Folk Fest

Date: April 10 and 11
Mileage: 19.1 and 38.5
April mileage: 286.6
Temperature: 44 and 38

It's a bit late to be blogging, but I feel like I need to unwind a little after a crazy "weekend" of Folk Fest. The Alaska Folk Festival happens once a year and the whole town shows up. Even a lot of people who don't live in this town show up. It's pretty much the only time of year that Juneau is visited by other Alaskans who have nothing to do with the Legislature or cruise ships. It's also the only time of year I "go out" every night for several nights in a row. Tonight was old-time Creole followed by Salsa and Fusion Celtic. I don't think I've danced like that since I was 17. Seriously. I was about to pass out and my friends still wanted to hit up the Rendezvous and The Alaskan afterward. Sometimes the endurance of people amazes me.

It's been a bad weekend for bike riding. The Folk Festing for all hours of the night doesn't help, but it goes beyond that. Geoff and I huddled beneath of canopy of rain-drenched trees this afternoon as I tried to talk him out of completing a planned 80-mile ride. Finally, I just announced, "Either way, I'm turning around. I feel like I'm on the burn-out track and I don't want to push it too far." That's the first time it hit me. I haven't given my off-season much time to actually be that. If anything, I was pushing even harder before the weather took a seasonal turn for the worse. I think I need to dial it back a bit. It will be hard, because there's not much else to do right now besides road cycling. But I think if I take the rest of April and spend more time hiking (i.e. snow/mud slogging), going to the gym (i.e. reading adventure nonfiction on an elliptical machine), and "fun" biking (i.e., beach and snow biking where and when the opportunities arise), then I'll be a happier person come summer. Once May begins, I hope to restart a fast-track endurance training program ahead of the 24 Hours of Light. I rode this race last year on a barely-healed knee injury and almost no training, and had a lot of fun. This year, I look forward to going hard. That is, if I don't burn out first.

Video blog

Since I discovered the motion picture button on my camera, I have become more interested in doing a little video blogging. Not a whole lot - because most home movie clips usually weave between grating and boring and mine are no different. I shot some footage up at Eaglecrest yesterday. I wasn't going to post it. Mostly because video always seems to take something I find scary and exhilarating - such as shimmying through fresh, heavy powder at a barely controlled 10 mph - and makes it look like a flatly lit slog down a ski slope. Plus, I shot an introduction, forgetting that my face was covered in mud from the sloppy climb and my bike helmet was pushed way back because that's what it takes to strap a camera to my forehead. I realized that I've never appeared "live" on my own blog before. This first shot doesn't make for a very flattering portrait. But then I remembered ... I've been doing this blog exhibitionist thing for more than two years. Since when have I worried about flattering or boring? So I'm posting my video blog No. 3. I attached a good song to it to make it more entertaining: "On the Radio" by Regina Spektor.

"Trickster"

April showers

Date: April 8
Mileage: 30.2
April mileage: 229
Temperature: 35

I love spring snow. I've always loved spring snow. But I even love it here in Alaska, where spring snow is not so out of the ordinary.

A thin white blanket settled on Juneau overnight, a temporary shield from the dull browns and wet yellows that dominate the landscape in April. So even though I had scrubbed Pugsley shiny on Sunday, thinking we would not be going out again for quite a while, I couldn't help but drag him up to Eaglecrest today.

Streaks of sunlight danced across the unplowed road, until the drifting clouds finally closed together. In a swirl of flurries I pushed up the slope, right on the trail of a pair of tele-skiers. When I caught up to them, they got a few good laughs. (I didn't point out that I, a post-holing hiker pushing a 35-pound bicycle, had caught up to them.) I did concede that I looked ridiculous, coated head-to-toe in slush and grit as I was, walking a bicycle up a ski slope in April.

"Can you control that thing downhill?" one skier asked me.

"When there's six inches of new snow, not so much," I said. "But the base seems good so it's worth a try."

I turned off at a green run called "Trickster" and kicked off. I don't remember much about the ride down because I was terrified, hearing only the squeal of my wet brakes and seeing only blasts of white, wet powder kick up from my wheels. Within minutes I was back at the road. The snowpack was quickly disintegrating to slush; my 4-inch tires blasted me with so much water I could barely keep my eyes open. There was little I could do but clench my fingers and toes in wet gloves and wet shoes and embrace the full-body pain that is a 20-degree windchill (downhill at 40 mph in 35-degree air) through soaked clothes on soaked skin. I hate it when rides come to this and I should, really should know better by now. I know enough to know that once the chill starts, I only become colder and colder and colder.

I also know enough to know that it's not the end of the world. Biking hard never seems to warm me up to optimal temperature (the faster I go, the harder the windchills cut through), but it does keep the hypothermia at its lowest level. The worst part about a too-cold, wet ride is coming inside once I'm done. I never have the time to warm myself slowly, so I have to go with the rip-the-bandaid-off route: A hot shower. It's the kind of pain that's hard to describe, but easily forgotten - memory is usually merciful when it comes to that level of trauma. If I could realistically remember the way those hot showers feel, I would probably never get on a bicycle again, at least when the temperature was below 60. Descriptions that run through my mind during those intense moments generally follow the lines of "A Million White Hot Needles of Death." That is, when I'm not trying to rip my hair out as a way to feel less pain.

So I took a bad shower and vowed, again, to always, always overdress when I'm cycling in wet conditions. Two more inches of snow fell while I was at work. The sun broke out again as I was returning from my dinner break. Filtered yellow light sparkled on the snow, which coated every tree, every limb, every tiny branch. Snow gave the land a color and depth that I had forgotten in the featureless wash of early spring. It looked so soft and billowy that I wanted to dive right in, and roll around.

It hurt to go inside again, but not in the same way.