleeping bag, a full-sized Ridge Rest and a Black Diamond bivy sack. You can take your whole sleeping bag set-up as is - inside the bivy and everything - roll it up and wrap the sack around it, hence the burrito name. You use a row of compression straps to cinch it all together to a workable mass, although I have to say that down in the sleeping bag really, really wants to escape. I obviously didn't perfect it this morning - you can see some spots where the sleeping bag succeeded. But two handlebar straps and a removeable stem strap help secure it to the bike without the necessity of a rack. I need to take that rack off for shipping tonight, so hopefully I'll have time to test just how good the clearance is.

So there you have it - completely outfitted by Epic Designs. If I wasn't so new to this winter bicycle touring scene, I'd probably be even more impressed than I am. But I have to say, I'm pretty impressed. Everything's sleek and gray and matched perfectly to my Pugsley - like a real racing kit. It's especially tasty compared to the sloppy, haphazard randomness of my kit for last year's Susitna 100:

Or even worse, 2006, when I actually had a seat post rack, a loosley-packed non-compression stuff sack on the handlebars, and a Wal-mart-purchased handlebar bag stuffed in the tiny triangle of my frame between the down tube and the rear suspension of my Sugar:

You can see why Epic Designs bags are a thing of beauty.