Becoming Frozen

by Jill Homer

  As a result, I generally had no idea where I was going. So I’ve been frequenting some old winter haunts — places I hadn’t even thought to ride since breakup gave way to summer because, well, it just isn’t that appealing to ride a full-suspension mountain bike on a smooth gravel road when so many clear trails and good pavement have opened up. But when autopilot kicked in, I’d find myself coasting down roads I’d ridden dozens of times, when they were cold, barren and covered in ice.

  On Friday evening — before a long night of rockabilly at Kharacters and dancing with spit rats who chided me for my “affluence” (because I have a washer and dryer) — I had a rare moment of clarity at the top of Ohlson mountain. I had been really lost in thought for the better part of an hour. I remember little of the 13 miles that took me there and only vaguely recall the switchbacking climb to the top, mostly in short gasps. But I do remember standing beside a grove of lupine at the summit, emerging from my stupor just long enough to realize how lush and blindingly green everything was — as though I had expected the snow and silence and gray.

  It really surprised me, not because the view was beautiful (although it was), but because my expectations of it deviated so drastically from the obvious. It’s summer, I thought, and I’m in Alaska, and I’ve been here ten months, and I’ve never taken the time to really look at a devil’s club blossom, and it’s already summer. Suddenly, everything around me had a thrilling sort of novelty.

  Sometimes I become so mired in the miles and routine that I fail to notice my world changing all around me. Such is the root of all indecision.

  *****

  Despite the seemingly sudden arrival of spring on Easter Sunday, it still took five more weeks for the snow around our house to disappear. By late May there was enough exposed grass in the backyard for Geoff to build an outdoor fire pit. Using a small chainsaw, he felled several dead trees around the perimeter of the cabin and cut them into logs. Outdoor lounging took over our evening routines — sitting next to the fire, reading New Yorker magazines and watching lazy sunsets paint the sky at eleven at night.

  Our five-dollar thrift store television still broadcast only two static-filled networks, but outside our cats were a reliable source of entertainment. Midnight, the stoic black cat, kept her vigil on the porch as Cady, the hapless Siamese/tortoiseshell, went on laughably futile hunting excursions. A chorus of songbirds had arrived with the dandelions. Dozens of birds were pecking at the grass where Cady assumed a crouched position. Her stalking technique was so obvious that every single bird gave her the avian equivalent of the side-eye. Finally, an awkward pounce forced them into the air. Every time, Cady looked to the sky with a mournful gaze, as though this bird had been the ultimate prize — the one that got away.

  Early in June, I spotted another young grizzly bear in our yard. She prowled through the carpet of dandelions and munched on grass for several minutes before sauntering back into the woods. While this didn’t dampen my enthusiasm for our backyard campfires (bears are afraid of fire, aren’t they?), it did give me pause about letting our cats roam free.

  “I don’t think it’s safe for them,” I told Geoff one evening.

  “Do you really think they’re going to be eaten by a bear?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “My co-worker Sean told me the story about a dog he used to have, one of those little dogs. He let it outside so it could run around the yard in the snow. One day, it just didn’t come back. Sean went out and followed the dog’s tracks in the snow until they just abruptly ended. There was a splatter of blood, and the dog was gone. Sean thinks it was carried away by an bald eagle.”

  “So eagles are going to eat the cats?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. But that grizzly bear is back. She looked hungry.”

  “Look at it this way,” Geoff said. “The cats were miserable when they had to stay inside all winter. Midnight is so much happier now.”

  “And Cady’s nemesis is making me crazy,” I said. Cady was regularly engaging in cat fights with one of Carey’s cats, a long-haired female named Tasha. Their yowling brawls woke us up nearly every night. Recently Cady had limped home with one of her ears pierced and bleeding.

  “Do you really think we should confine them inside because there are wild animals in Alaska? What kind of life is that?”

  “For a cat, a pretty normal one,” I retorted.

  “Yeah,” Geoff replied. “That’s the problem.”

  As our cats enjoyed a more feral lifestyle, Geoff and I adapted to the relative ease of summer. He landed fewer construction jobs as temperatures rose and more qualified workers stepped back into the employee pool, but his eBay business was thriving. Now that roads were no longer slicked in ice and snow, he used his car every day to transfer packages to and from the post office. He still trolled the city dump for treasures, but more often went to the hardware store to purchase supplies for his home improvement projects. He constructed fire pit benches from new two-by-fours, and re-enforced the shed with more shelves for his eBay inventory. On the other side of the yard, Geoff cleared a small patch for a garden and planted seeds.

  “Carey says moose are going to eat everything in that garden unless we buy an electric fence,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I just want to see what I can get to grow up here.”

  The rest of the yard was bursting with manic growth. Besides the golden carpet of dandelions, thick stalks of cow parsnip opened their white, umbrella-like blooms. Purple lupine lined the road, and magenta fireweed blossoms opened all at once. Most of my nine months of Alaska residency had been shrouded in white and gray, and this sudden burst of color was startling. The neighborhood moose, which had retreated elsewhere during the depths of winter, were back and more active than ever. Several cows had tiny calves that tottered alongside them on the road.

  June meant leaving work when the sun was still bright and hot, and riding home without any of the urgency to which I’d grown accustomed. Often I’d stay in my bike shorts and jersey while Geoff and I ate dinner, and head back out for a few more miles of cycling in the evening. As the sun made its wide arc over the horizon, I pedaled the perimeter of Diamond Ridge neighborhoods, sniffing out new trails. The ski trails had flooded with snow melt and were too boggy to ride, but several ATV trails revealed themselves after the snow melted. The discovery of a new spur was always cause for exploration, even if it meant pedaling through thick mud for half a mile before reaching yet another dead end.

  There were other nights when I coasted back into town to watch sunset over Kachemak Bay, photographing bald eagles as they circled a background of sky and water that exploded with crimson light. Riding home from these late-evening excursions, I’d marvel at the utterly empty streets. Where was everybody? Time seemed to stand still as dusk lingered in the midnight sky.

  Both Geoff and I kept the fitness routine alive with our summer goals in mind. While I trained for the twenty-four-hour race, Geoff registered for the Alaska Mountain Runners Grand Prix. The first event of the season was an uphill-only race just south of Anchorage, ascending Powerline Pass from a roadside rest stop on the Turnagain Arm. The course followed a popular hiking trail that gained 3,500 feet of elevation in about four miles. I opted to miss the start of the race in order to catch the finish, setting out an hour before the runners.

  It was the first truly hot weekend of the year, with ambient temperatures in the high seventies. Despite the warmth, the seasons regressed as I ascended the mountain, from the green plumage of summer, to the closed buds of spring, to rocky tundra still covered in snow. A narrow strip of dirt trail along a sheer cornice allowed hikers to skirt around the snow fields, but the trail still frequently disappeared beneath slushy drifts. The steepness of the grade was unrelenting — a muddy staircase without the benefit of stairs.

  “Damn, this is going to be a tough race,” I thought, and just as soon as I thought it, I heard a shuffle of
footsteps from behind. I turned to see the beet-red face of a runner who momentarily looked up from his hunched position. Even though the steepness of the trail nearly forced me on all fours, he was moving at a solid running pace.

  “Crap, they’re here already,” I thought.

  After another man passed I raced behind him, but failed to hold his pace. My lungs burned and I could feel my own face twisting into an agonized grimace. Disappointment injected itself into gasps as I realized that either Geoff wasn’t going to finish well in this race, or I wasn’t going to see him finish. I checked over my shoulders as I continued to run — well, trudge forcefully — beside the neck-high cornice.

  Geoff caught up to me about a hundred meters from the finish, in fifth position. Just ahead were crowds of spectators gathered along a saddle and four runners in various states of collapse next to the trail. I pulled over just before the finish line, drawn with flour in the dirt, and took his photo as he passed. He was hunched over almost in an L-shape, pressing his hands into his knees.

  “You’re doing awesome. Almost there!” I yelled.

  Geoff just exhaled. “Hmmmph.”

  I didn’t want to steal his thunder, so I hung back and waited until he crossed the finish line before I hiked the rest of the way to the top. He gave me a hug and then went to shake the podium finishers’ hands. Geoff looked winded but not as shattered as the other guys, one of whom was sprawled face down on the dirt.

  “How was it?” I asked.

  “Shit,” he said, still panting. “Fuck, that was hard.” As he uttered a few more expletives, a grin peeled across his face.

  “You got fifth place, that’s so awesome,” I said.

  “Those guys are strong,” he said. “It would take a lot to win.” I could see by the expression on his face that by the end of the season, he intended to rise to the top of Alaska Mountain Running. After forty-five minutes of running, he was ninety seconds back from first place.

  We lounged at the pass for another fifteen minutes, greeting a steady stream of finishers. Despite the warm morning, there was a cold wind at the ridge. Geoff was shivering, so we started back down the mountain. All of his muscles had stiffened up, and he limped rigidly along the edge of the cornice.

  “I can’t believe it only took you forty-five minutes to climb this,” I said. “It was really hard in an hour and forty-five.”

  “I bet you’d like these mountain races,” Geoff said. “They favor hiking and you’re a strong hiker. I’m probably better at running flat and fast stuff, but this is more fun.”

  I regarded the faces of runners still ascending the mountain, some almost twisted in agony. I’d had some tough moments in the Susitna 100, but all of these people appeared to be in real pain.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I think I’ll stick to hiking for fun.”

  *****

  The 24 Hours of Kincaid took place on the weekend of the summer solstice, when the sun made its widest arc through the northern sky. Geoff and I arrived at the staging area late in the evening, just as sunset took a brief intermission behind the Alaska Range. We set up my “pit” and crawled into the tent to rest before the start. Geoff would serve as my race crew, lubing squeaky bike parts and making sandwiches. I would race to discover just how far I could ride a bicycle in one day.

  Hour zero arrived at high noon. The first lap launched in a flurry of confusion as racers dashed across a soccer field toward mountain bikes lined up in a mismatched row. I was one of the last to find my bike, and rushed to catch up with the field. At the edge of the park, the trail funneled into a narrow corridor beneath a canopy of birch trees, often no wider than my handlebars. The serpentine trail had many spurs. Despite straining to pay attention to the neon ribbons that marked the course, I veered off route early and had to backtrack in the first half mile. Cleanly in the back of the pack, I mashed the pedals over roots and around tight corners, desperate to catch the others. I’d never be able to sustain this pace, not even for one lap, but the urgency of competition sent me into a panic.

  Despite the intense effort, tenths of miles clicked by too slowly as the surface of the trail continued to deteriorate. Thick roots braided through a patchwork quilt of mud, wet leaves, and devil’s club vines. I plummeted off rocky drops and dabbed my feet against trees. At mile three, the bike bucked me off the saddle into a thorny patch of Devil’s Club. I stood up with mud smeared across my face and blood trickling down my arm.

  “Damn it!” I called out, to no one, because I was still in last place. Amid my recent transition to hardcore endurance athlete, I’d neglected to acknowledge that my past experience included almost no technical mountain biking. I went straight from road touring to snow biking, and neither of these disciplines developed the skills necessary to pilot a bike efficiently over roots, rocks, and mud. The unsettling realization that I actually had no idea how to ride technical singletrack overshadowed my physical distress. I walked my bike down the next steep descent, and pedaled lightly through the forest maze as tree branches grabbed at my shoulders.

  “I’m going to have to quit after just one lap,” I lamented. “I suck.”

  “No!” Adventure Jill shouted back. “What has endurance racing taught you?” It didn’t matter how slowly I moved, as long as I kept moving forward. I had twenty-four hours, after all, and I didn’t have anywhere else to be. If I could just finish one lap, I had no reason to believe I couldn’t do it again and again.

  The course crossed a road onto smoother double track, and I threw my new resolve into powering up a steep climb. I even managed to pass a few people to relinquish last place, and finished up the eleven-mile lap on a squeal-inducing roller coaster of a descent. One hour and sixteen minutes had passed since the start, and I’d already forgotten how upset I’d been.

  “That was awesome,” I exclaimed to Geoff as he approached me with a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich that he had lovingly cut into quarters. “Oh man, the first half is hard, really technical. But the second half has one amazing descent. It’s really fun.”

  After three more laps, the effort ground into my back and legs. My stomach lurched at the sight of Geoff’s peanut butter sandwiches, and I doubled over as I stepped off the bike, gulping from an urge to vomit.

  “Maybe you should lie down,” Geoff suggested. I sprawled out on the grass and drew in quick, shallow breaths. A soccer scoreboard, broadcasting the race clock, spun in my peripheral vision.

  “I don’t feel good at all,” I whined. “I’m not sure I can go out again.”

  “Take as long as you need,” he said. As I took exaggerated deep breaths, Geoff filled me in on the action in the staging area. “Pete comes in every hour, grabs a bottle out of his cooler, throws the empty bottle on the ground, and then just leaves,” he said, describing the rider currently leading the solo race. “That’s all he has. That one cooler.”

  Geoff had been noting my lap times on a piece of paper, and regularly checked my position on the board. He was kind enough not to divulge exactly where I fell in the standings, only telling me, “You’re doing so well.”

  Geoff had a large capacity for compassion; this was something I appreciated most about him. He distributed this compassion evenly to everyone he met, which is why as his girlfriend I sometimes felt left behind. But when all of his empathy was focused solely on me, I felt a surge of love that had the power to pull me out of dark and hopeless places.

  “I was going to go for a run,” he said. “Maybe we could go out for this next lap together.”

  “You want to run while I ride?” I asked, skeptical.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It will be fun.”

  It seemed an unfair but potentially motivating competition — although in Geoff’s defense, he never used the word “race.” We took off together, and hopscotched positions frequently on the technical trail — mostly because he stopped to wait for me and take ph
otos. After the downhill hike-a-bike, he took off and I never saw him again. The laps were now taking me more than an hour and a half to finish, and Geoff ran the eleven-mile course faster than that.

  I felt demoralized. Sure, I still appreciated the loving support Geoff had shown me, and “racing” was probably the farthest thing from his mind. But this was a race — I was racing other bikers, and I was racing myself. In this regard, I had failed. A runner shouldn’t be able to beat a biker. It seemed like another example of all the ways Geoff excelled at life while I floundered.

  “Hey how did it go?” he asked when I returned to the pit. He’d made another sandwich for me. “Are you feeling better?”

  “I suppose so,” I replied. Racing Geoff around lap five had taken my mind off my sour stomach. I choked down the sandwich and realized some of my energy had returned. Maybe I needed a little hurt and anger to shake up my complacency. That’s what it took to move to Alaska, and that’s what it was going to take to stick out Kincaid.

  Twenty-four-hour racing has elements that mimic years of a life. We circle an endless loop as a clock keeps ticking, striving toward a destination that is not a place, but simply a finish. Hearts flutter and legs flounder. People orbit in and out of our periphery, in a place where anguish and compassion can be shared amid a midnight conversation about television cartoons. Through these brief connections, we feel an intensity of empathy and understanding that binds us together as a community. Each circumnavigation leaves us wiser, more familiar with the obstacles ahead, and also more skilled. As miles add up, they also leave us more broken, leaning on aged muscles and overstretched tendons, nursing scraped skin and bruises — the scars of experience. Eventually the clock simply runs out and we limp into the finish, stooped over handlebars, bodies utterly spent, with a depth of satisfaction that can only echo from a race well lived.