Miles to go before she sleeps

Flounder, you can't spend your whole life worrying about your mistakes! 
You fucked up ... you trusted us!
—Otter, "Animal House" 

With 100 miles behind her, Heather finishes a climb outside Seward.

About a year and a half ago, my friend Heather fucked up. After drinking a lot of wine, she trusted me. When she woke up the next morning, I'm pretty sure she was filled with self-loathing.

Because the previous night, she had agreed to ride the Fireweed 200 with me this year. 

Heather realizes what she has done.

In her entire life, she had never ridden 100 miles in a day. And I had spent years saying there is never a valid reason to ride more than 100 miles at a time. But in the dark recesses of my twisted mind, something wanted to ride 200.

Correction: Something wanted to have ridden 200 miles in a day.

Now we're three weeks out from this year's Fireweed. Heather has been following a structured training program since January. I've been following my usual "ride my ass off and see what happens" training program. Her husband, Ken, has surely been muttering unpleasant things about both of us under his breath, and regretting the fact he didn't step in and stop me as I talked her into this shit while he was stretched out on the floor six feet away. 

On Friday, Heather and I both took the day off and rode 122 miles to Seward. Now she tells me that we have to spend next Saturday riding 160 miles from Anchorage to Hope and back.

Last night, after the wine was poured, a laptop was opened and we both became official entrants in the 200.

And the weird part is, I think we're actually ready to do this thing.

Or at least I sure as shit hope we are. 

Thanks

Ken and Julie rock the SAG wagon.

The Fireweed 200 ain't easy. Rough pavement and hard climbs beat up your body. Brutal headwinds punish your muscles and your morale. Huge, nasty, wheel-grabbing cracks in the asphalt never let you relax. But a good crew can keep you going with calories, electrolytes, painkillers and encouraging humor.

This year's event is history, and I'm sure I'll have another blog post or two as I sort through the memories, but for now I'll just say thanks to the crew that helped Heather and I keep pedaling when the shit hit the fan. (And it was a big fan, that blew hard.)

Ken is the guy who lives with the mixed blessing of being married to Heather. It's a mixed blessing because he's lucky to be married to her, but he also has to occasionally put up with her agreeing to do silly shit like this with me. 

Julie is the kind person and tough athlete who happens to be one of our best friends. She didn't have to be there on Saturday. But she was, and I was very grateful.

Until a person has experienced endurance events from both the saddle of a bike and the seat of a support car, it's hard to fully appreciate the importance of a good crew, and how hard they work. They do selfless work, tolerate racers' mood swings, and put in long hours to help friends reach the finish line. They are indispensable.

Saturday was a damn hard day. These two are a big reason Heather and I got through the longest ride of our lives.

Digital Divas

Holy friggin' flip-offs, boys and girls, business is booming in the Fabulous Finger Gallery! With three great new photos in my inbox, I figured it's time for an All-finger Day here at Bicycles & Icicles. Before we begin, let's pause for a moment of silence in recognition of the woman who helped start it all nearly three years ago ... my good friend Heather.

Heather's so proud of her role in this fine use of the Internet that I think she lists it on her resume, as well she should. And with that formality behind us, let's get to the goodies:

Today's first shot comes from Miner's Rock in Lake Leatherwood, Arkansas, courtesy of my brother Matt and his Midwestern crew during their recent trip into the Ozarks. Their rides included places like Slaughter Pen Hollow. In other words, you might not want to ask too many questions.

And next we have the first of two pics from the White Rim Trail. This one's courtesy of Mountain Bike Anchorage author Rose Austin, who recently completed her usual fall tour of great riding destinations in the Southwest. Welcome back to the land of ice, Rose.

And last today—but far from least—we have the pleasure of a whole bevy of mountain-biking babes lettin' the birds fly during their White Rim ride. It's Anchorage's own Dirt Divas on tour. Divas, a desert sunset and Fat Tire ale ... damn good combination, if you ask me.

Kitty

One of the great things about a trail ride is that even if you’re lacking motivation, you’ll rarely regret it if you push yourself off your ass and get out on your bike. Another great thing is that you never know when something truly incredible is going to happen.

Sunday wasn’t looking good. My wrist and thumb were aching from some mysterious injury. Minor muscle spasms were threatening to wreck my back if they got worse. I didn’t know of anyone headed out for a ride, and the trails were melting fast. Fortunately, Heather—yes, the one who’s always flipping me off—was ready for a ride while The Huber recovered from a day of that funny game in which people chase a little black disc all over a big sheet of ice.

It was a gloriously beautiful, sunny day. And then, as we rolled down Speedway singletrack, a big lynx calmly walked across the trail, right in front of me. This is a rare and thrilling thing.

I stopped to alert Heather as she rolled up from behind.

Then two more lynx (or lynxes, if you prefer) stepped out of the forest and onto the trail, following the first one through an area with plenty of snowshoe hare tracks dotting the snow. In the 13 years I’ve lived in Alaska, I’d seen a total of two lynx, and one of those was just a furry rump diving into the brush. Now I had three of them just a few yards away.

And then a fourth one stepped into view. It turned left and walked 10 or 15 feet on the trail right in front of us, then stepped off and followed its friends. We ditched our bikes and moved forward on foot, managing to get a couple of brief sightings as the foursome walked through spruce trees, making their way southward.

I don’t know what the odds are for for something like this, but I’d put them in the “damn unlikely” category. When she learned of this encounter, my friend Bev replied that during 31 years in Alaska, she’d never managed to spot a single lynx. And I’ve never heard of anyone seeing two or more at one time. I never even bothered to pull out my camera, because I thought each lynx I saw was going to be the last.

My wrist still hurts. The ride probably didn’t do it any good, but there's always ibuprofen.

It was worth the pain. Because I could have skipped that ride. And, chances are, I’ll spend the rest of my life in Alaska and never see something like that again.

Back from the 2008 Fireweed

Despite having this tongue-wagging* lardass cross the finish line on its behalf, Team Uranus Titans finished Saturday's Fireweed 200 in 10 hours, 14 minutes, 12 seconds. That was good enough for 8th place among 37 teams in the 4-person mixed relay division—not a bad result for a squad that would have been happy with middle of the pack.

A couple of team members suggested that maybe our strong performance was a sign that we should get serious enough to actually train, read the rules, and all that stuff for next year's race.

Yeah, that'll happen.

From the decent weather, to the beautiful scenery, to the mutant squirrel, to the vicious headwinds, to Ken's 54-mph descent of Thompson Pass, to all the laughs and sweat along the way, it was a great race. So thanks to Heather, Ken, Brian, and our wonderful support drivers, Julie and Ken Sr. (And a special thanks to Heather for traveling 200 miles with me and not flipping me off even once ... that I'm aware of.)

Officially, the whole thing ended Saturday evening in Valdez. But really, it'll end over the next few days when we all empty our cars and figure out who has each other's stuff.

* My wife was kind enough to remember that, in his prime, Michael Jordan often made a similar face while driving the lane and launching into the air for a great slam dunk.

On the road again

Teamwork.

It's time to do this thing. Road bikes have been devouring the summer while my Fireweed partner Heather and I have prepared for the 200-mile event this Saturday. But the training rides are done and it's time to git down to bidness. 

One more long day in the saddle, which should be made easier with the great crew of her hubby Ken and our friend Julie, then it'll be all mountain bikes, all the time for the rest of the season. I might not see a 23c again until next April. 

There are two things I expect in this ride: Good times, and bad times. And as my ultra-distance-freak friend Leonard has often pointed out, neither one will last. Good times come, and they go. Bad times come, and they go, too. 

The best we can hope for is that Heather will be strong when I'm weak, I'll be strong when she's weak, and we'll both arrive in Valdez tired but safe. At the end of the day, it's all about the ride, and the cold beer after the finish. 

See you in Valdez, muthafuckas.

Illegal Smiles

And you may see me tonight
With an illegal smile.
It don’t cost very much
But it lasts a long while.
Won’t you please tell the man I didn’t kill anyone?
I’m just tryin’ to have me some fun.
—John Prine

Earlier this week, a guy named Adam posted a comment, saying he had just found my blog and was jealous of where I get to ride bikes. Adam, my man, go back and read the winter posts, then see how you feel, OK?

I don’t set out to inspire envy, but I’ll happily admit that revel in it when it happens, because I’m one of the lucky people who get to live exactly where they want to be. Long ago, I decided to always try to reside in places where I would happily take vacations. That way, I get to look up from the trail at least a couple of times a month and just smile until I steer off into the weeds. It’s a good feeling, except for the crashy part.

So here are some fresh pics from the past week to fill the ol’ blog while I'm busy this weekend.

Guess what I'll be doing.

Heather on Johnson Pass Trail last Friday.

Jules and Heather on Devil's Pass Trail last Saturday.

Jules on Devil's Pass.

Crossing an avalanche path.

Maura on Kincaid singletrack Wednesday evening.

No More Mr. Nice Guy

Road-bike season is just around the corner, and this year I have decided to try extra hard to avoid getting killed.

Last April, I took a fall that scared everyone who witnessed it. One guy told me that he actually shut his eyes when he thought I was about to get snuffed. I didn't write about it on the blog, because it took awhile to process and I never got around to figuring out how to describe it.

I was on a 100k ride from Anchorage to Girdwood and back, and was used to riding only one other person in the group. (That should always raise a caution flag.) We were on the Seward Highway, also known as the most dangerous highway in Alaska. (That should always raise a caution flag, too.)

One rider was a lot slower than the main group, and I didn’t want her to feel bad for always being off the back, so on the return from Girdwood, I slowed down to ride near her for a while. After a stop that pulled the group back together, I decided to bring up the rear.

We were soon nearing McHugh Creek south of Anchorage when one guy flatted and other riders began pulling to the side of the shoulder to wait. That’s when I made the mistake of passing Miss Slow on her left.

Next thing I knew, she was body-checking me toward the northbound lane of the highway on a sunny Saturday afternoon. When you’re looking at the white line and your brain instantly calculates that the upper half of your body is going to land in the lane of traffic, you have a second or two to think about things.

You think about things like the Seward Highway being the state’s most infamous, and how popular it is with distracted sightseers on sunny days. And you think about how that stretch of the highway has only one lane going each direction and very little room for motorists to swerve around falling cyclists. You also think about the fact your head will soon be directly in the path of tires traveling 60 mph.

That’s not a happy moment.

As soon as I hit the pavement, I knew I needed to get up fast. But there was a woman on my legs, and she was still trying to unclip from her pedals. I couldn’t do anything but wait until she got up or everything went dark.

So I laid there and waited. A couple of other riders soon realized she wasn't moving quickly enough, so they pulled her off me. As I started to get up, I finally did what I'd been afraid to do from the ground—I turned and looked behind me. Two pickups had managed to come to a complete stop to avoid crushing me. (The next time you get pissed off at a bad driver, remember to be grateful for the alert, careful ones.)

We all regrouped for a few minutes as the flat tire was repaired. When we started riding again, I was high on adrenaline and led us into Anchorage with a wide gap. It was several miles before I realized two of my fingers were really hurting. After I pulled off my glove and got a look at my hand, my friend Heather and I split from the group and took a direct route to my house, where we poured some wine and put a bag of ice on my hand. When my wife—a nurse—showed up with pizza, she took one look at my fingers and announced that my wedding ring had to be cut off immediately. Heather’s husband, Ken, did the deed with a pair of wire cutters.

Because it was one of the few times I've had a potentially fatal experience on a bike, I drank more than my share of wine that night. My fingers—which had probably been smashed between my handlebar and the pavement—were swollen for weeks. All this because I failed to recognize that someone in the group was still learning to use clipless pedals.

I like doing things to encourage new riders. We've all been there. And we've all fallen because we were learning to unclip. Being patient and bringing more people into the cult is a good thing. But I think I'll restrict those efforts to singletrack.

I’ll be keeping an eye out for newbies on the road this spring, and I’ll be keeping my distance.

Don't piss her off

Blue Dot, Summer 2008

I don't understand why my pictures from Blue Dot always cause my friend Jeff over at Bike Carson to question my sense of chivalry. When I first posted this picture of Maura and Heather crossing the treacherous Blue Dot bridge over Campbell Creek a couple of years ago, he posted a comment that suggested I might consider a good photo to be of more importance than my friends' safety.

Blue Dot, Yesterday Afternoon

And after I Facebooked this new picture of Julie crossing the same bridge on Saturday, he posted a similar comment under it. But Jeff lives in Nevada, so there's something he doesn't know about the people I ride with.

To be fair, Heather routinely gives me shit about things like shooting pictures when I could be offering her a hand. But the truth is, she just looks for any excuse to give me shit. So when she started in again Saturday night, and I was laughing about similar comments left on my blog, Julie chimed in with the following observation:

"These people don't realize that you ride with women who would hit you if you offered us help."

Keep that in mind the next time you see me use a photo in which a woman looks like she might need assistance.

I don't ride with wimpy chicks.

90 percent mental, half physical

Now that a few days—and a couple of “recovery rides” have passed—the Fireweed 200 is starting to seem like a fuzzy, demented memory. My body feels normal again, and I’m riding my mountain bike on singletrack, which is why I got into this sport in the first place. Road riding? What’s that?


 

Heather and I re-enter the wind tunnel.

But I keep seeing this picture that my friend Julie shot during the race, and it brings things back.

Heather and I were rolling back onto the Richardson Highway after a break. We had about 150 miles behind us. The headwinds were beating us to a pulp. And there, in the mountains, was a huge blanket of fog draped over Thompson Pass (in the upper-right portion of this photo). That’s where we were going, and pretty much everything about that portion of ride was already a big bucket of suckage. That high, looming fog reminded us that things were going to get worse before they got better.

Most of my epic rides have been in the mountains, where quitting isn’t an option. If you want the pain to end, you have to get your ass to the trailhead. But I’ve never really been sure what keeps a road rider going when the suffering gets bad and he could simply say, “This isn’t fun. This is stupid. Fuck it.”

People have told me that it’s all mental, and I guess it is. For months, I kept reminding myself that the Fireweed was going to hurt, and there would be times when I’d question the point of continuing. I knew that if I’d quit, the feeling of failure would have haunted me all winter. So I didn’t allow it to be an option. There was no doubt that we’d get to Valdez if we could just cowboy up and keep riding.

It hurt, and we suffered in those headwinds. But in a weird way, sitting here in the comfort of this chair, it doesn’t seem like it was that bad.

But that could just be the wine talking because, as Leonard said this week, “That ride was a head-windy bitch.”

Feel the breeze, baby

Seeing that big honkin' graphic on my previous post about Car Free Day got me to thinkin' — and not just about the fact they should have hyphenated "Car-free Day" for cryin' out loud. As a guy who worships some bikes as hedonistic joys and others as reliable, alternative transportation, I'll never fault the people who are out there making sweet machines like the full-suspension hottie I bought last winter, but those who make bikes to change the world deserve a special kind of respect. Joe Breeze is one of those people. If you missed Bicycling Magazine's feature on him two years ago, do yourself a favor and read it now. You've just gotta like a guy who can look at a bicycle and see a way of making lives better. And if you haven't checked out his commuter bikes, take a look at them on his website. It's a damn sorry statement about American society that I see a shitload of H2 gas hogs on the road and very few Breezer bikes. (Of course, I live in Alaska, a place where a real man drives a V-8 truck only until he can afford a V-10 or V-12, which will tow his snowmobiles and ATVs so much better.) Hell, you could buy a Breezer for what it would cost to keep one of those urban assault vehicles fueled up for a month or two.

For another example of how a bike ride can be more than just a bike ride, check out this column from Heather Lende, a cyclist and newspaper columnist from the little town of Haines in Southeast Alaska. (The Anchorage Daily News site will make you register to read it, but it's free.) Heather went under the wheels of a truck during a ride last April and recently got back on a bike for the first time. Just goes to show ya that distance and speed aren't the things that really matter.

Thanks for droppin' in.

Time to ride

It has been all mountain bikes, all the time since I put away my road bike after the Fireweed, and anyone crazy enough to occasionally check this blog might recognize that my neglect is a sure sign of a good summer.

Heather just can't get enough of her bikes.

Who has time to blog when the weather's warm and the trails are dry? Hell, I haven't had much time to think of many blog topics, much less write them. Anchorage trails, Crescent Lake and Resurrection Pass have all been getting my attention, with Lost Lake and a couple more on my to-do list.

Last weekend, friends and I were in Hope for the annual sufferfest known as the Soggy Bottom, which lured Moab's coolest fifth-grade teacher -- Pete Basinger -- back to Alaska for a visit. 

Pete goes hunting for some mayhem.

I chatted with Pete after his sub-11-hour finish, when he looked relaxed and unmarred despite a hard crash. He chronicled the whole thing over on his blog, which is actually up to date. Go check it out.

CSI: Anchorage

Parts of my Saturday-night crash
were bothering me. I needed to know
the cause, and figure out why I couldn't
remember falling, or making my way
up a bluff and to a road.
So I decided to do my own little
Crash Scene Investigation.

I always dreamed of being a detective.
Let's take a look at the evidence, shall we?
First, I found what my post-crash
tread track (above), then
followed it back to the scene.
That's where I found a shallow
drainage channel (foreground)
that's difficult to see in low-light conditions
—especially if you happen to be looking
beyond it to a much larger channel
that's somewhat visible in background
of the photo below.
The smaller channel is where I found
my impact site. See that fat Endomorph
track in the foreground? See how it runs
smack into that freshly exposed
ledge of frozen, bike-stopping silt?
Just above the silt is where I
pulled myself to my feet and
staggered around while making
cell-phone calls and climbing back
on my bike.

That's where
the ol' memory switch somehow clicked
to the "off" position. The
next 15 minutes are pretty much gone.
Exhibit A: The silt ledge and the
icy imprint that my pant legs
left on the snow as I tried
to get up. (Sorry, ghouls, but my
droplets of blood seem to have
disappeared, so no photos for you sickos.)
Exhibit B: The snow-covered channel
from the opposite side.
See a pattern here? Yeah, I thought
you would. Other riders have
been going around it, but some dumbass
left that big, fat Endomorph track
leading right into it.

The obvious verdict: I screwed up
by riding too fast in bad light. The
coastal flats are full of hazards
not typically seen in other
parts of town, and I temporarily
forgot that. I got blissed-out
and started riding too fast.

I paid big, landing on my chin and jaw,
which my friend Heather
has since explained is a bad way
to fall if you want your
brain to have a shock absorber.

She happens to be an expert
on brain injuries and
called my memory lapse
"post-traumatic anterograde amnesia ...
one of the best indicators of concussion."

That's a fancy way
for a mountain biker with
a PhD to say, "Dude, you're
brain-damaged and I am going
to have sooo much fun with this."

Playin' with the camera

When you shoot photos of Heather
while she's climbing a hill, it's
harder for her to give ya the finger.

And if you're lucky, you can get
a self-portrait in the process.

I started wearing shorts last week
during the afternoon commute,
and damn, my legs is white!

Memorable moments of 2007

Building the Pugsley***

The fun of riding it
***
Early spring rides on my new road bike.
***
Making one bad joke
about dancing in my arm warmers,
and never hearing the end of it
***
The cold rain during the Fireweed 100
***
Making sure I remembered
a really foul joke all summer,
so that I'd be ready when I finally
ran into Leonard
***
Heather actually showing up
for a couple of rides
***
64 piles of bear shit in 22 miles
on Russian Lakes Trail
***
The beauty of Lost Lake Trail
***
My 13-year-old daughter
dropping me on a hill
for the first time
***
The thick, slimy mud
of Johnson Pass Trail
***
The young worker at the Kansas City airport
who rolled my bike case into the baggage-claim area
and asked, "Is this a gun?"
***
The sound of a bike flying
off my brother's roof rack at 70 mph
***
The guilty relief of realizing it wasn't mine
***
Octaginta
***
Riding en masse through Spenard,
in the dark, after a rainy game
of bike polo
***
Beer and movies at Speedway
***
Drinking beer around
the Frigid Bits Burn Barrel
***
Watching my daughter ride ice and snow
on her first pair of Nokians
***
The Face Plant
***
Everyone who let me share a ride
with them.
This is the coolest cult
on the planet.
***
Happy New Year, and thanks
for reading this little pile
of bike-related stuff.

See ya out there.

Wax-free in Ho Chi Minh City

What does a Bicycles & Icicles “No Waxing Required” sticker and a can of Spam have in common? 

They both get carried around the world for vacation photos.

OK, so maybe Spam went more places when everyone in Alaska wanted his pic in the slideshow at Mr. Whitekeys’ Fly By Night Club, but these snow bike stickers are doing some traveling. This fall, Gina slapped one on the famous road sign marking the top of the Col du Galibier in France, and then this little gem popped up on Facebook a couple of days ago.

My man Tony slapped a sticker on a Cyclo—or Vietnamese bike taxi—in Ho Chi Minh City before taking his friend Heather for a ride. Very nice.

Tony is one of Alaska’s devoted fat-bike riders, and a long-time Frigid Bits veteran who is baking in the Southeast Asian sun while the rest of us freeze our bits off during a cold snap here in Anchorage.



After last night’s ride, which had no burn barrel, riders were too cold to enjoy more than one beer before heading home to thaw out. Tony, meanwhile, was getting sunburned while riding a rental bike.



I know this because he posted to Facebook from Phu Quoc. 



And I’ll just leave it there, because if I think too much about how to pronounce Phu Quoc, this post would surely go places it shouldn’t.

Fall color

Heather

Why do I always dread the arrival of fall,
but love it when it gets here?
Most of the biting bugs are gone, and the woods
have never been prettier.

Huber

So what if the leaves are already falling
in Alaska while riders in other places are still
enjoying the green of summer? That just
means we get to enjoy it earlier.

It also means it's time to tune up the fat bikes.

Roll out the skinny tires

The road bikes are finally hitting the pavement. They were all over town this weekend. The last time mine touched the ground was when I rode it across my brother’s driveway in Kansas City after a week of riding last October. I took it off the trainer Friday night and then spent the weekend reminding myself how fat I got this winter.

After a 27-miler with Ken and Heather on Saturday, I did a solo ride up Potter Valley Road on Sunday. And I didn’t let myself time the climb. Some things are best left unknown this early in the season.

The great thing about cycling is that progress comes quickly. A few more rides and I might start feeling good again.

Oh, hell, who am I kidding? The best thing about cycling is that it’s fun even when you suck.

I was about a quarter of the way up Potter Valley when I allowed myself to think, “Hey, this doesn’t hurt that bad.” Then a guy on a Cervelo cruised up beside me, said, “How ya doin?” and left me eating dust as he shot up the hill.

I reeled him in and beat him to the top, of course. (Good thing he stopped to chat with his friends at the halfway point.)

It was a beautiful ride: The sun was shining, the air was a warm 50 degrees, my heart didn’t explode out of my chest, and I got the first hill climb of the season out of the way.

They all get easier from here ... right?

Spring break = Party time on fat bikes

Aitidal, Rahmah, Nadhrah and Syamim (foreground) take a break
on the trail with Jordy, Heather and Emilie.

One of the things I love about mountain biking is the way it brings people together in both expected and unexpected ways. I met most of my closest friends because of bikes. I’ve met all sorts of riders from various states and countries because of bikes and this silly blog.

That’s what led Nadhrah Kadir to send me an email a few weeks go when she needed help finding fat-bike rentals for her spring break trip to Alaska. Nadhrah and her friends are from Malaysia and attending universities scattered around the United States. For their vacation, they wanted the full Alaska experience, including a bike ride.

Because it wouldn’t be right to let someone come all this way only to ride the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail, I set up an evening ride that included some singletrack.

They might have gotten a little more than they bargained for, but they were all smiling (and uninjured) at the end, which is all that matters to me when taking newbies out for their first ride. Nadhrah told me it was the best experience she had in Alaska, which still makes me smile.

Fat bikes put grins on faces, regardless of where the faces are from. And how else would four young Malaysian women end up spending an evening with a curmudgeonly mountain biker and his friends in Alaska?

One world.

Roll over it with fat tires.

Desert Finger

The woman who started it all is still keeping the Fabulous Finger Gallery alive. Nice job, H.

After five fun days of riding through my old stompin' grounds of Arizona, I think I'll need a day or three to sort it all out before sharing the stories. Meanwhile, I'll just thank the crazies who made it fun and memorable:

Julie. One of my regular

riding partners for years, 

and wife of ...

 The equipment-bashing Bike Monkee.

Harter, a recovering Midwesterner

and all-around good guy ...

despite being a recovering Midwesterner.

Huber, who makes great blowfish faces

and damn fine meals.

Heather, who bruises more easily

(and more frequently) than any other human on Earth.

Thanks, Arizona.

See you next time.