Tram run

Date: July 26
Mileage: 21.4
July mileage: 557.9
Temperature: 52

On Saturday, just as it did the night before my second-ever running race on June 7, the weather forecast called for high 40s and rain. So I stacked up my wool socks and my water-resistant jacket and a bunch of other stuff I thought I would need to slog through four or so miles in the cold mush. And today, just as it did the morning of my second-ever running race, sunlight streamed through a fluid opening in the clouds. Sunlight! Real sunlight! The first I have seen, in any capacity, since July 1. Three weeks. Three and a half? I stood by the window, struck still in a sort of appreciative awe only deprivation can generate, never mind I had this running race, my third-ever, to be at in less than an hour. I choked down two bowls of cereal, never quite taking my eyes off the window. I cast aside my wool and water-resistant layers and adorned myself in free-flowing synthetics. I packed up my bike bag and darted out the door.

Into the sunlight with the iPod pumping Sublime, I was encompassed in a manic rush I could hardly contain. I laid into the pedals, 23 mph, 24 mph, heart racing, head spinning, legs so light I half-believed I could launch off the pavement, into the air, right there. Never mind I was commuting to a running race, hardly the time for a bike sprint, but the sunlight had this hold on me, and I rushed toward it as though it were already fading away from me, which it was. Thick clouds were already creeping in from the south. I didn't look that way. I looked north, to the future. North to the Mount Roberts trailhead.

Unfortunately, by the time I reached the race start at the Mount Roberts Tramway, my sprint had caught up to my breakfast, and I felt really queasy. I pinned on my number and stood on the sidewalk staring straight ahead, which is what I do when I'm trying to combat motion sickness. Geoff caught up to me and we lined up with the other competitors. The clock struck 9 a.m., and then some more time went by, and then some little kids finished the one-mile dash, and then we were off.

(At the start of the race, staring up in wonder at the sky. That patch of blue is what people in Juneau call a "sucker hole," because if you believe it means the weather's clearing up, you're a sucker.)

Weaving through traffic, I settled in behind two guys that I thought were setting a good pace for me. But as we curved up Franklin and merged with Sixth Street, their pace didn't slow with the rapidly rising gradient, and for some reason I stayed with them even as my stomach lurched and head spun. By the time I reached the the Basin Road bridge, my shadow was already fading beneath the gray pall in the sky, and I was a sputtering flame. Did I really burn up all my matches before I even reached the trailhead? I didn't want to think about it. But I let those guys pull away as I began the determined hike (yes, hike) up the steep, muddy, rain-soaked trail.

Once I was walking, I started to feel better again, and actually started passing people (I learned later that many competitors walk most of the Tram Run, unless they're Superfreaks like Geoff.) Through the thick tree cover I could see the clouds closing in. I removed my sunglasses, bid another silent goodbye to the swift summer, and marched, onward and upward.

By the time I climbed above treeline and touched the cross, I was finally starting to feel normal. My endurance muscles were kicking in; my head was settling into auto-zone; I saw more elevation and I wanted to march, march, march ever higher. But, in the nature of all of my short races, this one was over just when I was starting to feel warmed up. I greeted Geoff, who won the race in an unfathomable (to me at least) 32:54. My time was 49:36, which was actually good enough for fourth place out of 13 women. The winning woman had a time of 44:12. I have no idea how long this race is. My guess is four miles. Climbs about 2,000 feet.

I was digging through the race results page to figure out what my and Geoff's times were, and discovered that I did a lot better than I thought in the June 7 Spring Tide Scramble - seventh place out of 32 females. I think I could really get into this whole trail running thing. Well, except for the training part. I like racing. I don't like running. So as long as I have bicycles, I don't really envision myself heading out for a training run. But maybe I will enter another race this summer. Next weekend is the half marathon. Should I do it? I will if it makes the sun come out.

To the point

Date: July 24
Mileage: 20.0
July mileage: 536.5
Temperature: 55

Ever since I acquired my Pugsley, about a year ago, I've had this desire to use it to circumnavigate Douglas Island. I guestimated about 45-60 miles around - 15 of that is highway; the rest is unimproved shoreline. I was certain I would need at least two days for the trip, so I mostly put it out of my mind until I found a good time to do it. But inspiration from Epic Eric's recent off-trail adventures planted the seed again, and today I set out on a scouting trip to assess the summer conditions.

I didn't get out of the house until a half hour before low tide, which I knew wouldn't leave me much time to explore. Ideally, beach travel should straddle the low tide. High tide swallows up the rideable sand and gravel and forces land travelers up on the rocks ... slippery bouldering in areas almost impossible to climb around while hoisting a big bicycle on your shoulders. I decided I was limited to a short trip. And, in my own bad tradition of trying to hold myself to short trips, I didn't take any food.

Early riding at low tide was a lot of fun. It's been a while since I've ridden out toward South Douglas. There are always interesting things washed up on the shore. This one was new. I couldn't figure out what it was. Some kind of barge? A Tom Sawyer raft? It had a couple of bald tires stapled to the side. You're not far from civilization out Douglas Island, but the mysterious shipwrecks do add to the adventure.

Of course, after about three miles the riding starts to get pretty rough, and continues to deteriorate with only patchy spurts of gravel to break up the barnacle boulders and slippery shell minefields. Once you pass the last reaches of Sandy Beach, it seems for every half mile of riding, there's a mile of really rough, 4 mph technical riding and a mile of walking. That's the nature of off-trail though, and I was making good time despite all the hoofing. The afternoon was really peaceful - a light drizzle with no wind, and rich silence peppered with occasional chirps from seabirds or the hum of a float plane. I was always itching to see what was around the next bend, so I kept going.

I rounded the southern point of the island, cutting across a field to skip a small peninsula that I always thought was an island, and turning the final corner to meet the western side. What I found was tight, steep, almost unnavigable terrain. I left the bike behind and tried to pick my way along the cliff, curious how long it continued like this. Even without the bike, the climbing was a little treacherous - so narrow in points that I had to place my feet on slippery rocks that dipped directly into the deep water. If I slid at all, I'd have no choice but to swim backward through the cold water until I reached a point that I could climb back out. Could it be done before the hypothermia set in? That was the burning question, and not one I longed to have answered, so I was very slow and deliberate with every step. I knew someone like me would never get a bike around there. But I still wanted to see where the shoreline widened again. I continued that way for a half hour. Through the clouds, I could see the long profile of Admiralty Island that told me I was essentially on the other side of Douglas, and could still see no end to the rocky shoreline.

By then nearly three hours had gone by, and the tide was well on its way back up. I tried to pick up my pace, but I was starting to feel the tedium of bike pushing, and pretty hungry, too, and as I moved north, I discovered that all of the gravel bars and sandy beaches I had ridden earlier had disappeared beneath the rising water. So I weaved through the grass and plodded over seemingly endless stretches of big rocks, moving slower by the minute.

Nearly back to town, just minutes before the high tide mark, the water met the cliffside. I had no choice but to hoist Pugsley, in all of his nearly forgotten obesity, onto my shoulders as I waded through knee-deep and sometimes hip-deep tidewater. At one point, I had to wade for more than 150 yards with nowhere to put the bike down and rest. Feel those biceps burn! I was more than ready to have my little adventure over by then, and I still had to cross the big creek, which was so swollen with tidewater that I had to cross up high with the fast-flowing whitewater, pick my way through the rocks and grass of the last narrow beach, and stumble home. It took me less than three hours to ride out and four and a half hours to limp back. Not an epic day by any means - but definitely a longer one than I had bargained for. Although once you add in the "no food" aspect, it was nearly Epic-Eric-esque ... in a small, wimpy way.

It also opened my eyes to the fact that I will probably never ride my bike around Douglas Island. I agree with Geoff now. The way to circumnavigate Douglas Island - faster and easier, I'm now convinced - would be to do it on foot. Bring some waterproof gear bags, and I could swim if I had to. I'm learning more and more with my Pugsley that just because I want to take a bike somewhere, doesn't mean I should. But that's a good lesson to learn.

Nugget Creek

Today I had to drive out to the Valley to pick up my bike wheels and pay my rent, so I thought I'd hit up the Nugget Creek trail while I was out there. In all of my two years living here, Nugget Creek is one of the few established trails I've never ventured down. It's strange, actually, that I've never seen Nugget Creek before. It's an easy, quick morning hike ... about nine miles round trip, fairly flat, skirting the sideslopes above a stunning (and incredibly hard to photograph) gorge. But I never did it because it was just one of those "eh" hikes. It reminds me of the vacation my family took in Disneyland. We bought three-day passes and my sister and I vowed to go on every *every* ride in the park. We had a whirlwind first two days, but by the third day we were slogging our way through Dumbo and Toon Town. By the time we got to Small World, we stood in line with a sour feeling in our stomachs. Were we really waiting in line for Small World when the Matterhorn was right over there? Just so we could say we'd been everywhere? I guess this is the way I've felt about trails like Nugget Creek.

Interesting thing about deep-woods trails like Nugget Creek is I always have the distinct feeling that I'm inside an amusement park ride. Not an exciting one like the Matterhorn, but an unintentionally spooky one like Alice in Wonderland or Small World. Since I grew up in the West and did most of my vacationing there, my only experience with that rainforest brand of clammy, stagnant humidity was inside those rides. Like inside the Terror Ride - the air was so dense it breathed on you. So now, when I'm slicing my way through the liquid air of the rainforest, if I lose myself too much in my memories, I'll start half-expecting a naked mannequin streaked in red paint to jump out at me. Especially when the trail's destination is this place:

Spooky.