Closer to fine

Spring is creeping closer; the sun is up until 7; and I am starting to think about riding again. It's a tough decision and I'm not sure how to make it - where do you draw the line between smartly conservative and borderline hypochondriac? At the same time, where do you draw the line between doable and reckless?

There's not a lot of sports advice about frostbite and activity out there. One might wonder how a few measly blisters on toes would even prevent a person from riding a bicycle in the first place. My problem is the injury cuts a little deeper than skin-deep. Circulation has for the most part returned to my foot, but left in its wake strange sensations and pains. The lower half of my foot is at once numb and hyper-sensitive. A burning sensation has become a constant. I still can't put much weight on my toes without streaks of pain. But I can press down flat-footed indefinitely. So I can walk with only a slight limp, but I can't negotiate much in the way of inclines.

I've been running 90-minute interval sessions on the elliptical machine at the gym most days, with a little weight-lifting thrown in. It's a good hard workout in a short time, but there's not much variety in the routine, and nothing to really help me hold my endurance. I can also press down on pedals easily. Riding a bike should be fine as long as I can keep my foot warm and completely dry. But still, I have reservations about venturing outside. One, I can't feel my toes very well and wouldn't know if they were becoming too cold. And two, it's difficult to keep my feet dry even with overboots (In my three years in Juneau, I've become totally complacent about riding around for hours in 35-degrees-and-raining weather with wet feet. I think this complacency may have contributed to me not treating my wet foot with the urgency it deserved during the race. 35 degrees with wet feet is one thing. 20 below is another.)

Right now roads are pretty dry, but more rain, snow and snow melt is on the way. Spring generally creates consistently wet riding conditions, which complicate things. I plan to discuss cycling with my doctor, but I'm worried she's going to tell me to just ride the bike at the gym (I can't handle that thing for more than 30 minutes before saddle sores set in.) I sold my bike trainer earlier this year because I was convinced I'd never be tempted to use it again, so I don't even have that as an option. I want my doctor to give me the OK to set out for six-hour rides, but I have a feeling the answer is going to be "Um, better not ..."

But really, the fact that I am even thinking about the option of riding, and not scheduling surgeries, is an optimistic boost. I'm trying to be patient, and directing my energy into my new 50-hour work week. But overwork just doesn't churn out the same rewards as working out. And I've never been too enamored with the virtue of patience. :-)

Shifting focus

No biking means I've had more down time these past two weeks. Most of that time, unfortunately, seems to trickle into the office (I've found that less biking in fact results in less photography, writing, and most of my other more fulfilling pastimes.) But I have been able to allot some of my downtime to going through my stuff and skimming off the bottom. It's amazing how a person can move to Alaska with only the things they can fit in a Geo Prism, and three and a half years later end up with rooms full of gear. But assessing some of the stuff that has survived my myriad moves has been fun and nostalgic. A random scattering of 4x6 disposable camera prints are right at the top of the fun list: things I can't believe I still have but can't imagine throwing away.

Above is a picture of me as a 17-year-old at the Hurricane (pronounced "Her'kun") Dunes, more commonly known as Sand Hollow, in southwestern Utah. The Her'kun Dunes were the ultimate escape when I was a teenager - so close to Zion National Park that they were practically in the shadow of the massive cliffs, but so unknown that we only saw the occasional local pass through on a four-wheeler. My three BFFs and I would cut out of class on some Friday in early spring, load up Liz's Chevy Cavalier with our $10 sleeping bags, spring-bar tent and enough Doritos and Dr. Pepper to stock a convenience store. We'd stream down I-15 with our feet out the window, highway jet stream drying the toenails we had just painted blue and silver, listening to the radio until the signal cut out, then popping in Tarrah's garbled Atom and his Package bootleg tape, singing to the desert wind - "I had a dream when I was in high school, that I attended the Punk Rock Academy and no one made fun of me." The Cavalier would rattle down some half-washed-out dirt road until we arrived at our retreat, where piles of red sand swept against a mottled outcropping of sandstone. We'd weave through the red-rock maze, dance barefoot in the sand, play a genuine game of hide and seek like kindergarteners on summer vacation, and launch ourselves off 10-foot cliffs because nothing below could hurt us.

After dark, the moon and marshmallows came out. We built fires out of flash-flood driftwood, juniper and sage. The savory sweet smoke reminded us we were a long way from home. Reflections of flames flickered on the ragged walls, dancing like tamarisk in a cool desert breeze. "This is the most beautiful place on Earth," I would say, shamelessly quoting Ed Abbey. We all knew it wasn't, but it was our most beautiful place, because it seemed to reach only us, and we belonged there, and it, somehow, belonged to us.

The last trip we took to the Her'kun Dunes, sometime shortly after high school graduation, we found the access road half-paved. That was the trip we learned there were plans to build a reservoir. "They're gonna drown all them dunes," a woman at the grocery store checkout told us. Much of our redrock playground had been fenced off. We spent the rest of our weekend in Zion National Park never went back. But I read in the newspaper in summer 2000 that the state started work on the dam. I remember choking up a little.

Beyond occasionally bringing up Sand Hollow Reservoir as an example of the evils of St. George golf courses, I hadn't given the Her'kun Dunes much thought in the years passed. Bigger, better places came along, places set farther away from civilization where no one could drive a four-wheeler if they tried. Somewhere along there, the landscape of my imagination shifted from red-sand deserts to wind-swept tundra. But lately, this now-inundated patch of land has been creeping back into my dreams. I can almost feel the cool sand streaming through my fingers, almost taste the air surrounding our bon fires: sage brush, hot dogs ... freedom. It reminds me that a place can be long gone and still exist in memories. And maybe, in a world where nothing stays the same anyway, that's what really matters.

I've been trying to figure out why I don't feel more depressed right now. I hit a pretty big low point for the year last March, the year I had actually completed the ITI, that one event I had dedicated an entire winter to and had a somewhat successful first go at. This year I dropped out of the ITI the first day, injured myself in the process, haven't ridden a bike or even really been outside since; I'm working longer hours, combing through my stuff with an eye and getting rid of a good bulk of it ... and yet, in all honesty, I'm not all that bummed out.

And think it's because of the desert, and a little dry cabin down on a nondescript patch of sand near Teasdale, Utah, where Geoff and I plan to spend the late spring and early part of summer. This isn't goodbye to Alaska or even to Juneau. It's just a "furlough" as my ex-Army boss calls it, to I place where I can reconnect roots and regenerate strength, and hopefully grow experiences that can never be submerged.

New skin

I started with the recumbent bike and moved to the upright bike, spinning easy circles beneath the florescent lights of the gym. Ten days isn't a long time but it feels eternal, and the dull passing of time was wearing holes into my resolve to take it slow. By the third day of my renewed gym membership, I had crawled my way over to the elliptical machine, toeless surgery boot strapped to one foot, pressing down on my heel until I hit a good glide. I poured sweat onto the plastic machine and felt like I could sprint forever. Good. Alive. Happy to be out again, even if only inside.

I took a bath and changed all my dressings so my doctor wouldn't suspect anything, but she did.

"You've been getting this wet?" she scolded me as she pressed down on the wrinkled white skin on top of my foot.

"Maybe a little sweat," I said. "Or slush. It's been nasty outside."

"You shouldn't be walking around outside," she said. "You still have your crutches?" I nodded. "Good. Did you get the aloe vera cream?"

"Oh, um, I haven't had a chance yet."

"You haven't had a chance? What have you been doing all this time? These are your toes."

"Sorry. I forgot."

She finished unwrapping my bandages to reveal the deep purple skin that has been darkening by the day. I let out a loud sigh. "It's not looking good, is it?"

"It's going to get darker," she said. She took out a small razor and poked my big toe with the tip. "Can you feel that?"

I sighed again. "No."

"Well, it feels pretty soft," she said. "I'm going to look inside."

She sliced the blade in and began carving a straight line around my dull blue toenail. She rounded the outside edge and pressed down harder.

"Does that hurt?"

"I can feel it, but it doesn't hurt."

"That's a pretty major callous you have right there."

"Thanks. I've been working on it for at least two years. It's my Juneau mountain callous."

"Yeah, well you're going to lose it." She carved out the hard yellow mass and set it aside. She moved around the back of my toe and carved along the bottom, coming up the other side of the dead toenail and meeting the edge where she started. She lifted the blister from the back of my toe and said "wow."

"What is it?" I asked. "What do you see?"

"Look at this," she said as she peeled back the purple skin. "This is moving along very quickly." Beneath the blackened veneer of frostbite was a layer of dark pink tissue, smooth and wet like the skin of a newborn.

"That's new baby skin," she said. "Completely healthy." She smiled.

I looked down at my newly pink toe and smiled back. I don't think I've ever been so proud of what my body can do.