Iditarod 2009 Part 5

Damn. I'm way behind. It's August and I still haven't put down everything that happened out in Alaska. That very fact has been stopping me from writing about all the other stuff that's happened this summer. Maybe I'll get there eventually. I've been on a CTC Mountain Bike Leader course, Emily's swum the length of Lake Zurich (that's 26.4 km! photos here), we both swam across Lake Geneva, and the riding's been laid back fun. All of which deserves some words, but may only get photos, if that. So, time to get the snowy monkey off my back, then I can resume the normal waffle.

Buffalo Camp is a hunting outpost that doesn't get many hunters these days, but Bill pays them to keep the camp there for us riders. Coming in an area that is often the coldest part of the race, it is a massive relief to get there. What happened to me when I got there, I'm not too sure about. I was so tired that my mind was in and out. I had planned to have something to eat before I slept but I don't remember if I managed much. I do remember trying to make some couscous but being defeated by the wood stove and not managing to get the water hot enough. Poking the logs ineffectually, I reflected on how un-Ray Mears I was. The darkness was swallowing up my mind and the water wasn't getting any hotter, so I dumped a bag of cold water and couscous into the pot on top of the stove and lay down. I half-convinced myself that I was just going to wait for the re-arranged wood to get moving, but in reality I knew I was going to sleep.

The next thing I knew I was surrounded by other racers. I had dropped off with only Billy, Lou, and Eric around. I had no idea where my gear was or how long I'd slept for. This wasn't my finest hour. As we got ourselves ready to go, Billy was pretty cheerful. He'd piled up my strewn out stuff and we were going to fuel up before getting back on the bikes. My couscous had cooked (and the bag had melted to the pot a bit, but I got away with it) and Billy had lentil curry. We stuffed down our butter laden food, sharing the meals between us. As I left Bison Camp, I actually felt good. I'd borrowed Lou's pump to sort out my tyres and topped up Billy's front as well. Soon we'd be at Nikolai and within striking distance of the finish.

The trail was similar to what we'd come in on - well packed snow-machine trail swooping up and down over little hills. Billy kept falling back and eventually we decided to just take it at our own paces. I was attacking each rise and fall of the trail with eagerness born of knowing I was going to make it to McGrath. After a while, I saw a pair of eyes up ahead on the trail. They hovered above the shadows of long legs and I thought it was strange to see someone with completely unreflective clothing. Then I realised it was a moose. I stopped way short of the beast - they have a reputation that I didn't want to mess with. It turned and carried on down the trail, with me rolling after, still keeping a distance. Eventually it turned off the trail to go on its way and I could get back into my groove.

Spinning through the night, I felt acutely alone. Having been with Billy for the last few days, I missed his company and doubted whether I should have left him when he was struggling for speed. We'd made our choices though and he'd seemed happy with it so there was nothing to do but pedal. Ghostly cracks rang out around me as the top layer of encrusted ice on the surrounding snow shifted. Each noise jolted me with adrenaline and awareness, but each time I settled back into making progress.

After a few hours, I needed to poo. A featureless tundra is not the ideal place to have that need, but I knew there were occasional trees so I just had to wait. Eventually, I saw one and pulled to a stop. Down jacket on, I stomped off the trail to a lone tree. Unhooking bib-longs is awkward at the best of times, and had to be done super-fast out here. I did my business, buried it and moved along with no new frostbite.

I had been moving at a high pace and effort for hours and there was still no daylight. I started to feel fatigued in mind and body - I knew I could keep going but I had an intense longing for the sun. The picture below was taken to see if I looked as bad as I felt, which I pretty much did. I was riding robotically in my down jacket, generating little heat but still approaching Nikolai and that was all I could do.

As it always does, the sun came up. I kept moving and expected nothing else. I could keep this up and get there when I got there. In the end, I was so patient and unexpectant that it was a surprise to see a power line across the frozen river that I reached mid-morning. I had made it to Nikolai!

Once again, the welcome was warm. I grabbed some food and water, could have slept, but I just wanted to get to McGrath now. Whether it was going to take a bivvy or not, I wanted to move on and see things though. Before I left, though, Kathi phoned to find out if I expected to be at McGrath for breakfast. The word was that the trail was good so, perplexed, I said yes and was soon back on the trail.

Riding in the mid-day sun, it was so warm that I even rode without a jacket for a while. I felt light and free. I could walk the last 50 miles if it came to it, so if I kept my head the finish was in the bag. My happiness (and lack of coat) didn't last long, though. Any breath of wind was chilling without an outer layer, and back on it went. More worryingly, the trail was mush. It was far too warm and the snow was too soft to ride. I could see John Ross' tracks and he had been able to ride this stuff earlier, rubbing salt into my frustration.

After a brief hissy fit, I just got on with it. I would have been better sleeping at the checkpoint and joining the trail by night, but there was nothing I could do about it other than walk. I left my GPS on and in front of me so that I could see my crawling progress. After a few hours, Tim and Tom strode past on their snow shoes. They were sympathetic, but annoyingly jolly before they made off into the horizon. The day wore on and I'd walked over 15 miles dragging the useless lump of my bike. My GPS was said that I was approaching 26 miles to go and that meant there was only a marathon left - easy. Not long after that, I saw a signpost: 35 miles to McGrath.

My will was broken. I was going to sleep before I got there and I might as well sleep now. I could sleep until it got cold and dark, then have the chance to ride a firmer trail. This called for a luxury bivvy. I waited until I reached a little copse that looked good to set myself up in. I stomped down a trench of snow wide enough and long enough for my sleeping bag, then widened the head end to make space for my stove. I gathered thin branches from the trees and lay them down with my thermarest on top. With food, stove, and other bits brought over from the bike, I lay down in my big comfy sleeping bag. Before sleeping, I had to melt snow and used the opportunity to boil the water for hot water bottles in my bag. One bottle right down by my feet - they weren't going to get more frostbitten tonight! I ate muesli and eventually went to sleep. No alarm, I'd sleep until my body was ready to go on, whenever that was. Thinking "race" had got me sleeping here instead of the checkpoint, so I wasn't messing around again.

I awoke hot and claustrophobic. A mummy sleeping bag and the blackout sleep of the exhausted make for a confusing moment on waking. Sticking my head out a bit, I could feel it was colder now, and things looked good. Back up the trail, I could see a pair of riders. Probably Eric and Lou. I packed up and hung around for a minute to chat.

They told me Billy had set off as well and was making good progress. With their non-snow tyres, though, Eric and Lou were having to push a lot. It was good to see them, but time to move on and make my fat tyres work. I dropped the pressure and pedalled off, leaving them to their push.

Once more it was cold and lonely riding through the night. I hoped to catch up with Billy again and cross the line together, but all I saw was endless winding rivers and his tyre tracks. It was iPod time. In that moment of cold, of alone, and of dark some things stood out. Aesop Rock's convoluted lyrics and beats kept me positive. Mayhem finally made sense. Bad Religion seemed a little out of their depth.

I could ride the trail, but it was pocked with moose tracks. They had walked through during the day and left lots of tiny deep holes with their tracks. Each one sent reverberations right though me. After miles of this frustration, I came across a snow bank with "F**KING MOOSE!" written in it. Obviously, Billy was thinking the same thing as me. I was getting closer, but the night was getting colder. The air in my rear tyre was contracting to dangerously low pressure. I had to weigh it up: try to use my faulty pump and risk losing what pressure I had, or just keep going. I decided to try to warm the pump up under my jacket for a while then try pumping.

I attached the pump and pumped it for all I was worth, immediately popping it off when my arms gave out. The tyre seemed, if anything, flatter than before. I tried again, still no big change. I gave up. If the tyre gave up too, Eric and Lou would catch me up and I could use their pump. If not, I might chance my way to the finish on a squidge of air.

Riding gingerly, I came out of the little clump of trees where I'd stopped. Only to find Billy bivvied around the corner. His bike and bag had been thrown down in a hurry. I wanted to see if he was ok (and, yes, I wanted to see if he had a pump) so I woke him up. Fortunately, he was glad I did. So I pumped my tyres, and we set off to ride out the remainder. Billy had fallen asleep while riding and decided to bivvy right then and there. It seemed unbelievable, but following him now, I was just about holding my lids open.

If we could make it to day-break, we'd make it to McGrath. Eventually, the day came and the sleepiness receded. We'd made some miles and started to look forward to gorging ourselves at McGrath. Now it was time to go with all the speed we could. Unfortunately, that speed was too much and we missed a cardboard sign that had got folded over. We went into McGrath along the river, where the sign had directed us off onto the road. With only the hint of a trail, the river was hard work. Tens of metres, then sinking into the snow. Every section done on the bike was on the limit of being able to ride. After about 40 minutes, we saw a snow machiner and he told us that we had taken a wrong turn but it was about the same distance to carry on now. So carry on we did. An hour later, the GPS said we were no closer to McGrath and we cursed the guy. For the next few hours, we cursed the snow, the river, the sky, the earth, the snow machiner as we battled on.

It was a horrible and deflating end to the event, but we overcame it and eventually rode down the main street of McGrath. We got to Peter and Tracy's house together to find a massive table of food and a room full of racers relaxing. It was done.

I chatted and ate, and eventually went upstairs to see Kathi. When I got there, I saw a pile of my clothes. I asked her about it, but she pretty much ran away. Back downstairs, I saw Emily's boots. I thought those two must have got on well and traded boots. Then it dawned on me, Emily must have been in McGrath. It wasn't long before she walked through the door and our hug marked the real end. It was a moment I had been looking forward to for days. She had been out looking for me and Billy as we had been so overdue with our river diversion. But everyone was together now and I had finished my journey.

Iditarod was spectacular and tough. It taught me how far I could go on willpower and preparation. It taught me how fantastic some people in this world are (and how those who push themselves to extremes tend to be in that number). I will be back for Nome.

Iditarod 2009 Part 4

The checkpoint at Rohn is tiny. Just a wall-tent to hold as many racers as arrive at once. We were lucky enough to coincide with a few guys leaving, so Billy and I could get our sleeping bags down without having to head back outside - others were not always as fortunate.

Getting to the food was a case of stepping over and around many prone bodies. Feeling drunk with exhaustion, it was a hard job to not just fall right on someone. I ate a couple of tins of lentil soup and sat down to get ready for sleep. As I took off my socks, my feet looked horrific. They had been wet all day from snow falling into my boots, so even without the frostbite they would have looked gross. They were unrecognisably white and puffy, like I'd been clopping through the Somne for the past 24 hours. The more worrying part was the stinking and oozing from the frostbite blisters on my toes. There wasn't much I could do about them, so I just hid them away at the bottom of my bag and went to sleep. I'd get my socks dry on the stove and have another look at the toes when I wasn't so deliriously tired.

As I "slept", I heard others come in and out. A bunch of walkers arrived, some of whom couldn't find anywhere to sleep and had to bivvy outside. That must have been frustrating, but there was nothing to be done about it. After a while one of the walkers who had been able stay in the tent shook me awake, "Your buddy is snoring". Frankly, I had no idea what to say to this. You're taking part in a wilderness race, deal with it. What am I supposed to do about it anyway? He went away and I went back to sleep. Billy was snoring pretty loud, but if you couldn't sleep through that, you weren't trying hard enough on the trail.

We only took about 3 hours rest and then it was time to asses the toes. They were blistered, but there was no black skin. I wasn't going to give up because of them, so I just dressed and started to pack up. As soon as they were in my boots, I could ignore my feet and get on with the task in hand. The first job was finding the outhouse. Billy had used the outhouse last time he'd done the race and near-frozen his ass off on the ceramic seat. His complaints had got him kicked out of the cabin, but now, years later, he had been vindicated. A polystyrene seat awaited me... Aaah!

With all the camp stuff done, we headed out to the trail. It was nice and early so the trail was cold and hard. Perfect to get some miles done on the bikes. We dropped air pressure and rolled well, watching the story of previous passage unfold in front of us. The distinctive tracks were there: endomorph tyres on one side and foot-prints on the other. We were riding where others had had to push. Awesome.



The trail climbed as steeply as I was prepared to ride, but I was glad to make steady progress. We crossed more exposed frozen lakes and just seconds after commenting about how much I enjoyed riding this stuff, I was suddenly on my arse and elbow. There is no magic to riding ice out there - you just can't turn or brake more than the tiniest amount. Having hit the ice, I watched my bike spiral away gently. Prising myself up like Bambi in Neos, I tried to fetch it. My boots had come with studs for grip on ice but I'd taken them out so that I wouldn't have to worry about damaging people's wooden floors at checkpoints. Right now, that seemed like a bad idea. Slowly, though, I managed to retrieve my bike and get over to a small patch of snow. From there, I could re-start and try not to make any sudden movements.

The day turned out to be glorious. As the sun came up, it blazed across pristine ice, snow and pine. It lay out the mountains we had just crossed as a beautiful backdrop to our lake crossing. The very particular weather eventually gave us a very particular trail. The snow had melted a little at the surface, refrozen, and cracked again. It was just like riding on North Wales slate. Up to 12 inch plates of ice skidded and clattered underneath our wheels as we hared down singletrack. Suddenly, I was in a white Betws Y Coed cruising along the trail for fun and I even had Billy's company to enjoy it with. For hours, it could have been any given Sunday.



As we got closer to Bison camp, I knew we were approaching the coldest part of the trail. On this side of the mountains, we got weather from Alaska's interior. Fortunately, it was quite a warm year and there were only odd occasions when the cold really bit. One such occasion was crossing a huge lake. Even in daylight, I couldn't see the other side. After 20 metres or so, the wind was so savage that I knew I had to take action. My face was being battered by the wind, my ears deafened by the roar, and I could feel my whole body cooling. Despite being so exposed, I stopped to get out my down jacket. It felt crazy having to go fiddling with my bike to detatch the jacket, but as soon as I had it on I knew I had made the right decision. From deep inside its hood, warmth and quiet descended over me. It was like I'd gone from being in Alaska to watching a video about it from under the duvet. Insulated from the sound and the cold, my bike seemed unreal as I got back on and set off to catch up with Billy.

We to-ed and fro-ed a bit with Eric and Lou again as the miles went by, eventually reaching the Farewell Burn. A major fire had destroyed many of the trees in this area years ago, but Billy didn't recognise it as so much had grown back since last time he was here. The day was getting long again and our tiredness started to be compounded by tyre problems. Big drops in temperature were causing big drops in tyre pressure and it turned out that my pump leaked air almost as fast as I could pump. Between us, we managed to get enough air in to limp along but the fear of a pinch flat or torn tyre followed us all along the trail. If a tube failed, it would be impossible to re-inflate a new one. If a tyre failed, I'd be walking to McGrath. Tense times, but it was all the sweeter to see Bison Camp up ahead.

Iditarod 2009 Part 3

Another big gap between instalments. In the unlikely event that anyone is holding their breath - sorry. I've been looking for a new job, enjoying the dusty trails and still ploughing around on the Pugsley. My normal bike is just about ready to go again, but there was one more outing for the Pug this weekend. The Dyfi Enduro - short distance for an enduro, but it's all either up or down and the downs are fearsome. Fortunately, I didn't have to ride the bit that claimed some of my skin last year as another rider was spread across that bit of trail. I just helped him to his feet and was thankful to get through there unscathed. It's still my favourite "race" in the UK. You get the most technical course out there, bands, cheerleaders, a gorilla suit, and people riding all sorts from lightweight XC bikes to full on freeride. I had pretty good ride with the silly bike choice removing any pressure I may have put on myself. I tried to flow where I could on the descents, but fully rigid on trail that allows you to get a ton of speed before throwing up a pile of pointy off-camber rocks did force me to take things steady. And then at the end of it Nick Craig wanted a go on my bike. He lived up to his reputation of being about the nicest professional sportsman you could meet, which is always good to see. Some pics of the event here.

Back to Alaska..

At Puntilla, we heard that the lead group had already gone into Rainy Pass but no-one had heard from Bill Merchant for a few days. Bill was supposed to be breaking trail for us, so that was worrying. Fortunately, there wasn't much need to worry about Bill's safety - if anyone can look after themself out there, it's him. Given the lack of trail, the fact that I'd been tortoise/hare-ing with Billy for the whole way up to Puntilla, and that Billy's a fun guy to hang out with I decided to ride with him through the pass (Billy Koitzsch, not Bill Merchant. Too many Bills).

Billy, Rob, and myself set off into the darkness expecting to push a lot and probably bivvy before Rhone. We rode steadily to begin with - Billy's dynamo LED casting massive shadows despite our slow progress. Pretty soon, Rob dropped back. I wasn't too worried about letting him go, expecting another sneaky gear-related move from him later in the day. With relatively ride-able trails, my single gear necessitated that I move ahead of Billy. This was my first view of the tripod trail markers: 8ft high tripods made of large logs with reflectors on them. They gave us a rough path up the valley but it was another case of looking with your feet. This part of the trail had been bedded in so the trick was to search for relatively solid ground and use that. Bunched up together again, Billy and I would occasionally fan out to find something we could ride rather than needlessly hurting ourselves by pushing through deep snow only a few feet from the real trail.



I knew it was going to be pretty much uphill all day and looking out into the mountains, I tried to pick out where Rainy Pass lay. Unfortunately, the twists and turns of the trail made it hard to figure exactly where we were really headed. We whacked through the brush and frequently laughed our way through adversity. As we got closer to the mountains, though, the trail got hard to even push on. We were on a very recent snow machine track and our feet would frequently punch straight through, sinking to the knee. Having set ourselves mentally for this kind of treatment, we didn't mind. We just kept on plugging and resolved to have a hot lunch on the trail.

Whilst pushing our bikes kept us very warm, as soon as we stopped to get out the stoves, it was time for the serious clothing. In my puff trousers and down jacket, I was pretty toasty. It was a good feeling to be completely comfortable so far from civilisation and in such cold conditions. I had to be quick with fiddly tasks before getting my big gloves back on, but that was all. Our lunch stop was twice interrupted though - once by a former trail breaker (sorry - I forget your name) who was out to rescue Bill, and once by John Ross. John declined the invitation to join us for lunch... could he be racing again? :)



From the state of the trail and the information we'd learned from the trail breaker, it was clear we weren't going to be riding for a while. Billy took his pedals off to stop them from bashing into his legs as he pushed along the narrow trail, but I stubbornly carried on with mine. It would be more than a day before he'd put them back on. The trudge went on and on. We passed Bill's abandoned snow machine and carried on until we reached a frozen lake. I was looking with my feet again and the trail seemed to veer off to the right. I followed it, and I saw a snow machine approaching. It was Bill, with his rescuer. He told me that the snow was too deep and the light too flat to do much trail breaking. The snow machines just kept sinking and the flat light made it impossible to read the snow. From here there were untold miles before we'd see trail again. But, in the abandoned cabin by the lake Lou Kobin and Eric Warkentin had holed up to wait for the trail breakers.

The cabin had no roof, but Bill had christened it The Rainy Pass Hilton. It may not stop the snow, but the 4 walls did stop most of the wind. Billy and I headed up there to talk to Lou and Eric. We wanted to press on and bivvy in the pass, but after some wavering we decided to stay. We would head out as a group of 4 in the morning. Hanging out with them and Bill for the night seemed much more appealing than a storm-whipped bivvy in the unknown.



During the night Tim and Tom arrived. They are incredible walkers and were eating up the distance as we struggled with the deep snow. Bill must have recognised them - their arrival prompted some classic dry humour, "If you shine that light in my face, I'll shoot you!" It's a good job we all know him well enough to get the joke. As morning came, we all filled up with hot water and faffed. Even more snow had fallen and no-one was in a hurry to get out there.

Eventually we did, though and things soon became comically hard. I was at the front to begin with and thought I had taken a bad turn when the snow was knee deep. Leaving the bike for a moment, I tried some other directions: they were waist deep. We tried to guess which of the utterly exhausting directions would be the least gruelling, but it was impossible to tell. Each step would take tens of seconds as it would involve the same procedure: step forwards, sink (sometimes up to your waist), stumble, reach up to you bike (now above your head) and drag it forward a bit, climb out of the hole you're in, sink again. Just trying to progress at all once you'd sunk was like being in a children's ball pit. Everything you could reach would collapse under your weight.



We rotated like a peloton. Being at the back of the group was more like walking along a trench and much easier. And through it all, we had chat from biking stories to Napa Valley wine. Surreal, but it kept us going and it was particularly good for me to hear from the veterans that these conditions really were extraordinary. Every directional decision was tough. If we wanted to head for higher ground, it would take an age to get there and might not be any better than our current position. The only sure thing was that if we kept moving through the pass, eventually we'd come out.




As we got higher, the terrain got steeper but rockier. The wind was so strong into our backs that the hair exposed under the back of my hat froze solid. It felt pretty crazy, pretty epic, and pretty good to have this place and moment for ourselves. That was the high point, though. Sooner than we were ready, it was over the top and into more waist-deep slogging. Here, we were zig-zagging down the valley and in places we could see open water from the river. Getting wet, particularly on this section would have been seriously bad news so every crossing was tense. Thick willows forced us to keep doing it though, sometimes edging along a narrow ledge dragging/carrying our massive bikes. One memorable section had us 10 feet above the water on a scree slope with varying depths of snow. Each step could be shallow or deep, it could slip or hold and the way was too narrow for a bike to be anything but a clumsy anchor.

In my mind, I had hoped that we would be out of the pass by nightfall. The hours went by, though, and the sun dipped as we lifted and grunted our way through a maze of willows. And then, we could hear engines. The trail breakers had made it through to us. I was so relieved, I could hardly stand. Lou ran up and hugged the first snow machiner. The trail wouldn't be packed enough to ride until the night had frozen it, but at least we had something to follow.



So, it was back to sinking in the snow but now only up to our knees and with a straight line to follow. Moving at our own speeds, our little group broke up. Eric and Lou moved off ahead while Billy and I progressed more slowly. Darkness fell and we were still pushing. Hunger and tiredness were beginning to take their toll so I was swearing at everything: the snow, the dark, the stupid bike, and eventually at Billy stopping to put his pedals back on. At that point, it was definitely food time. I was hating my trail mix (yeah, Pete Basinger was right) and Billy was sick of sweet energy food. A quick food-trade had us both in a better mood for what turned out to be a long way to Rohn.

We saw the ghostly traces of the lead group who were still having to make their own trail at this point. Deep furrows through soft snow. I knew the pain involved in that kind of progress and could only marvel at how they'd pushed so far. Then as we finally got close, there was the first exposed ice. The wind had blow parts of the frozen lake clear and it was like entering a different world. The ever-present crunch of snow was gone, along with the accompanying drag. My light was much less effective as the black ice soaked it up, only the cracks showing up bright. Those cracks were re-assuring though, as they highlighted just how much ice there was underneath us. Tiredness, silence, legs used to a day of pushing, a slippery surface, and a heavily weighted front tyre made it a strange, beautiful experience.

Longer and longer we went, my strength dipping and Billy pulling ahead. Until, at last, I heard a whoop from him. We were at Rohn and had cracked the hardest part of the ride.

Iditarod 2009 Part 2

It's beautiful and sunny in England at the moment and, due to my lack of other working bikes, I've been bulldozering around on the Pug. It was the North Downs yesterday for dusty trails and the constant accompaniment of people's muttered comments. Usually I'd be able to make out only a single word, "tyres", in the middle of whatever else they had to say. It's all good, though. Riding fully rigid (ok, fat tyre's worth of suspension) and flat pedals is helping me to flow with the trail.

Back to the story...

When I got up at Shell Lake, I notice a couple of changes to my physical conditions. First, my eye had sorted itself out - maybe it just needed some real sleep. Second my toes had come up in big yellow blisters. I knew that these weren't like normal blisters, but put some Compeed patches on anyway. They probably wouldn't do any harm and have always helped me with real blisters.

Patched up, it was a quick trip to the freezing outhouse (Puntilla has the best outhouse, but more on that later) before Rob and I set off for Winterlake Lodge. The lady at the bar had given us some directions the night before but all I could remember was that we would end up at some homesteader's place if we went wrong and it would cost us miles. You can probably see where this is going.

A funny thing about riding with Rob was that I warmed up much quicker than he did. So we set off together, and let our individual paces run their course - me leaving him behind for a few hours, then him catching me later in the day. The terrain was more flat tundra and straight lines but the trail conditions were pretty rideable so I set my mind to "mulling" and watched the relatively fresh bike tracks in front of me. Eventually, the trail split and I followed the tracks to the left.

The riding conditions got worse and I was having to use speed to keep me afloat on the narrow track of a snow-machine ski. It was exhausting and as I saw a "Private Property" sign, I began to wonder if it was all in vain. With tyre tracks still ahead of me, I decided to continue and find out where I'd get to. If I turned round now, I still wouldn't know which way was correct. When I saw a bike ahead, it seemed like good news until I could make out that it was heading straight towards me. This was the route to the homesteaders and some other racers had been there. So we set off back, a drop in the 350-mile ocean of the whole trail.

I saw Rob again as I backtracked and he was getting warmer but still not on a pace that we'd ride together so I plugged on alone. A few hours later, I came to another branch. This time I was going to make a decision not just unthinkingly follow the tyres. Checking my GPS, one direction was clearly right. As I wandered up the trail a bit (GPS can't tell which way you're facing unless you are moving) I saw promising looking tyre-tracks to confirm my decision. Before resuming, I paused for chocolate coffee beans and a wee break. The latter is not a simple thing in bib shorts and bib longs. You have to unhook them from your shoulders and still end up crouched over during the act. I still think it's worth it for the riding comfort, but it feels silly every time you have to go.

As I faffed, Rob caught me up. The cleat had come loose on his shoes so he couldn't unclip. We rode together for a bit but eventually his pedal troubles caused him to fall back. I knew it wasn't far to the checkpoint now and it was a great to joy to see across the last frozen lake up to the Winterlake Lodge. Such a joy, that I stopped to take the photo below (you'll have to look pretty close to see the buildings). And Rob nearly ran into the back of my. He'd snuck up with his sneaky gears as I was spinning out.



Lunch at Winterlake was amazing. Some kind of black bean plate with fried eggs - so good. And this was the first re-supply drop. I opened up my bag to see what Billy had packed for me. Lots of quaker oats bars, peanut butter ritz crackers, some soups and curries, hand-warmers, and a condom. Nice work Billy.

I wanted to make it to Puntilla that night so the stop at Winterlake was short. Just enough time to make sure Rob had his shoes sorted out and get my head together. I'd seen John Ross again and, I'll admit it - I wanted to beat the other English singlespeed rider. The next section of trail was even better than coming into Shell Lake. It twisted and flowed, and I twisted and flowed with it. I pumped the bike over little jumps, drifted round corners with both wheels sliding and one foot out. It took the slightest amounts of subtle braking to keep things going but the rewards were like riding the switchbacks at Afan. Fun and grins, and why can't this last forever? The last part of this section is (I think) known as the steps and got to the point where I was finding the trail steep for the conditions. I wonder at how a dog team can ever cope with this. All too soon it was over, though, and down onto a frozen lake. I saw Cory on his skis - I'd gained 10 minutes back on him pretty quickly which should have been a clue but I couldn't help asking how he'd enjoyed that last bit. Apparently, it's tough for skiers.

And then I saw the trail that took us up off the lake... So steep that it would take hands and feet to get up. It was maybe 12 feet up and I know I'm not that strong at anything but riding, so I stripped all my gear off the bike and threw it to the top. Then, bike on back, I climbed up the wobbly steep trail. I reloaded, had a snack and it was straight back to pushing. All the height I'd lost on the fun stuff would have be regained as we were heading for the Alaska Range. The pushing was a case of shoving the bike forwards, putting on the brakes, walking up to the bars, and shoving again. Repeat until the hill is over. I wasn't going to be catching Cory again for a while.



When the trail levelled out, the views into the mountains were spectacular. The sun shone down and the perfect air was a beautiful place to be. When I caught sight of John Ross off to the side of the trail, I was glad of someone to share it with. Just as I slowed down Rob nearly ran into the back of me. Once again, he'd snuck up on a flat bit of trail. The three of us were just happy and privileged to be out there. John even claimed to have given up on racing for position. The competitive streak in me told me two things... (1) Good, maybe that's my chance to beat him (2) He's a racer, he'll be back on it later.

Regardless, the three of us rode more-or-less together towards Puntilla. There was more of the narrow stuff, but this time John and I were floundering. There seemed to be even less grip and putting a foot down off the trail would result in sinking to knee or even thigh level. My riding was a bit slapstick, but it was still getting me closer.



The final hours into Puntilla were horrible. The twists of the trail were frustrating me again and I was mentally done for the day - walking sections that didn't need walking just because I was fried. Again, over-reliance on GPS made it worse. I could tell that I was at 90deg from where I wanted to go and the stupid damn trail wasn't going there. The drive to finish was there, though, and I kept moving however low I felt. As day turned to night, I got closer and closer. When I finally saw a head-torch bobbing around near the checkpoint I was ready to drop through the door. Fortunately, I composed myself at least a little before saying hi to the collection of racers inside...

Iditarod 2009 Part 1

Wow, it's been a month now since I set off on my big adventure. Time's flown for various reasons but here it finally is: the first instalment of my Iditarod story...

Alaska is an amazingly beautiful place - just looking at it from the window of the plane filled me with excitement and anticipation. And, as before, my time there was filled with extraordinary people adding to the experience.

It seems wrong to call the Iditarod Invitational a race. Leading up to the event, it was "The Race" - needing no further qualification. During the adventure, though, thinking of it as a race tended to result in making stupid mistakes. So leave the racing to veteran nutters like Jeff Oatley. I'll probably keep using the word "race" by accident though :)

As I had said in earlier blog posts, the lead-up to the race was far from perfect but it was fantastic to meet some familiar faces at the Speedway Cycles pre-race party. Nerves and jet lag kept me from sleep the night before we started, though, and as I arrived at Knik, I felt numb and a little bit queasy. The sun shone down on us and the other racers seemed to be going through similar thoughts as we stuffed down a last fatty meal. A few tweaks to the bike and I was ready to say good-bye to Emily for a few days. There was, literally, a mountain to climb before I'd see her again.

Time unwound quickly and soon we were riding across the first frozen lake through an inch or two of snow. I tried to stay calm and settle into the ride. The trail helped by quickly becoming firm, swooping, packed snowmachine-singletrack. I chatted to John Ross and the time sped past in the sun. I was feeling overdressed and grateful for a bit of easy mileage.

There is no real set course for the race. There are checkpoints, and there is the Iditarod trail, but we don't have to follow it. This adds to the adventure but makes the first section from Knik to the Susitna river a confusing place for newbies... so John and I duly got lost. After a certain amount of casting around in knee-deep snow, we eventually made it to the river but south of where we wanted to be. Heading north, I could see other racers coming in along Flathorn Lake and saving miles compared to us. Doh! Thinking like it was a race, I upped the effort and soon the back of my jacket was a frozen sweaty husk. There was still a long was to Yentna Station.

A lot of the following section was very marginal riding. You'd progress a hundred metres, then sink into the snow. Casting around across a wide possibility of trails, I'd eventually settle on one and ride another hundred metres or so before sinking again. In the dim light of my head-torch this process went on and on. At least running into Billy was a nice diversion. He was setting a steady "Nome pace" so I said hi and carried on at my own (too fast) speed.

It was in this first section that I learned not to put too much stock in the GPS. Straight line distance to a checkpoint means nothing on a winding river, it just frustrates a tired body. The frequency of my stops increased the further I went and every time I saw a cabin I hoped it was the checkpoint. As the wind picked up, I stopped to swap my normal hat for the one with the pull-up balaclava bit. This simple task was complicated by only having one source of light - my head-torch - and that source being frozen to the hat. Finally, I swapped hats and was able to carry on. The sweaty first hat remained a frozen lump all the way to McGrath.

I was really struggling to set my mind to the speed that I was moving. Every GPS-led estimate of when I would arrive came and went. I wanted to stop, but that wouldn't help, so I carried on. I scolded myself for making promises to my body that I couldn't keep. Promises like, I'll be there in an hour. Eventually I accepted the one truth: if I keep moving I'll get there so keep moving. At around 2am I got there.

Yentna Station was the busiest checkpoint as the field had yet to spread out fully. I rolled up, signed in, and tried to stuff down food. My plan was to sleep for 4 hours and get back out there. So I set my soggy socks and shoes in front of the stove and went to try to sleep.

But sleep wasn't happening. Too much excitement, too many nerves, and my eye was itching, hurting, and watering. As the time came to get up I was glad to be "doing" instead of just lying there. By the time I reached the next checkpoint, I was bound to be so tired I'd sleep like the dead.

Heading downstairs, I found Jill Homer. She was hesitating to put any weight on her feet. Frostbite had got to them after overflow had doused them. I was too spaced out to talk to her properly, but I felt her pain and hoped that she would be able to continue. I gathered up my socks and shoes to find them soaked. They had been lying in a puddle while I'd been lying in bed. "Well, my boots are waterproof anyway so I'll just go," I thought. Mistake.

The word was that it was cold outside, but as I loaded up my bike it didn't seem too severe. Of course, the temperature on the river, in the wind, is a lot colder than up at the checkpoint but that didn't occur to me. I set off into (if anecdotes be true) -30C heading for Skwentna.

Now I was more attuned to things taking absolutely ages. Not quite zen yet, but I could at least appreciate the sunrise and the cold as I pedalled away. Occasionally my feet felt cold so I walked a bit. My eye was watering a lot and freezing up. But, on the whole, things were good. I was doing it, actually feeling like part of the event. At one point, I got off to walk and it felt like my toenail was being torn up by something. I took off my boots to check it out - the toe of my sock was frozen solid and the nail had been pushing against ice. I crunched it around and decided to ride as it was more comfortable. Mistake.



The rest of the ride to Skwentna was uneventful. Jay and Tracy Petervary overtook me; I chugged along. Eventually I reached what I expected to be the driveway for the checkpoint and turned in. No cabin in sight. In fact, it must have been a mile of extra riding through what would have been pleasant surroundings. Sadly, I was squinting at every tree, thinking it was a cabin in disguise. I still didn't have all the patience I would need, but eventually the checkpoint did come into view - heading inside I found a bunch of other racers...



It was great to see James Leavesley looking so cheerful and preparing to go even as I had only just arrived. Already, there were stories swapping around from the first day of travel and, even through my excessive tiredness, the glow of other people was as welcoming as the warmth of the stove. Which is not to exclude the warm welcome of Bonnie and her family into their home. They're lovely people!

It was still only about mid-day so my plan was to warm up, eat, and head on down the trail. As my feet warmed up, though, they started to burn. Taking off my socks, I saw that the flesh of both big toes had turned grey and I couldn't feel anything as I pressed concerned fingers into them. As other people noticed them, I was advised to massage them a bit and try to warm them up in front of the stove. This turned out to be something I could only do in short bursts as the warming hurt quite badly. Eventually, though, my toes felt a normal temperature (but still numb and grey) and I had eaten enough to relax a little. It was getting awfully tempting to sleep for a while.

After some near-dozing on the sofa I decided to head out and try to get to Shell Lake - halfway to the next real checkpoint, but somewhere we could sleep indoors. Rob May thinks I talked him into riding out with me... I'd say the mere suggestion of having someone heading out now was enough. Either way, we set of into the warm afternoon with dry clothes and full bellies.

The ride to Shell Lake was a revelation. Almost all of the pictures I have seen of the trail (including the ones I took) show a single straight like heading across flat tundra to infinity. In fact, there are long section of fun riding out there and the only explanations I can come up with for the lack of photos are: 1) We're having too much fun and making too good time to stop (2) If you want to see those fun bits, you'll have to go do it for yourself and earn them. So, Rob and I swooped along snow-machine singletrack under a golden afternoon sky. It was a breath of fresh air after so much slogging along frozen rivers. I had a chance to get out of the saddle and let the bike flow a little - a strange feeling indeed on such a weighty beast.



We talked about riding, racing, and training for the event and the miles slipped by easily. It almost felt like cheating, but I knew I had to sleep at Shell Lake and catch up on all the missed zzzs since leaving England. Rob was happy with that idea so we rode like a Sunday afternoon saunter until we could see the cabins ahead of us on the lake.

The bar at Shell Lake is a weird place. The kind of place you'd expect to see at the start of a horror movie, it was quiet and very slightly strange. I could just picture some horrible secret in the basement. That didn't stop me ordering food though. And here is one of the sad parts of my race - my bean soup had bits of sausage in it and I just ate up the lot. I could rationalise it by saying that it had already been cooked and probably would have been wasted anyway if I'd have sent it back. But the truth is that it was expensive, I was hungry, and the only alternative was my own food so I just didn't care.

Sleep here was the best I'd had in a long while. I don't recall how long I was out... Maybe 6 hours. But It was perfect and I woke ready to take on the next stage of the adventure...

Getting back on the horse

It's been ages since Iditarod, and I'm finally back onto bikes and blogging...

The briefest possible story of my experience is that I finished in McGrath after 6 days 22 hours; it was spectacular and difficult; I'd love to do it again.

Some of my photos are on Facebook. Bill Merchant's video is here. Lou Kobin (one of our group of four that took on Rainy Pass together) has her account on her blog.

I will be writing about the race in more detail over the next few days, but one event from the race is worth mentioning now - as a reason for my absence from bikes and lack of motivation to blog. Like an idiot, I managed to get frostbite on my feet. So the week after I got back from Alaska was spent immobile and in pain. I can ride again now, but I still need to bandage my toes and they still make a mess when I do so. It's not really something to dwell on - especially since I'm back in action now.

Music to get me pedalling again

Well, things are coming together for the race. My injured leg is hurting less (but still hurting - under ice at this very moment), my food is going to be there in time for me to pick it up, and the bike's all packed for flying. Without using drops, I'm going to have to carry about 8kg of food beyond what I'd originally planned, but at least the bike will get lighter as I go along!

My bike loading has had to change to accommodate the extra food. I only wanted a front rack, but now I've had to put a rear on. This involved bending and cutting the mounting kit to fit those funny offset chainstays. With that done, I've now got my thermarest wrapped around my sleeping bag and my down jacket out back with the extra food panniers. The thermarest looks untidy, but it seems secure. As on the training camp, bungie nets are holding stuff onto the tops of the racks i.e. the sleeping bag and down jacket. The one new trick is to fix one side of them with cable ties so that I don't loose the nets in the snow.

And I've finalised my iPod playlist. I don't plan to use it all the time, but if I need a mental lift it's only a few grams. Here's the playlist...

Aesop Rock Labor Days
Aesop Rock None Shall Pass
Asian Dub Foundation Facts And Fictions
At The Gates Terminal Spirit Disease
Bad Religion New Maps of Hell
Bad Religion The Process Of Belief
Converge No Heroes
DJ Shadow Endtroducing....
Give Up the Ghost Year One
Heartless Bastards All This Time
Heartless Bastards The Mountain
Ignite Our Darkest Days
Integrity To Die for
Joe Pug Nation of Heat EP
John Coltrane A Love Supreme Deluxe Edition [Disc 1]
Josh Ritter Golden Age Of Radio
Massive Attack Mezzanine
Massive Attack Protection
Mayhem De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas
Minor Threat Out of Step
Mogwai The Hawk Is Howling
The Pogues If I Should Fall From Grace With God
Propagandhi Less Talk, More Rock
Propagandhi Potemkin City Limits
Propagandhi Today's Empires, Tomorow's Ashes
Shai Hulud Hearts Once Nourished With Hope And Compassion
Shai Hulud Misanthropy Pure
Shai Hulud A Profound Hatred of Man
Shai Hulud That Within Blood Ill-Tempered
Sick Of It All Life On The Ropes
Steve Earle El Corazón
Supersuckers Devil's Food
Zombie Apocalypse This Is A Spark Of Life

Finnish Winter Swimming Champs

It was a couple of weeks ago now, but back on February 7, I went out to Imatra for the Finnish Winter Swimming Championships. It was a completely ridiculous distance to travel in order to swim two 25m races but I'd always wanted to go to Finland and their competition was the inspiration for Tooting to start the UK champs. It was really another trip lead by Emily's swimming, but one that I could get into and one that gave me the chance for a cheeky snow ride too.

The venue was at the leisure centre in Imatra where a pontoon had been put into the river before it froze. The "pool" was then the 25m inside the pontoon which had been kept clear of ice by constantly agitating the water. During the competition, however, there was a man going around with a net. Normally, you might expect him to be fishing out leaves. Actually, he was taking out small lumps of ice. Icicles hung off the lane ropes, and the steps (insulated with pipe lagging) were encrusted - crunching under your hands as you got in or out. And to add the icing (ho-ho) to the whole thing, just outside the bounds of the pontoon were some guys ice-fishing with their little holes and little chairs.


There was a great atmosphere from the start. Even though we went straight to the pool and missed the opening ceremony, there were plenty of other people on the grandstand. It was a long wait until we got our turn to swim, but it was fun to be in such a supportive crowd and we did get the chance to witness a Swimtrek cap-wearing, thong-sporting nut-case.


Unlike Tooting, the pre-race preparation was indoors. For some reason, it's always really hot in Finnish buildings. Far warmer than I'd keep my house in an English winter (16C for me). So, as I waited, I couldn't bear to have my coat on and was even sweating a bit. Maybe some of that was anticipation. I'm not that great a swimmer and a terrible sprinter at any sport, but I can't avoid feeling competitive. I was nervously trying to remind myself to go fast, not just the loping pace I normally do things at. Knowing that you're about to get into the cold does always bring a lump to the stomach, but it just as surely brings a buzz afterwards.


The race itself was breaststroke. The Finns have traditionally used head-up breaststroke for cold water because putting your head under takes your breath away. And with head-up you can wear silly hats. But, this time they experimented with normal breaststroke. Until a masters session a couple of weeks ago, I hadn't done breaststroke since I was a kid so it wasn't an ideal choice. Into the water I went, though, eyeing the others for clues about when to do what as the instruction were in Finnish. Once everyone's shoulders were under, we were off. Seconds later, we were out again. It was a fleeting series of images: brown tinged water, another swimmer out of the corner of my eye, my breath bursting a bit, no real time to feel conventionally cold. At least I'd remembered to try to go fast.


Impressively, and stylishly in her flowery hat, Emily took first place in the international category. Sadly, I couldn't see the race as it was only minutes after mine.

The evenings are one of the main reasons to go cold water swimming. Everyone parties and has a good time. It was organised fun here though. A few dancers and entertainers before the band started; then there was the Finnish approach to dancing. Everything in a Waltz style, whatever the music. I'm not the greatest or most enthusiastic dancer, but it was a weird sight and a weird dance-floor to share. At some point during the night, we met the other member of our relay team. It was thong-man, Nigel.

The relay was very much more of the same, except this time with team spirit. So the racing was more fun, the swimming experience was pretty much the same, and I had the surprise sight of a steward taking my clothes away thinking they should be at the other end for a team-mate. Fortunately, I stopped them!

After the swimming, we headed up to Ruka - where the Finns go for skiing and I was hoping to ride my bike a bit. Having carried it with me this far, I was going to make sure it saw some snow action. I set off for their snowmobile trails with high hopes. The first section was on snow-covered roads which whizzed by until I saw the distinctive "two skis and a caterpillar" track that I was looking for. Checking behind, I swung off the road and onto the trail.


It started with a little 2ft hump, and stopped immediately after. As I came down the hump, my front wheel sank way down into the snow, pitching me over the bars. Arms outstretched, I flew and landed face down with both arms sunk up to the shoulders. Huh - I wasn't expecting that. I had noticed that the snow was too powdery for snowballs but I had hoped the trail would pack down. I was dead wrong. Every time I tried to ride, my rear wheel just dug a little hole. Even pushing, my feet would occasionally go straight through the tracks and up to my thighs. The "ride" was a 5 hour push. Objectives were made though: it was nice and remote, the trail mix went down well, and I got back exactly on time with a little water and a little food left. For scenery, though, Alaska's better :)

Stumbling towards the start line

One week until the Iditarod and things aren't looking as organised as they were a while ago...

First my seatpost bolt snaps on a training ride so I have to go home and swap seatposts before carrying on. At least I managed to do that and fight the gremlins saying "Go home now, eat cake now." I went back out and earned the eventual cake. No luck in sourcing a new bolt, though... how hard can it be?!

Then the effect of knackered shoes gets to my feet again. The soles are so worn out and flexy that the pedals stick through into my feet and roll them outwards. Some sort of suspected tendon pain makes it hard to walk and impossible to run (even across the road).

Having got sick of having the scrape ten tons of sticky mud off my bike after every ride I decided to have a road-heavy week. I set off for some big commutes: 30 miles each way with panniers stuffed to the gills. 10 minutes into my ride home, my freewheel dies, taking me from singlespeed to no speed. I swap it round to fixed (a harder ratio) and carry on home. It was quite nice doing two 60 mile days sandwiching two 30 mile days with nice (ish) weather and no mud. But by the end of all that my shins are seriously painful. I can't point my toes out or up and it really hurts to walk.

After a day of ice and rest, I set off for my last big ride before the race. It should be about 9 hours and the sun is shining. Trail conditions were still pretty sticky, but the descents had some grip so there was chance to let fly a bit. Four hours into that, the shin pain is back so I plan to cut that ride short. Then I'm nearly home and the freehub on my xc bike jams, going from singlespeed to fixed. Fixed off road might be fun, but not when any failure to keep up with the pedals will further mash the internals of an expensive hub so I limp home and and end the ride on a low.

And of course, I get home to find that my drop bags for the race haven't made it to Alaska. They were supposed to take 5 days so they're 13 days overdue. Which may mean I have to carry all my food with no drops. Crap.

At this point, there's no stopping me but I just wish the little branches and brambles pulling back my progress towards McGrath would give me a break. I'll just have to keep reading books about people who've done harder things and overcome bigger obstacles. It's just a bike race so I just need to turn the pedals or trudge my feet for a few days. Injuries or lack of food aren't necessarily the end of that. Look at the scenery, have a laugh.

More help for the race... Goodridge

Another lovely company has been nice enough to help me out with training for and riding the Iditarod... Goodridge! They make steel braided brake hoses and brake pads. Since brake pads are one of my biggest training costs and Goodridge are my first choice brand that's great news. I had already specced their hoses for the Pugsley to avoid cracking at low temperatures or worrying about crash damage causing a leak so I was very glad that they were willing to help.

Hooray for them!

Food

To quote Bill Merchant, nutrition on the Iditarod trail is about "Fat, fat, and more fat". A reasonable estimate of expenditure on the trail is 8000 calories per day (an adult male's recommended intake is 2500 per day in normal conditions), so high fat and calorie dense foods are needed. Roughly speaking: fat is 9 calories per gram, protein and carbs are 4, and alcohol is 7.

This makes for a weird food shopping experience and a new stat-counting measure. I've never been that much of a weight weenie on my bikes, but I have definitely become a calorie-per-gram weenie for food. It makes a huge difference. 8000 calories in raw potatoes is 10 kg. Even if you could carry and cook that many potatoes, you wouldn't want to eat them. 8000 calories in butter is 1.1 kg. A lot easier to carry but also not a lot of fun to eat. For a "short" trip like the Iditarod race, fibre is just indigestible extra weight. Nutrients aren't a problem because you won't be gone long enough to suffer a shortage. The key things are: calories-per-gram, easy preparation, and palatability. Low weight is an obvious advantage. Anything that needs to be cooked over a flame will use up lots of fuel so "just add water" is better. And it doesn't matter what food you've got if you can't bring yourself to keep shoving it down every day.

At least these were my thoughts... I don't really have the experience to know how well my food plans will work out. I am setting myself back by sticking to vegetarianism. There will be food at checkpoints, but Alaskans are into meat (with good calorie density reasons) so I will have to assume I can only eat what I bring. Bearing all of this in mind, I started experimenting and creating a spreadsheet...

Foodstuff	Cal/g
Muesli	3.6
Powdered Milk	4.9
M & Ms	4.8
Cashews	6.2
Torq recovery	3.5
Almonds	6.1
Dried Apricots	1.7
Chocolate coffee beans	5
Couscous	3
Powdered Butter	6.92
Pumpkin seeds	5.9
Pine Kernels	7

With this information I could plan my meals and get to 8000 calories in 1.6 kg. Hopefully I'll be able to eat all this, here's the menu...

• Breakfast: Muesli with dried milk
  
• Daytime: Cashew nuts with M & Ms, Almonds with dried apricots (chopped up for when they freeze), Torq recovery drink (that stuff isn't super energy dense, but it really helps me recover while training), chocolate coffee beans (yeah, I'm having caffeine on this one)
  
• Dinner: Couscous with lots of dehydrated butter, pumpkin seeds, and pine nuts
  

And there it all is in bags. Using freezer bags means I can cook and eat the couscous straight from the bag. It also means relatively minimal waste packaging on the trail. Making up all the bags certainly did show how much waste there is in food packaging though. My recycling bag was jammed full of cardboard, and the main big was overflowing with plastic by the end.

Enter The Pug

Well, there was an awful lot of waiting, but the monster has finally arrived. On Friday afternoon and with many thanks to Cycle Care, I took ownership of my Pugsley. Then, life being life, I couldn't even put the grips and pedals on until Monday. Saturday was 10 hours of training on the bike, and Sunday was training on foot with Emily and spending some time together. Still, the big grey bike was still lurking when I went out to see it today and now it's ready to ride tomorrow. So bring on the glamour shots (apologies for poor quality camera-phone work, my camera is elsewhere. Click for bigger images)...

No comments about the fence... it's on the neighbour's side! Nice, clean lines from the Pug, though.


New style seat-clamp from Surly has a nice S embossed on it. Open cable guides for full-length cables/hoses.

Apparently, Hope SS hubs only come in gunmetal colour these days. The seals look different to my 1 year old one too. Note the crazy-big rims with offset build to allow a full range of gears that don't foul the massive tyres.


Lovely Hope stem, Goodrich braided hoses (to avoid plastic cracking in the cold. Arguably I should have gone with cable discs), King headset. The front is very high and wide as that's the usual style for snow bikes (so I'm told and it worked for me with the rental).

This is what it looks like to get run over by a Pugsley. Yes, the tyre really is bigger than a tree :) Also of note: the front wheel using a rear hub. For the race, that'll have a different gear from the back just in case. Even if I use that gear, I'll still claim to have ridden it singlespeed!

View from the seatpost... a 100mm FSA ISIS bottom bracket. Wise people say FSA ISIS is pretty good these days. Hope so! 

That's how a drivetrain should look! Simple lines. For the race, I'll be running a granny ring at the front, but 32t for now so I can ride it round Swinley.

Lobsters are cool but...

Lobster gloves seem like the perfect balance of finger grouping for warmth vs dexterity to ride. There is a problem, though. You can do this:

But you can't do this:

And sometimes the second one is essential. Like when you hear some raging metalcore.

Oh, and these ones don't leave room for chemical handwarmers making them useless for me in the Iditarod. Good for UK, though.

Rhossili is so bracing; NYT

3 days in Wales and 3 sea swims to help acclimatise for the competitions to come. Cold water swimming is such a weird thing... In a lot of ways it's just awful. Pain in the arches of your feet as the water first hits you, then shock as the water gets up to crotch height. And finally, the breath-wrenching dive to become fully immersed. If it weren't for Emily, I wouldn't be there.

But once you're in, it is fun in a muscle-twinging way. You break through some barrier between normal comfortable life, and surviving in a truly hostile environment. The idea of winter biking is to avoid getting cold, but here we have no protection for anything but modesty. Just swimsuits and temperatures that are guaranteed to give you hypothermia if you stay there long enough. So we built up each day: 4 minutes, then 10, then nearly 20. Once you've taken the plunge and ignored the horror, it's actually kind of fun to be there in a place where people really shouldn't be.

Bring on the UK Champs at Tooting and then Finland!

And in other exciting news, the New York Times article is out with words and videos... yay!

Bikemagic article is up

Well, the Bikemagic article about the Alaska training school is up. Go read it here.

And today's training ride? 1 snapped chain. 1 standing in water over ankles incident. 85km distance, 2030m climbing, 6h45m time. Completely battered body.

After Alaska

Well, my first ride back from Alaska was interesting. The first few metres riding down my road were terrifying... were my tyres always this skinny, was the steering always this fast? I reached the end of my road and nearly popped my eyeballs out as I touched the brakes... Clearly, this wasn't quite the same as riding a rented Pugsley!

Climbing brought breathing difficulties and made my arms feel like over-cooked noodles, flapping away as I hulked up Kop Hill. In Alaska, I hadn't been using this much effort and the air had been dry. Now I was maxing out and sucking down moist air at about 0C. Only 5 minutes in and I had resigned myself to a ride that would hurt but feel better afterwards. 20 minutes in and I was speeding down some doubletrack blinking away the water and mud from my eyes. Ruts were twitching the front tyre around and my attempts to correct were just exaggerating the problem. Then I tried to brake and only set off a massive uncontrolled buck of the bike result in a face/gulley interaction. I needed to find my mud-riding head again.

As the ride went on though, things started to come together. I couldn't yet find that pace inside myself to grind up the long nasty wet climbs, but I was at least getting control back on the downs. Once again, though, I'm in the position where my problems will be solved by more riding so it's not so bad.

Looking back to Alaska, a couple of things were discovered.

First and foremost, they've got a vibrant and friendly mountain biking community out there that was hugely welcoming to me. Billy sorted me out with a fine rental bike and then went way beyond the call-of-duty helping to get me as much riding as possible (more on that later). Tim introduced me to the local night-riding scene that was remarkably similar to our own but whiter and then went on to offer more help than I had any right to expect.

Second discovery was that I will stand a chance of finishing in McGrath staying vegetarian and singlespeed. I left the geared Pugsley in one gear pretty much the whole time to find the right ratio and now I can get that for my own. 22:18, since you asked. That means just a granny ring, but a relatively small cog at the back for where you'd be in the granny on a geared bike. It seemed to work for me, so I don't care if it doesn't look as manly as 32:16.

A detailed story about Bill and Kathi's school will be appearing on Bikemagic at some point but in the meantime, here's what happened when Billy and I rode around Eklutna Lake...

The forecast didn't look good. Right around freezing point and rain. Snow is fine, but rain sucks. It means pushing the bike through slush and potential disaster with a down sleeping bag. As we drove out from Anchorage I kept hoping it would get colder, but it never did. We were going to ride anyway as Billy is training to ride to Nome and I had to experience as many different conditions as I could in my time out there. The trail started off pretty rideable with options to stay down by the lake on trails used by skiers or go a bit higher up on easier trails where snow machines or quad bikes drive. We stayed low and the precarious singletrack line of packed snow eventually petered out to nothing. So we pushed. And pushed. And pushed some more. In the end it was over 5 hours to cover 12 miles, but the lake provided serene beauty with an almost perfect mirror for the mountains and the sun dipping behind them.

Our conversation petered out a while after the trail did and we just trudged along every footstep sinking calf-deep. It was ok, though, it wasn't going to break us and Billy had eggs for breakfast tomorrow. When we eventually stopped, we had taken the wrong trail - the way we'd meant to go was completely unbroken which would have meant lifting the front of the bike through the snow, an even worse fate than mere pushing. Since we weren't fixed on a destination this was fine and we set up a bivvy to make water, dinner and then sleep for the night. Spirits were high again as we sat warm in our sleeping bags and eventually settled down to sleep early.

Hours later, I heard Billy starting to mess around with his stove. It took a while before I woke up enough to check my watch... 11pm Damn, Billy... it's not even morning yet. It didn't take much discussion to agree to more sleep before breakfast. At about 4am, we were up again and Billy went to his stove again to make breakfast. Seconds later flames leapt a few feet into the air, wildly out of control. To my great relief, Billy threw the stove away from our sleeping bags. "Billy, your hand's on fire." "BILLY, YOUR HAND'S ON FIRE!" He slapped it out on the snow whilst I tended to the stove, controlling the gas to get it back down to a proper blue flame.

After that, breakfast was quite uneventful but tasty. Rain reduced the menu from eggs, gravy, and biscuits (that's American biscuits) to just eggs and gravy as we hurried to get packed up and moving. Pushing back was much easier with the furrow we'd ploughed on the way in and once we hit the main trails we took the high road. That meant more ups and downs, but almost entirely rideable trails that I tore up on my pretend singlespeed.

Eventually we were back and ready to meet Billy's family for breakfast at the Snow Cafe. It turned out to be a nice relaxing final day in Anchorage with Billy's lovely family and my chance to watch A Thin White Line. I can't thank him enough for his many kindnesses... If you need to rent a fat bike out there, he's your man and you can be 100% sure he'll have every detail sorted out for you.