My world in old ways

Date: March 27
Mileage: 90.4
March mileage: 551.1
Temperature: 39

I had this idea that I was going to do a long ride today. I didn't know how long it was going to be. It was going to be long. The weather forecast was stellar. I packed water and food. I was thinking maybe all of the Juneau roads. I've never done that in one day before. Eaglecrest is still ice-packed, but everything else ... could be 135, 145 miles.

But then I stayed up much too late last night, staring at Northern Lights. Then my annoying cats started to pounce on me at the crack of dawn. By the time I stumbled out the door, bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived at 11 a.m., the glare of the sun hit my face like a brick. As I pedaled down the road, my head pounded and my stomach churned. And even as I crossed the bridge to face the full force of the beautiful day, all that awesomeness that encompassed me last week just wouldn't solidify. There was no way around it. I felt crappy. There would be no effortless hundred-plus miles today. I pretty much doubted I would even be able to rally for a painful hundred miles.

What commenced was basically the opposite of what happened last Thursday. I arrived at the glacier cutoff and wanted to turn around, but I didn't (I did skip the spur, though, so riding all the available pavement was out from the get-go.) Then I limped out to Tee Harbor and wanted to turn around, but reasoned that since I had bothered to carry three water bottles, and all of that food, I might as well keep going. Then I started to eat my food. It was beyond terrible. I had one good Clif Bar, and everything else was nearly inedible. Do you ever carry the same piece of food for about two dozen rides before finally eating it? Do you ever carry food that you have no idea where it came from? Do you ever carry food that you know you don't like but don't want to waste, reasoning that a cyclist on a century will eat anything? Yeah, I did all that. So what I ate was one waterlogged Clif Bar that tasted strongly like mildew, one strange chocolate bar that tasted strongly like dust, and one package cola-flavored Clif Shot Bloks. (I seriously dislike those. I have several stocked up and keep giving them a chance because so many people rave about them. But all I taste is waded-up cubes of vegetable shortening drenched in Safeway-brand soda.)

But I still kept going because it was such a nice day, and I didn't really have anything else planned. When I rolled into the far-away land of Echo Cove, bleached in snow and blazing in warmth, I was glad to be there. I thought maybe I still could take this thing all the way, even if I wasn't feeling great. I've definitely felt worse.

And I actually did rally all the way through downtown Juneau, moving toward Thane, thinking I could at least make a century out of the day. Just then, the front tire deflated. I sat in the shade to fix it, not really registering that early evening was setting in and the temperature was approaching freezing. My pump had rusted shut and I struggled to crack it open. My fingers went numb as I fumbled with the rim and tube. Geoff rolled by on his commuter bike just as I was finishing up. He was heading home. I followed him.

It's strange to have a ride like that, because now I'm sitting here wondering whether or not I wasted my day. There are always chores to do, annoying cats to feed, groceries to buy and bills to pay. Why spend all afternoon on a bicycle if I'm not totally loving it, and not training for anything to justify the effort? But at least I got out and experienced Juneau on a sunny day. I never regret doing that.

My world in new ways

Date: March 26
Mileage: 19.1
March mileage: 460.7
Temperature: 37

As I bulldozed through the distracting crackle of empty mussel shells, my heart already pulsing 180 shots of blood per minute, I heard the one sound that could stop it all together ... "shhhhlorp." I struggled against the sudden sticky friction as my momentum plummeted ... 4.1 mph ... 3.7 mph ... 2.9 mph. I turned the front wheel sharply toward the shore and spun with everything I had. Every Alaskan knows the story of the duck hunter who sunk to his thighs in Turnagain Arm mud and had to breathe through the barrel of a shotgun until the tide washed over the top. It's urban legend, like the one where the phone operator tells the babysitter, "The person making the call is in your house." We like to repeat these stories to ourselves, even though they happened far away, and even though they may or may not be true, just to scare ourselves with a sound ... "shlorp." The faster I spun, the slower I moved ... 2.2 mph ... 1.8 mph ... as my rear wheel bogged down in a mere two inches of wet mud. Hardly enough to get stuck in, but still I pedaled frantically, urging my feet not to touch the beach or all would be lost. Never mind that it's not really true. I feel more alive for letting myself believe it.

I've ridden the North Douglas shoreline in bits and pieces, but never in one long strand. I've decided that Channel riding is crazy fun ... and hard. I have yet to find a stretch that's truly sketchy, but I've found pretty much everything else ... smooth gravel, hardpacked sand, soft mud, fields of broken shells, spongy grass, deep stream crossings, barnacle-coated rocks. What's most fun about riding on the beach is the sensation of being on a "trail" that's as wide as a football field, covered in a minefield of technical obstacles, and you have to pick your best line. If you choose poorly, you walk. If you choose really poorly, you sink. But if you choose well, you can cover an amazing amount of ground that doesn't always exist, at least as solid ground.

Today I covered a full seven miles, all the way from just north of the bridge to the wetlands where I crossed the Channel last week. It was probably the most strenuous ride I've done since the race. I felt like I was in my own new world, a personal wilderness, all the while closely parallelling a highway that I would later use to cut away those seven hard-earned miles in 25 minutes.

Still, it was worth it.

Tonight after leaving work I noticed a soft green glow splashed across the starry sky. Northern Lights are a rare, rare thing in Juneau - we're a bit far south for the bulk of them, and what does reach here is nearly always obscured by thick cloud cover. So I went home and grabbed my camera and raced back out to North Douglas ... for once happy to be traveling at 50 mph rather than 15. I don't know why I bothered with the camera. I took about three photos before I realized my limited point-and-shoot was next to useless. But it's really better that way. Instead of watching the Northern Lights through a viewfinder, I left my camera in my car and stood on the beach in my work clothes and thin cotten hoodie, letting my fingers go numb and my neck go stiff while I gazed at the stratospheric dance. Deep green light reflected on the water while waves of white slithered across the sky ... pulsing and fading in a random motion that had both rhythm and rhyme. I was struck by the timing - at least for me - beautiful opportunities to see my world from different angles.

Covering ground

Date: March 25
Mileage: 42.5
March mileage: 441.6
Temperature: 32

A co-worker who doesn't know me very well stopped me today and said, "Hey, I saw you out on your bicycle by the ferry terminal the other day. Wow! You're really covering ground."

"Which day was that?" I asked, because it seemed the natural response.

"That day you were out by the ferry terminal," he answered.

"Could be a lot of days," I said.

"You mean you've been out there more than once?"

I just smiled because the ferry terminal is only 12 miles from downtown Juneau. There seems to be this perception among non-cyclists that their world is a very, very big place - too big to traverse without the aid of big machines and fossil fuels. It takes a slow-moving cyclists' perspective to realize that our world is in fact a small place, because all it takes is patience - just patience - and you can go almost anywhere.

Right now I'm suffering from a bit of "my world is too small and there's nowhere to go" fatigue. Despite the longish rides I've put in this past week, I feel hungry for a good, hard ride where I can really work myself over. But the trails are all covered in slop; the hikes are all buried in avalanche danger; and the roads have all been done, again and again and again.

Not that I have any right to complain. I recall this time last year, swimming 90 laps at the pool, running for two and a half hours on the elliptical trainer at the gym, just for a shot of that satisfyingly addictive "worked over" feeling. Things could definitely be worse.

This picture I think illustrates very well the way Geoff feels about cycling in Juneau. But he only has to suffer this place for one more month.