Becoming Frozen

by Jill Homer

  “The city dump is next door,” Craig said by way of explanation. I nodded. Of course. The only reason eagles ever gather in such large numbers is for garbage and handouts. A person could venture through wilderness for weeks and never see an eagle. But here, dozens had congregated on beside a mountain of trash, contaminated with bothersome people and diesel fumes. Eagles were like people in that way — we all tended to gravitate toward places that were easy if uninspiring, comfortable and annoying at the same time.

  I waddled up another hill and strained to make an A-formation with my skis. The tips crossed as I careened down the slope, knocking fresh snow and frost off branches along the way. I managed to keep myself upright until the bottom of the hill, when the skis ripped apart like the dangling pieces of a broken pencil. I tipped and tumbled to a stop in a cloud of powder.

  My friends were too far ahead to witness the crash. The snow settled, and for a few stunned seconds, all was quiet. Lying on my back, I watched my breath curl into ribbons of frost around my hair. When I blinked, my eyelashes froze together. I reached into my pocket and fished out my digital camera for a self-portrait. The image on the screen showed an enchanted version of myself: a bright red face brushed with snow, a black hood bedazzled in frost, and glittering white hair and eyelashes. I was not one for make-up, but found this frosted makeover enchanting. Subzero air and frozen respiration painted a raw, intense kind of glamor on my face. I felt beautiful.

  I reattached my skis and scooted along my friends’ tracks. I ran to make up lost time, awkwardly lifting the ski anchors and clunking them back down until all of the glitter fell from my face. Geoff looked back as I ran up beside him.

  “Jill, you’re walking on your skis again,” he said.

  “I know that,” I said. “Shuffling was too slow. I couldn’t keep up.”

  Geoff laughed. “We’ve gone over this. You need to kick and glide.” He launched into an exaggerated shuffling motion, supposedly to show me what he meant.

  “I see what you’re doing,” I said, and mimicked him by dragging my feet over the snow. “I just don’t see how it’s different than what I’m doing.”

  Geoff continued to make attempts to teach me proper cross-country skiing technique, eventually throwing his arms up in exasperation. I purposely fell fifty meters behind, so I could continue to run in my skis. I was still keeping a similar speed, and judging my the volume of frozen sweat clinging to my hair and skin versus my friends, I was getting the better workout anyway. After ninety minutes, the sweaty effort left us all chilled, so we opted to take a short-cut back to the car. We agreed it was a solid workout anyway, enough to justify a feast of Craig’s starchy leftovers, cold turkey, and more pumpkin pie.

  *****

  While driving back to Homer, Geoff and I stopped at REI in Anchorage to purchase studded mountain bike tires. I was excited for an opportunity to commute down West Hill Road without killing myself, and Geoff figured he’d join my weekend rides. We picked up four tires, tubes, and extra chain lube for the slush and snow. As we browsed the bike section of the store, I noticed one of the strangest looking bicycles I had ever seen, hanging from rafters in the ceiling. The grape-purple frame had grotesquely wide tires, large enough to fit a motorcycle, which made it look like a bicycle with an unfortunate case of elephantiasis. It looked like a mountain bike, and yet it had no suspension. I was mesmerized.

  “Check it out,” I pointed the hanging bike to Geoff. “Weird bike, huh?”

  “Yeah, that’s one of those snow bikes,” Geoff said. “See?” he pointed to the decal on the frame. “That’s the Surly Pugsley.”

  “Snow bike,” I repeated. “But why doesn’t it have studded tires?”

  Geoff shrugged. “Guess you don’t need them if you’re just riding on snowmobile trails, not icy roads. The wide tires help you float on top of the snow. Sort of like wide skis.”

  I craned my neck until it hurt, examining the shiny components and chevron tire tread. I had read about fat-tire bikes on Internet forums, but I’d not yet taken the time to research options. Although independent frame builders had designed custom fat bikes since the 1990s, the Surly Pugsley was the first mass-marketed fat bike, and it just came out that year. “This is exactly what I need,” I thought. Then I caught a glimpse of the price tag. Eighteen hundred dollars. Nope.

  As we checked out the tires and supplies that were already stretching our budget, I picked up a brochure that was sitting next to the register. The cover featured an illustration of a person riding a bike through the snow, next to a skier with a backpack and a hiker dragging some sort of sled. Above the log was the title, “Susitna 100: A Race Across Frozen Alaska.”

  “Check this out,” I said to Geoff.

  “Oh yeah, I’ve read about that race,” Geoff said. “People ride their bikes a hundred miles in the winter on the dogsled trail. I think it’s called Iditarod, er, Iditabike. Something like that.”

  “Susitna 100 is the name of the race,” I said. “Really interesting.”

  I continued to flip through the brochure as Geoff drove along the frozen contours of the Turnagain Arm on Alaska Highway One. “You know, this race is open to everyone,” I said. “It’s in February, so we still have three months to train for it. Maybe we could sign up.”

  “What, are you crazy?” Geoff said, laughing. “A hundred miles in the winter on a bike? Are you serious?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It would be like a winter camping trip, but … longer. It would be kinda fun.”

  Geoff smirked. “Fun. That’s probably what I’d call it, too. How much does it cost?”

  I nervously turned the brochure over. “Well, it’s two hundred and twenty five dollars.”

  “What? For one race? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “But get this,” I said. “They give out gear, have good checkpoints, food, safety patrols.”

  “Maybe it sounds cool,” Geoff said. “But that is a lot of money. I don’t really get why you would want to do it. Have you ever even entered a race before? It’s going to hurt, a lot. And you’re going to have to train for it.”

  “That’s the point,” I said. “I could use a goal for this winter. I mean, yeah, I’ve never really been in any kind of race before. But I don’t see how training for this race will be all that different from when I was preparing for our bike tours.”

  “What? It will be completely different,” Geoff said. “For starters, you’re going to have to ride a lot longer, every day, in the cold, in the dark. You’re going to have to learn how to manage things like nutrition and pacing. You’re going to need to get the right gear, too.”

  “I have these,” I said, pointing to the studded tires in the back seat. “It’s a start.”

  Geoff laughed. “You’re crazy.” I could understand his reservations. Geoff knew all about the difficulty of racing. He had been a star on his high school cross-country team, and ran for the single year he spent at Syracuse University. He placed well in all of his races, but burned out on the schedules and training. Racing burn-out was the main reason he dropped out of college. I, on the other hand, was on my high school debate team, and that was close as I ever came to competitive sports.

  Still, Geoff and I shared a similar adult athletic pedigree. We had all of the same hobbies, and did a fair percentage of our hiking, cycling, rowing and skiing together. We were well-matched on our cross-country bike tour, and I could usually keep pace with him on backpacking trips. I had my gym phase and Geoff dabbled in snowshoe racing and the occasional relay or ten-kilometer running race. Geoff was certainly the more natural and talented athlete, but when it came to motivation and drive, I thought we were similarly matched.

  “Look,” I said. “They have a ski division and a running division. You could ski instead of bike. They also have a smaller race, only fifty kilometers. It’s called the Little Su 50K.”

  “A 50K, h
uh?” Geoff said, suddenly perked up. “That at least sounds more enjoyable.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That would be more realistic.” But in my mind, some strange urge was still pulling me toward the hundred miler. If you’re going to be ridiculous, I thought quietly, why not be completely ridiculous?

  “How would we pay the entry fee?” Geoff said. “It’s not like we’re going to find sponsors.”

  “I’ll think of something,” I said. “Something will work out.”

  _____

  Revisited

  December 1, 2005

  I spent an hour grinding away on my bike trainer today, staring at a fuzzy television program I couldn’t hear anyway and thinking about how I’d really like to attempt the Susitna 100. Geoff is still talking about doing the Little Su 50K ... he thinks he may even run it ... but I don’t know. If we’re going to all that effort, why not go all the way? I know, I know. I’ve already had the “crazy” talk with Geoff. And I know I’ll need to acquire some more gear and a little good ‘ol Alaskan toughness and all of that. But still, I want to do it. Why, you ask? Well, why cross the country on a bicycle? To see if I can.

  I still have that other aforementioned problem of paying the entry fee. I came up with an idea while riding the trainer that may seem more crazy than wanting to do this race in the first place. In charity rides, people usually put some sort of monetary value on their miles and collect pledges. So here’s what I resolve to do: I set up a little donation box in the sidebar of this blog. For every dollar, I’ll ride one icy mile on my mountain bike before Dec. 31 (the payment due date). Even if I have to ride in the middle of the night in a blizzard to meet my goal, I figure that will do more to help me get ready for this race than anything. I’ll keep a log of the rides and their sponsors on this blog, and offer regular updates of my progress. And, if I come woefully short of the entrance fee or if another unforeseen circumstance keeps me out of the race, I’ll donate any funds raised to a worthy charity such as the Lance Armstrong Foundation. Is that too crazy of an idea? (Keep in mind I just thought of it a couple of hours ago while I was sweating buckets on my living room rug.) I don’t know, but I thought it might be worth a dollar or two to some out there just to read about the horrors of headwinds at -5 degrees.

  *****

  The sun finally rolled over the Kenai Mountains at 10 a.m., setting the horizon ablaze — a bright inferno without a hint of heat. Kachemak Bay glittered as I turned to pedal up the final small hill to my office. At the front door, I had to squint against a blinding reflection of crimson light as I removed my mittens and fumbled with the keys.

  “It’s already open,” Dawn said after I shuffled inside, bundled in my snow jacket and pants, three fleece jackets, three pairs of cotton socks, one pair of long johns, and a ratty pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I no longer bothered to don more appropriate business clothing at the office, because it was rare for me to remove more than the outermost layer of my bike commuter moonsuit. I even wore ski hats indoors. This morning was no exception; the indoor temperature barely registered as warmer than the subzero air outside. The inside window glass was caked in frost, which explained the blinding reflection, and wisps of condensed breath curled over my face as I turned on my computer.

  “Ugh, doesn’t Jane ever turn on the heat?” I complained as I stashed my bike mittens in the drawer and pulled on wool gloves. The thick material was not conducive to typing, but it was still superior to the alternative — completely numb fingers.

  “No,” Carey said without looking up from her screen. “I did warn you about this.”

  “And she won’t let us buy space heaters, why?”

  “Because those use a lot of electricity, too,” Carey said. She was wearing a bulky wool sweater and knit hat. “You know, if you didn’t ride your bike in the morning, you wouldn’t be so cold when you came to work.”

  “Not really,” I said. “I dress warm enough, and I work up heat when I pedal. I shiver a lot more when I drive my car. Six miles is not enough for the Geo’s heater to kick in at all.”

  “Working out is part of the problem,” Carey said. “You sweat, which makes you wet, which makes you colder.”

  “Not on my way to work, I don’t sweat,” I said. “It’s all downhill. I have to wear five layers just to keep the wind out. My fingers freeze every time. Still, between keeping our home thermostat at sixty and then freezing here, any time I spend riding my bike outside is the warmest I’ll feel all day. Well, that and hot showers. I do look forward to showers.”

  Carey laughed as I convulsed with shivers, a symptom of my body readjusting its core temperature. Since the first of December, the cement box that housed the Homer Tribune had slipped into a state of perpetual refrigeration. Even Sean, who claimed a preference for wearing shorts throughout the subarctic winter, started donning a hoodie at his desk. And at home, Geoff analyzed the Monitor stove’s fuel consumption and deemed sixty degrees as the best setting for the heater while we were home. This temperature setting wasn’t too bad if we stood right next to the stove, but the outer corners of our spacious cabin often cooled to ice-forming temperatures by morning.

  Even my daily shower was pathetic. Our small water heater dredged up pungent sulfur water from the well, then pumped it upstairs through mineral-encrusted pipes until the water pressure was reduced to a trickle. I stood under the faucet for as long as the warm water reserves would allow — ten minutes or so — straining to absorb a whole day’s worth of heat. This feeling dissipated quickly during dinner, so afterward I would wrap one of our Afghan blankets — gifts from Geoff’s grandma — around my shoulders like a shawl when I moved about the house. I wore gloves to write blog posts, and put on thick fleece leggings and two long-sleeved shirts to go to bed.

  The Monitor stove was set to automatically turn down to fifty degrees at 10 p.m. By 11 p.m., a cave of cold air would coax us into bed whether we were sleepy or not. The mattress was lined in cotton sheets, a thin down comforter that I brought from Idaho, and a cheap cotton quilt that Geoff and I purchased at Fred Meyer. I usually threw one or more of the Afghans on top, and pulled on a thick pair of wool socks before crawling between the sheets. Geoff and I always started the night embraced in a tight cuddle, shivering slightly as we generated a small bubble of body heat. These embraces were emotionally satisfying, and allowed us both to drift into happy oblivion, where we would remain unconscious through all of the best hours of warmth, only to awake to inky darkness and ice buildup in the inside of every window.

  It’s cold in Alaska — a fact that all Alaskans talk about, complain about, and brag about. But I’m not sure most urban Alaskans understand, really understand, the true depth of the cold here. They move from their heated homes into heated vehicles on their way to heated buildings such as offices and gyms. They buy remote vehicle ignition starters, pull up to roadside coffee stands, and generally gripe about short walks across grocery store parking lots. Relatively few are active outdoors in the winter, and those who are tend to favor groomed park trails, close to heated eateries, which only border the vast tracts of wilderness just beyond city limits. I also was too inexperienced to understand what it was really like to live a frontier lifestyle in Alaska, but these struggles with the cold indoors were just enough to let me envision almost unimaginable hardships.

  Because I could understand how life could be so much more unforgiving, I found it amusing that many outsiders viewed my lifestyle as an unimaginable hardship. Since I started keeping a blog about my life in Alaska, several people whom I had never met left comments to offer condolences or advice. At first I was confused about how strangers found my blog, but gradually I began to click through their Internet links and read their stories. In just a month I was drawn into a large virtual community of eclectic individuals. There was a middle-aged woman and avid skier in Minnesota who urged me not to give up on the winter sport that I referred to as “death planks.” There was the
journalist in Fairbanks who recommended cold-weather gear and gave me tips for entering Alaska Press Club contests. There were several cyclists from Anchorage who shared my snow biking enthusiasm. There was the commuter advocate in Washington, D.C., who wrote quirky prose in the comments, the Florida mountain biker with a dry sense of humor, the Norwegian woman who claimed not to even care about cycling but loved my photographs, and at least a dozen others who engraved their voices into my ongoing narrative. All of them offered enthusiastic encouragement for my Susitna 100 ambitions, and even pledged financial support when I published a proposal to ride one mile for each dollar donated. These contributions, however, rarely came without caveats. The first ten dollars, from a woman named Tracey in Iowa, arrived under the heading “For Pain and Suffering.”

  The thermometer read eleven degrees at 9:30 a.m. when Geoff and I set out for our daily dose of “pain and suffering.” He came up with the innovative idea to cut off the top of old wool beanies to pull over our faces and necks. Diamond Ridge hadn’t seen new snow in nearly a week, and traffic had polished the packed snow on the road to a hard sheen. Our studded tires crackled like soda pop as we rolled down the hill, fearlessly accelerating against brain-searing blasts of wind.

  “Ugh, ice cream headache,” I groaned as we applied brakes and actually managed to stop at the street intersection. “But, wow, what a rush, riding right on top of the ice. I love studded tires.”

  We pedaled up Skyline Ridge just as a shock of scarlet light erupted over the Kenai Mountains, reflecting across Kachemak Bay more than a thousand feet below. Fingers of golden light stretched across the snow-covered bluff next to the road, again with a richness of color that doesn’t register during the high-angled sunlight of summer.