Conflicted, part 2

Date: Jan. 26 and 27
Mileage: 25.6 and 27.1
January mileage: 739.4
Temperature upon departure: 22 and 26

I admit I was more than a little disappointed when the snow returned. Deep snow followed by heavy rain followed by unseasonable warmth followed by a healthy freeze had settled Juneau's snowpack in a way that almost everything was rideable, everything. All of those places that I usually need snowshoes and a fair amount of time to access - the Douglas Island backcountry, Spaulding Meadows - I could ride, and quickly, covering so much normally forbidden ground that I could hardly haul myself off the snow and into the office in the afternoon, knowing that any time not spent chewing up crusty backcountry before the snow fell was time wasted.

Then came the snow, soft powder, 12 inches or so, much to the delight of skiers and disdain of crust-seeking cyclists. I was pushed back on the roads, all 80-odd miles of them, again facing one of the things about Juneau that has gotten under my skin: the dead ends. How many times can I ride up to Eaglecrest? How many pictures can I take of the Mendenhall Glacier? What adventures are left for me here?

And yet, as I set out today to climb the Eaglecrest Road for the 235th or so time, a thick blanket of new snow enveloped the canyon in quiet. The road was devoid of cars on a Tuesday. The trees were brushed in shades of gray as breaks in the clouds revealed a soft glow of color behind bald white peaks. I took a deep breath of cool, moist air and wondered, "How can I leave this place?"

A clever reporter called it "Bloody Monday," the day when American companies announced they were axing 55,000 jobs in a single day. My boss pulled me into his office and pulled out a thick stack of papers bound by a big black clamp. "All of these are the resumes I've received for your job," he said. (my current job, the one I've already quit.) He reached in his drawer and pulled out another thick stack of papers. "These are for (the new job, the one I'm being offered.) We've received resumes from Washington, New York, Texas, Florida, even journalists overseas. Most of them were laid off. Now they're ready to come all the way to Juneau, Alaska." He set his thick stacks of papers down and smiled his most disarming manager smile. "All I'm asking is for you to make this really simple for me. Trust me, there aren't a lot of jobs for journalists out there."

What kept looping through my head all day was an ad campaign for Best Buy that captured my attention over the holidays: "You, Happier." It was a memorable slogan, but not particularly effective for a person like me. All I saw when I looked at those ads was: "You, with a Playstation," or "You, paying $99 a month." Either way, nothing changes. You're still you.

"You, with a new job." What would that really mean? I'd still drive a 1996 Geo Prism, ride my Karate Monkey and my Pugsley, live in a two-bedroom apartment with a roommate and four cats. I wouldn't change those things because I already enjoy my life and what I have, and I wouldn't have any real reason to change them. So what were the sloganeers at Best Buy hiding from me? "You, in management." "You, never able to climb to the top of Mount Roberts on a weekday again." "You, with a slightly larger stockpile of money." "You, on a career path that may not be the best one for you." "You, Busier."

There are really only two forces inside myself at odds right now: The force that loves newspapers and loves community journalism and yes, loves to work. And on the other side, the force that leads me to believe that time is the most valuable thing in this life, and all money is good for is buying more of it. It's a happy problem to have - too many choices. And I am a truly lucky person. Not just for the opportunities I have, and for the confused but unconditional support extended to me by my friends and family, but also for the confidence I have in myself. Because when I finally reach a decision, I'll know it must be the right one.

Conflicted

Date: Jan. 24 and 25
Mileage: 11 and 42.2
January mileage: 686.7
Temperature upon departure: 16 and 15

Frost had started to form on my sweat-soaked hair as I heaved my bike over a four-foot cliff and stepped gingerly onto ice-coated roots to climb up beside it. I gasped and grunted and pushed the bike's rear wheel forward while I clawed at petrified snow with my bare fingers. I stopped to catch my breath and look up at the trail - a continuing series of steep "steps" just like it. As a hike, the lower portion of the Mount Jumbo trail is a relaxing jaunt through the woods to gain 500 feet in a half mile. Throw in a big, awkward bike, and it becomes quite the grind.

But I knew it was all worth it because at the top of that small climb lay the Mount Jumbo muskeg - a fairly large area of stunted trees and open space that was, for now, covered in the most ideal kind of concrete snow. The kind of snow that's so smooth and icy hard that you don't even need a packed trail to ride your bike. You can go wherever your heart takes you. You can weave through trees, circle up a hill and back down, lock up your brakes and spin donuts. You can do anything you want. The world is your trail.

As I crested the last pitch, I set my bike down at the edge of the muskeg and wavered a second. I took a deep breath. I thought of Ken Kifer. Ken Kifer was a prolific Internet author and career bicycle tourist who was tragically killed by a drunk driver in September 2003. Back in 2002, when I was barely a skilled enough cyclist to keep two tires on the road but aspired to become a long-distance bicycle tourist, I considered Ken Kifer my mentor. I read his extensive site from start to end and e-mailed him for advice, which he was always kind enough to give. One anecdote that particularly resonated with me was an exchange — of which I'm sure he had dozens like it — with a person who questioned how a 50-something-year-old man could afford to devote so much time to traveling by bicycle.

"I've never had much money," Ken replied, "so I've never had much need for it."

The doubter scoffed. "Well, I wish I could ride my bicycle all the time."

To which Ken replied, "Why don't you?"

Ken's words struck deep as I moved to make major changes in my life in 2003 - quit my job, explore Alaska, ride my $300 Ibex bicycle across the country. I wanted to live my life like Ken. I wanted to earn miles, not dollars. I wanted to to accumulate experiences, not stuff. Not because miles and experiences are necessarily superior to dollars and stuff, or even mutually exclusive. But I was enamored with miles and experiences. I did not care about dollars and stuff.

This simple truth creeps back in as Geoff and I discuss our future. We have, for a while now, been formulating our exit strategy to leave Juneau. We wanted to move back to Southcentral Alaska, a more centralized, less-isolated region from which to conduct future adventures. There are, of course, many pros and cons to shifting from Juneau to Anchorage. But it was easy to think about back in September, when the rain never stopped coming and the promise of endless opportunity loomed large around the big city. Then the economy landed in the toilet, the newspaper industry settled even lower, and Geoff and I started to talk about not only leaving Juneau, but going away, for six months or so .... Out ... to briefly let go of our grip on dollars and stuff in the pursuit of miles and experiences.

The more we talked about it, the easier and more appealing it sounded. The terrible economy actually pushed our drive. "I've never had much money," I pictured myself saying to concerned family members, "so I guess I don't have much need for it." I gave notice to my employer some months ago. I thought a long resignation notice would give them the time they needed to make the transition as smooth as possible, and possibly give me a bridge back if I needed it, once my dollars and stuff dry out. Instead, the long notice has given them ample time to try to prevent the exit altogether. My new boss, a driven reformer whose workaholism I respect because I believe work is what he truly loves, told me, "I'll give you an offer you can't refuse." I was offered a raise, which I refused. I was offered a better raise, which I refused. Then my boss came back recently with a promotion - a big one - and a raise - a startling one. I would have to work 60 hours a week under my current salary to earn it. "I'll even give you a month of unpaid leave for your race," he said.

The promotion would be salary pay instead of hourly pay. I strongly suspect my 40-hour workweek would eventually increase, possibly significantly. I would be working days, which wouldn't just put a dent in my current cycling adventure habits. It would put them in a shredder. Except for the brightest months of summer, I would either have to ride a lot in the dark, a lot indoors, or quite a bit less than a lot. Much in my life would change, but many parts, maybe not the best parts, would stay the same.

And yet, I have temptations. I have doubts.

In many ways, I feel like I have been pushing my bike up the Mount Jumbo Trail for several years now. Sweat is frozen to my hair and I'm gasping for air, but through the last row of thick forest I can see that frozen muskeg, smooth and inviting and glistening in the noon sun. Only now I face a choice. I can set out onto the frozen muskeg, ride wherever I want to ride, go wherever I want to go, on seemingly endless but actually finite trails of my own making. Or, I can continue on the same steep forest trail, pushing my bike further up the mountain, with the hope that there is something even better up higher.

I'm fearful because I don't know where I should go.

I'm even more fearful because I think maybe I do.

Happy to be home

Date: Jan. 22 and 23
Mileage: 16 and 100.4
January mileage: 633.5
Temperature upon departure: 11 and 15

We were 30,000 feet over Yakutat after another brutally long, overnight flight from Kona to Honolulu to Anchorage en route to Juneau when the clouds started to clear. I gazed with chest-tightening awe over the ice field below, shimmering pink in the morning sun as glaciers flowed like suspended-motion whitewater rivers around the coastal mountains. My forehead was pressed against the window when a flight attendant came on the intercom and said, "If you're reading a book or looking at a computer, you better put it down and look out the window right now, because it doesn't get any more beautiful than this." I realized that she was right. Hawaii is beautiful; often stunningly beautiful. But it's true when they say there's no place like home.

My total sleep on that endurance flight amounted to about an hour and a half, tops, and I was already seeing double when we arrived in Juneau at 9:30 a.m. We stepped out of the airport for our first taste of outside air since Kona - 10 degrees and sustained 25 mph wind driving the windchill below zero. It felt 80, maybe 90 degrees cooler than the warm breeze over the Pacific the night before. We were still in our Hawaii clothes. "Ga! It got cold again!" I yelped, and ducked quickly into my roommate's car.

But beyond the chill, the day was absolutely beautiful, and I knew that sleep deprivation is one of the skills I have to hone for the ITI. So after we arrived home and unpacked just a bit, I headed out for a bike ride.

My roommate told me the week before, a "Pineapple Express" direct from Hawaii had blasted Alaska with unbelievably warm temperatures. He said the temperature rose to 55 degrees in Juneau, about the same temperature it was in Honolulu the night Geoff ran the HURT 100. The warm temps brought rain on top of the old snow, which had refrozen to concrete-like consistency. You can hardly ask for better snow-biking conditions.

I quickly adjusted to the huge temperature drop and headed up the Dan Moller trail. The trail is steep enough that I can only ride up the majority of it in the most supreme conditions. Thursday had those conditions. I sweated and gasped my way up five miles of crust, stopped at the Ski Bowl and turned around, almost shaking with nervousness about the idea of dropping 2,000 feet in five miles on a trail that's roughly as hard as a sidewalk. But as soon as I let off the brakes, I was caught up in the rush of pure, well-earned speed. I caught several blips of accidental-but-sweet air off the snowmobile moguls and careened through pockets of sunlight as spruce trees whirred past. It was so, so fun. Worth any amount of sleep deprivation.

Today I set out for a long ride. Last week, while Geoff and I were waiting for our rental car in Kona, we ran into Jeff Oatley, a cyclist and ITI veteran who lives in Fairbanks. It was yet another completely random and unlikely encounter of which we had several during our stay in Hawaii. We talked for a bit about the race. Jeff asked me how many "hundred milers" I was doing in prep for this year's ITI. "You know," I told him, "I don't think I've done any hundred-mile rides yet."

Today I set out in below-zero windchills, on my Karate Monkey because ice conditions are so treacherous right now. But I felt great, completely fresh - probably because I'm coming off a week of serious tapering - and decided that maybe today would be the day to go for 100 miles.

It was not easy. Five miles from the end of the road, all road maintenance ended, and the leftover snowcover was deeply rutted and frozen solid. I found a snowmobile trail off to the side and used that, but even that was so hard and rutted that my arms started to hurt from lack of front suspension, and I nearly bucked myself off my bike twice before I finally made it back to the relative safety of ice-covered pavement. I drifted through various levels of sleepiness but mustered up the courage to cut away from the direct route home and ride the spur I needed to complete to net 100 miles. I actually started to feel good again as I returned, only to run over a tack with my front wheel and discover that I stupidly had not put my tire levers back in my pack after the Hawaii trip. My options were to try to remove a tight studded tire on a metal rim with my bare fingers in below-zero windchill ... or walk three miles home. I chose the walk. It actually felt good at first ... warmed my feet right up ... but quickly became a tedious march that seemed to never end. I returned home just over nine hours after I left ... still not a bad time for a winter century. What's more important to me than the mileage is simply spending that long out in the subfreezing weather, eating frozen Clif Bars and drinking instant-brain-freeze slushy water. And pushing my bike for a fair distance. That's the experience that counts.