Good morning sun

The air was thick and saturated when I rode home at 1:15 a.m. last night. I cut through the cloud, draped in the blissful silence and blue glow of the hours that are neither today nor tomorrow, the solitude hours. Water vapor swirled in the beam of my headlamp, collecting on my clothes until I was so wet that it might as well have been raining. I smiled and breathed in sweet, damp air until I could almost taste the perfect day ahead. The are a lot of standard definitions that Juneau weather isn't (fair, dry, comfortable), but one thing it is, is predictable. Fog in the night means sun in the light.

I will go to great, great lengths to experience the little tastes of stark clear skies that Juneau is willing to send my way - not because they're unique, but because they're transcendent. So I was upset that Monday just happened to be the day I had a long block of meetings scheduled in the morning, starting at 10 a.m., followed by my normal work day that promised to keep me locked in an office building for at least 13 hours. I was not about to let that beat me. I set my alarm for 6 a.m., four hours after I went to sleep, for no real reason besides the promise of sunlight.

Even though clear skies over fog is the norm, it still requires a certain leap of faith to slouch out of bed in the gray light of dawn, look out over a yard still obscured behind a curtain of fog, with the neighborhood beyond completely shrouded, and assume that you will find UV rays if you climb. But that's what I did - because I was short on time, with my bike, up the Eaglecrest Road - and that's what I found. It did not take long.

Gray low, spectacular high.

Eventually, later in the day, this will all burn off and everyone will get sunlight. But in the early morning air, atop a frost-crusted mountain, the sun seemed to still belong only to me.

I did a little bit of hike-a-biking, trying to connect pieces of singletrack along the ridge. I was walking down a steep slope with my bike on my shoulder, when I reached a particularly marshy spot and put my bike down so I could stoop low to negotiate it. But I slipped before I was all the way down, skidding down the slope about five feet and losing my grip on my bike, which was propped up on its wheels. It rolled at least 20 feet by itself before toppling and flipping over the edge of a rocky outcropping. I watched in horror as it bounced like a crumpled can and disappeared into a void. I bolted up and foot-skied down the slope until I caught up to it. Luckily, damage was fairly minimal. The fall bent the poplock, snapped the fork-lockout cable and housing, and broke the back brake lever. I played with the cable until I was able to jam it back in the lever enough to get the brake to work again, a little, so I could at least get down the mountain. But, man, what a stupid fall! At least my body wasn't involved.

Then it was back down to the fog, the gray, the 13-hour workday on four hours of sleep. But I felt victorious because I had been out there, in the sun, and no one could take that away from me.

I used my dinner break to head out to my new apartment to pick up a key and drop off a few things. Moving day is tomorrow, or whenever I have time to actually do it (more 10 a.m. meetings tomorrow, Wednesday and Thursday.) It will be my first permanent residence in five months. I have been dreading it in some ways, because I will be living alone for the first time in four years, and it is out there - a fair distance from both work and town. But this picture, this is it - my new front yard, Fritz Cove. And as I stood here today, looking at a fresh dusting of snow on Stroller White, I felt a new sense of peace, and anticipation. Change is good.

It always rains on a picnic

On Friday, the weather turned beautiful (but still windy) and I got in an 85-mile ride. It was my longest ride since the Soggy Bottom, and my most solid bike effort since the Tour Divide ended. I felt pretty good. The Achilles pain is gone. I love the Herbert Glacier Trail. I don't care if it's "too easy." Smooth, wide gravel means I can pump the Karate Monkey up to 18 mph and weave through the moss-draped trees amid bright yellow devil's club leaves and imagine I'm flying one of those cruisers in that scene from "Star Wars."

Still, my mountain madness hasn't abated. Every time a ridgeline came into view through a narrow clearing in the trees, I couldn't help but stop and squint and wonder about the route to the top. I imagined ditching my bike and bushwhacking through the woods until I found a good drainage and clawing my way up to unnamed peaks. Same thing on the way home. The sky just became clearer and clearer until I was pounding into a 15 mph headwind through Lemon Creek, gazing up at Heinzelman Ridge until I nearly swerved into traffic, and thinking "Man, what am I doing down here?"

Throughout the day, between the bike ride and dinner and going to see my friend Christina star in the new Perseverance Theatre play, I stopped at home to check Geoff's progress in the Wasatch 100. The race was pretty exciting to "watch." Geoff dominated all day, holding off a six-time winner of that race, as well as a few other guys who are widely considered some of the best ultrarunners in the United States, and in the end obliterating the course record by more than an hour. He finished in 18:30, in a race that few thought would ever see a breaking of the 19-hour barrier. I'm really proud of him. I'm guessing this was the race of his life (no, I haven't talked to him.) Regardless of our history, I think I'm justified in being a "fan" of his. He may not like me anymore, but he really is an incredible athlete, and, anyway, both of our lives are going pretty well right now.

Sean and I hiked Mount Juneau this morning. We left under mostly clear skies, so much so that I put on sunscreen and sunglasses, and summitted an hour and a half later in a downpour. By the time we returned to the trailhead, clouds had descended to near sea level. Storms sink in fast here in Juneau.

I am planning my third Golden Circle tour at the end of this month, which I am really excited about. I still have to get back into bike shape (at the end of my Thursday hurricane ride, I discovered I had sustained a saddle sore, an actual saddle sore!) But it's good to have something to look forward to. Now if I could only recommit myself to my writing. Four weeks and I haven't even gotten through the first chapter.

Bikecstacy

Rain was hitting the window sideways when I suited up for my ride - polar fleece, plastic coat, hat, neoprene gloves, rain pants and Xtratufs. Dry feet are important to me these days, but I dislike wearing Xtratufs. I know it's going to be a rough day when I have to resort to Xtratufs.

I wheeled my bike out into the hard wind and driving rain, not stoked about riding but determined to at least try to rebuild my saddle callouses and spinning legs ahead of a planned Golden Circle tour at the end of the month. Too much hiking/running makes bikers' butts soft. Time to get it in gear. Just in time for beautiful weather - 51 degrees, 30 mph east winds, and a 100 percent chance of rain.

I put my head down and rode up to Eaglecrest because, well, it's a place to go. As I climbed, the wind picked up force until it was swirling all around in apocalyptic proportions. I clenched my teeth and plowed into the deafening roar as it pushed me left and right and I sometimes, I swear, backwards. Rain stung my cheeks and poked my eyes and I started to feel nervous in that way that I do when I'm out in weather that is clearly much more powerful than I am. Fog was streaming through the air like a fire hose. I swerved to and fro in the water blast, with my front tire scraping the toes of those stupid giant Xtratufs, just trying to keep it in line until it was finally time to turn around.

Gusting air pushed at my back as I bounded down the rough gravel, picking up a momentum that rivaled the wind speed. The parking lot below the gravel road was shrouded in a thick cloud, so much so that I couldn't see the pavement until I was on it. As I began to drop down the canyon, a roaring gust of wind barreled up from behind me until it was right on top of me, pushing me, faster and faster, until the wind and I reached an eerie sort of equilibrium. Everything went quiet. It was right at that moment that I blasted out of the fog, with a sweeping view of the canyon and the mountains across the Channel, through a curtain of sideways rain that made everything look like it was shimmering. All around me, tree branches were whipping; grass was flattened against the ground; and I was floating through a bubble of calm. I felt weightless, freed of all friction and resistance, riding in perfect harmony with the wind. My odometer registered 43 mph. My heart pounded. I sucked in fast gulps of air. My whole body vibrated, consumed by an almost overwhelming feeling of elation ... bikecstacy.

The best part about it is that it always hits when you least expect it.