Dodging the pain

Have you ever pinched a nerve? I think I may have, last night, while I was sleeping. I was tossing and turning in semi-awareness of a murky dream and then I bolted wide awake, vibrating with excrutiating pain that radiated out of my lower right shoulder blade. After several seconds, it went numb, but as soon as I moved, the searing pain shot through my body again, as though my shoulder was hooked up to electric cables triggered by movement. It was early, about 7 a.m., five hours after I went to sleep. I got up and paced around my room, reaching over with my good arm and massaging my back, trying to coax away the streaks of pain that would leave me frozen in place, moaning out loud. If I relaxed, the numbness returned, but not for long. I laid back down. I sat up. I paced some more. Nothing I did brought me any kind of comfort.

A couple hours passed. I read a book, standing, pacing, leaning against the door. The sun came up. The sky was clear and beautiful, and I was annoyed, because I really wanted to get out today. The pain was subsiding, with longer periods of numbness, but discomfort lingered, as did the periods of acute burning sensations. I sat on the bed and tried every position I could think of. I stretched and flexed. I held out my arms and clenched my fists, and as I started to sense a level of comfort, I realized I was perched in a position that was very similar to the one I make while riding my bicycle.

So I went for a bike ride. It will sound totally crazy but standing, sitting, even laying down caused me pain, but I didn't feel a thing as I pedaled up the road. Sometimes I would stand out of the saddle or lean hard into a turn, and the pain would streak through, but as long as I held steady, I felt comfortable. The temperature was 25 degrees - cold therapy. And since I suspected my injury was more annoying than serious, I kept at it, all three and a half hours I had left until I had to get ready for work - about 45 miles.

I'm not saying I believe the bike ride actually helped. As soon as I stepped off the bike at my front porch, the resulting streak of pain was so intense that for a minute I thought I might black out. And I couldn't muster that wherewithal to ignore the pain long enough to actually lift my bike up on the porch, so I just wheeled it behind the house. But I don't think the bike ride necessarily hurt, and it gave me several hours of much-needed relief. I popped some painkillers and my shoulder continued to throb, but the pain subsided over the course of the day. Still not sure what is causing this injury ... maybe it is a delayed reaction to a crash I took onto hard ice on my snow bike yesterday, or maybe I really did pinch a nerve in my sleep.

But the lesson here is, I think, as I work out the kinks in my life, my body is telling me to stay on the bike.

Sunday, Pugsley Sunday

This seems to be inadvertently becoming a tradition ... the last day of the week rolls around and I sleep in, eat a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast, finally make an effort to look out the window and note that the weather is actually pretty nice, and head out with Pugsley for a relaxing late morning/early afternoon hunt for rare pockets of snowbiking. A recent long thaw means everything at sea level is pretty much bare. Must climb.

Lake Creek Trail - which in the summer isn't actually a trail, so most everything beneath the snow is undeveloped terrain. Climbing to snow means clearing the myriad obstacles - clumps of frozen muskeg grass, rolling glare ice streams and flake-frosted mud. Much of it involves mountain bike moves as technical as any I've ever tried, on uphill slopes as steep as any I've ever climbed, and yet I try them, despite rather painful falls on hard ground that await me, because I have this delusion that Pugsley is invincible.

I was hoping for more hard crust in the meadows but I guess conditions stayed pretty wintry up there this week. This is my best attempt to ride downhill through the fluff. I'm not sure how much I was still moving when the self-timer clicked.

Elusive winter singletrack. Day-old ski tracks sometimes make great bike trails, but they're so narrow that the swerve-margin is near zero. Skiers usually have dogs that punch deep holes in the track and make it very difficult to hold a straight line.

No matter. Half the fun is in trying. Furrowing my brow, biting my bottom lip and funneling every ounce of available concentration into 30 continuous feet of riding is surprisingly satisfying.

Frost feathers. Today was also the day I discovered that the "super macro" setting on the Olympus Stylus isn't half bad.

But frost has a way of even making the ugliest patches of nutrient-starved muskeg look enticing. The temperature today held steady in the 20s, which feels downright toasty compared to 35 and raining (you'll note in the self portrait that I wore neither a hat nor gloves, at least until I started bombing downhill.) I wish it could be Pugsley Sunday every day.

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First day of sun

Yesterday was Juneau's 51st consecutive day of precipitation. Fifty one wet days. Rain, snow, sleet, slush and snain - sometimes just a trace, sometimes close to two inches of water, sometimes nearly letting an entire 24-hour period pass between squalls, but never completely, not quite. A lot happens in 51 days. Fall leaves wither and disintegrate. Friendships spark and fade. Snow falls and accumulates. Relationships begin and end. Fifty one days.

And then the sun comes out, and it promises not to leave again for a while, and you squint into its glaring light, and you're not even sure how to react, because an entire season rolled over while it flickered noncommitally, and even now that it's set to stick around, it's too late, it's December, it can only linger low on the horizon for six hours a day. No matter. Those of us wedged in the tight spaces between the mountains and the sea don't have the luxury of choosing our sunshine. We take what we're given, and we cherish every second.

My former roommate, Shannon, and I decided to celebrate the first day of sun with a trek up Mount Jumbo. We haven't really seen each other since I left for Utah in April, so it was a good day to get together. We're similarly struck right now, caught between strange hiccups in our lives, holding our breaths a little too long, hoping that when our heads stop pounding and lungs stop gasping, we'll finally breathe easy. When we last lived at the Cliff House in March, life was different for both of us, quieter. I was hobbling around on crutches and Shannon still ate sugar. Now he goes out for 22-mile runs training for nothing and I'm addicted to elevation, otherwise directionless. Five times 51 days.

We did the snowshoe thing, tough work for runners and cyclists alike, but at the same time so mindless that we could spend lots of time commiserating, joking and gaping at golden hints of sunlight against a cerulean sky.

Mount Jumbo. A familiar place, but not so much now. I must have climbed at least the first section of it close to 51 times during my tenure at the Cliff House. But I've never been up here in December, with snow shoved in every crevice and 12-foot-tall trees reduced to nubs. The wind-scoured, hardpacked surface crust kept us off the summit ridge - Shannon only had small running snowshoes and nothing more. So we stopped at the saddle.

No disappointment. On a day as bright as today, it doesn't really matter what you're doing. There are no goals, unless being out in the clear cold air counts as a goal. We settled in a wide spot of direct sun at 2,600 feet. Shannon snapped iPhone pictures and I plied him with king-sized peanut butter Twix bars. "Can I tempt you with refined sugar?" I asked. "Gimme," he said, and devoured two with a wide grin.

We laughed in the stark light as beads of sweat froze solid on our faces and frost stiffened around our fleece jackets. We pulled on coats, hats and gloves, sipped slushy water and fought to linger high on the mountain even as the chill gripped our cores. Sun invited us up and then refused to provide anything but views - cold and uncaring, noncommital to the end.

No matter, we make our own warmth. Sun just gives us perspective, and reason to hope.