Denali Bitty Bottom (Alaska gravel race)

I admit that transitioning from cycling in Kosovo to Alaska has not been easy. After the 100-mile ride in early August, I was rarely on my road bike again after that in 2019. The Trek needed some repairs, and the front wheel alone caused agony among Trek Anchorage mechanics in trying to track down the right cones, but I was left frustrated with not knowing the roads, and there being rather few of them. I bought a Trek Roscoe to replace the stolen mountain bike, a semi-fat MTB that with snow tires worked well all winter commuting to and from campus. And that was the real intro to Alaska cycling for me. Not long distances, it was only about 7km each way, but through January days of little sunlight and -25C temps, over ice and past moose, it was a suitable intro. I had retired from racing anyway, right?

But by February I was getting restless. Nothing had changed in terms of Alaska weather, maybe 10C warmer, but I was looking forward to the Denali Randonneurs summer schedule, of 200-600km routes that would take me into the heart of the state, that would ... be cancelled. The coronavirus pandemic hit the cycling community hard, with pro races in February cancelled and other events in the future soon falling prey. The Denali club, in some disagreement with the national umbrella organization RUSA, cancelled all events for the year. I understood why, but it was a big blow to my motivation. So I turned to another event, the Denali Soggy Bottom race in May, with hopes that Alaska would dodge the worst of the pandemic and at least that gravel race could go on.

Well, not quite. Alaska was fairly proactive in locking down, for which I was thankful, and I hardly got any riding in at all as March rolled around. Even into mid-April the roads had ice and road biking was tricky, but I started again as the gravel race was itself postponed due to the lockdown. Rescheduled for June 20, I didn't even have a gravel bike. I was waiting for one to be custom built for me at One Oak Cycles in Wisconsin, and was offered to borrow one from Jim, an econ prof. He and I had snow-biked the Knik glacier in March, a stunning ride and one in which I stopped right next to my hero Jill Homer without even knowing it until seeing Strava later that night.

My motivation was definitely ebbing. I would see epic rides from my friends in Kosovo, but the pandemic had dragged me down. In January I could wake up at 6am and ride in Arctic temps, seeing barely any sunlight. Now it was light almost 24 hours, weather was fine, and I could barely get out of bed in the morning. All my energy was directed toward a summer course I was teaching and the associated wargame. I had trouble writing, I had gained weight since the summer before, and... well, I'd drive the 6 hours up to MacLaren Lodge anyway, and just see.

I retraced the drive from the previous summer as far as Glennallen, stopping at the same tiny Thai food shack where I'd eaten after the 100-miler my first morning in Alaska. From there the road goes north toward Paxson, then 40 miles (70km) west into the interior. The transition is quite jarring. From the northern road and stands of pine trees, the East Denali Highway sits among tundra where there are almost no trees, where it's noticeably cooler, and in late June snow still sat by the roadside. 

The lodge itself was self-contained. There were no electrical wires or other utilities, they had to produce all their own energy and import food from the nearest grocery store 2 hours away. Normally a cabin there went for $150/night, but with the pandemic and loss of tourism, they were trying to attract locals by cutting the rate to $50. I was wary of sleeping anywhere but home, and had brought my own cleaning supplies and sleeping bag. The race director and his assistant were checking people in, a loose collection of serious and sportive types on a mix of bikes. I tried to get sleep early, making last minute changes to Jim's gravel bike, such as my own Wahoo GPS mount, my own saddle, and a backpack with extra supplies. The race director, Carlos, was trying to adhere to social distancing rules in the race itself, and really didn't want anyone bunching up in packs. So, the easiest solution was to start the race by turning right out of the parking lot, and straight up the hill to MacLaren Pass. This reminded me of my last race in Kosovo the year before, and I figured he was right-- in Kosovo our team had managed to stick together over two grueling climbs, but we'd trained for that. Normally people quickly spread out on tough climbs. I got some sleep. The weather report predicted clouds but no rain until the afternoon.

The next morning I woke to the sound of rain pattering on the roof. Dammit. And it was really raining. 42F (6C) outside, and I thought of Alison Tetrick writing about barn-sour horses. She explains it better than I do:

I was certainly sour that morning. The sleeping bag was comfortable, and outside there was only rain, cold, and the promise of hard climbing. Oh, and I should mention that I'd busted up my right thumb two weeks earlier while supermanning off a mountain bike, likely with a hairline fracture. I wasn't in shape, there were guys 20 years younger than me who were, and why was I doing this?

But, and this was the key, I wanted to see this valley. The wilderness of Alaska is intoxicating, and it doesn't take long to see views that take one's breath away. I certainly couldn't take our poor car further down this dirt and gravel road, so only a bike would do.

I dragged myself out of bed, got into a selection of warm cycling clothes (Castelli Oomloop shorts, a summer bike jersey topped with a DHB rain jersey covered by a Specialized rain jacket-- luckily I'd remembered to pack rain booties). I decided to drop the 1.5 liter bottle from my pack, considering the hard climb at first-- I would later consider that a poor decision. And I added some rain-resistant knee warmers, though I usually hate having my knees covered (hence the Oomloop shorts). Then there were the usual emergency tools and bear spray.

We all lined up in the rain, the 100-mile racers first, with the "metric" (really 115km or 72 miles) behind. I had signed up for the 100 miles but had my doubts. At least they said we could change our minds at the first lodge, turn around and then be timed for the shorter route if we wanted.

The race tore out of the parking lot and up a small hill. Not having warmed up in the pouring cold rain,

I felt winded even by the first kilometer. This would not go well. Four guys on gravel bikes with a minimum of gear went out in front, one rider chasing them and me chasing him. There were 21 people in total signed up for the 100 mile route, though I kept telling myself that I was not racing, that this was an endurance ride. The first problem with that thinking came quickly with the start of the MacLaren Pass climb. I had randomly starred some Strava segments before leaving Anchorage, and this climb popped up on my Wahoo computer as a live segment. For those who are not familiar, a live segment shows information on a specific section of road, including the elevation profile, the best-ever time someone has completed the segment, my own pace and estimated finish time, and distance remaining. It was often useful for training in the mountains of Kosovo and Albania, and this time it was helpful to know how long the climb would be, and where we would encounter the steepest parts. But it can also be a stark reminder of just how much one is falling behind the pace.

The road was rough and washboard gravel, and it was difficult to pick a line up the road that avoided textures that would quickly slow me down. The lead four were pulling away, the chaser was still well within sight, and once I passed the sign for MacLaren Pass and the road leveled out a bit, two more riders passed me. My lower back was feeling unusually tight and sore, and the top of 1200 ft climb (365m), I realized that I hadn't adjusted Jim's seat post properly, and the saddle was still a few millimetres too high. That makes a difference with hard effort-- too high and the lower back has to work too hard, too low and the knees suffer. I stopped the first turnaround point 10 miles (16km) in to take off the stupid knee warmers, which had also been bugging me, allowing one more rider to pass me. And I had to stop once more to adjust the seat post- someone passed me then, too, but I passed him on the descent and would not see him again for a couple of hours.

I am not the best descender even on the best of roads. On a rough downhill with a broken thumb it was horrible. Gravel bikes typically don't have front suspensions like mountain bikes, the tires are wider than a road bike but bumps and rocks are still felt. I kept feathering the brakes to moderate the speed, but my hand was really in rough shape by the bottom of the hill. We flew back past the lodge and I was seriously considering my options, how even at a moderate pace 100 miles was likely asking too much. And just as I thought that, I jammed my thumb into the bars by accident. 

The road climbed again from the lodge, although more gradually this time, the road surface improving into a rough macadam rather than rocky washboard. By this time I couldn't see anyone. I knew 7 people were in front, lots more behind, and I sat up on the bike to take a more moderate pace and try to give my hand some respite. After a small valley, the road opened up with the Alaska Range mountains to the north. The road skirted the foothills, and the peaks were slowly showing themselves from behind rain clouds.

There was no sign of anyone. At one point the road crossed the Clearwater Creek, where a few fishers were trying for grayling, but otherwise there was no one, no cars, no other cyclists, no buildings or signs of life other than the road itself. The rain had let up a bit, and I was even enjoying the ride, though I kept looking back and hoping that someone would catch up with me. I figured I was ok for water until the second check-in, where we were told we could buy supplies. 

Then the road changed. 

At mile marker 60 the macadam disappeared and was replaced with the beach from hell. Washboarded sand, covered in fist-sized rocks, it was almost impossible to find a line that didn't involve riding over what looked like volcanic tephra-- lava bombs dropped everywhere. My pace dropped from moderate down to a crawl, and there was no sign of when this might end. The pain in my thumb had become fiery hot, and I could not even enjoy the scenery, because every gram of attention had to be placed on the road immediately in front of me. I really wished for my Trek Roscoe at this point-- fat tires and front suspension. After about 10 km I saw the first lodge for the 72 mile check-in. The woman who was timekeeping yelled down from the hillside, and I had to take a moment to realize that the incredibly steep muddy track to my right was in fact the lodge entrance. Anyone riding the 100 mile route didn't need to check in here, but I didn't hesitate, even though I was still unsure of what I was about to do. I had to downshift into my lowest gear to climb up the rutted, muddy track, and the woman shouted a question if I was riding the "bitty" (72 mile) route. I shouted back that I did not know.

When I reached her, though, standing there with the beekeepers hat to keep away mosquitoes, I knew that I simply could not take an extra 30 miles (50km) of road in that condition. She took my name and race number, and I turned around to go back down the hill, feeling somewhat dejected. The rider I had last seen on MacLaren Pass passed by on the road below me, meaning he was only a few minutes behind. And when I turned back toward the MacLaren Lodge, I was really surprised at how close many more people were behind me. I had hoped for that before, but now something switched on in my brain. I could not let them catch me.

Cyclists all react differently to the cues of other riders around them. Gjengiz always said he liked chasing someone and would work harder that way, while I felt pressure if there was someone behind (and we used this in training, I would start first up a mountain like Tamare in Albania, and he would charge after me). In this case, any sense of desired companionship on the ride was gone, completely. Plus, I thought to myself, since I had started in the first group, I would likely receive a five minute time penalty when I finished. That meant anyone on the 72 mile route who even had me in sight would have already won the race. There was even the irrational fear that one of the 100 mile racers would lap me. I did the math in my head and knew that was physically impossible unless I truly crawled along, but to me was still motivation. I tried as well as I could read tracing along the 10 km of hellish beachscape, and once back on the macadam (which now seemed incredibly smooth), I went full gas for the last 20 miles (32km). 

Jim's bike suddenly became a bit of a limitation. He had explained to me that in looking for low gears for exceptionally steep climbs, he had been forced to change the front crank set to avoid a $2000 investment in new gear shifters and a new cassette. What that meant to me was that my top speed was limited. On the rolling terrain and rough surface I could manage over 20 mph, but never more than 28mph (45kph) even on downhill sections. That may seem plenty fast, but I was comparing to road racing paces, and I felt like even that speed was too slow. Of course the average went down when there were climbs, but even there I was trying to bully up the elevation as much as possible. I could see the mile markers clearly on the side of the road, knew exactly where I was and how far I had to go. Some riders going in the opposite direction, on the outbound leg still, cheered me on.

The rain was really coming down again now.

The last steepish climb I could feel my energy draining-- I had tried to use what I knew was there, but had to admit I didn't have enough water, hadn't eaten enough during the ride (I needed to buy gels, eating Clif bars on bumpy roads and with an injured hand doesn't work), and I kept glancing behind me. The last 5km or so were mostly downhill, and I finally went to the drop bars, pulling on the upstrokes with my new eggbeater pedal cleats, flying around the corners. I could see the lodge nesting below in the distance, and flew down so quickly I nearly overshot the turn into the chute. 

That part was a little anticlimactic. The race timer was standing there under a tent, greeted me with a big smile, and confirmed my overall time. I needn't have worried about a chase group, the next rider in was Suzanne Wheatall, 20 minutes behind me (though good for her). The next was Ron Cook, 10 minutes behind her. The 100-milers were intense, the winner was Tyson Flaharty who came in only 45 minutes behind me, and I can't imagine the pace he and others kept on the sandy mess past mile 60. The entire group was a mixed bunch, some on mountain bikes, with the last riders on both routes coming in some 5 hours after me. Wow, those were long days.

I stayed at the lodge that night, too, and had breakfast with Carlos the next morning after a 4am recovery ride, where he explained the race design and asked for suggestions. I still felt badly for having abandoned the 100-mile century, even as Carlos admitted that I'd done the right thing and that the road didn't improve past where I'd turned. Discretion and the better part of valor, and all that. 

The summer is still uncertain, but at least I know I need to follow up with One Oak Cycles to get a gravel bike of my own ordered up. Keeping from cracking any more bones might help a bit, too.

From Kosovo to Alaska- part eight (Fargo to Corner Gas, eh?)

By the third week of July 2019 I was a bundle of nerves. None of the news from Alaska was encouraging, but I had left Wisconsin and by that time was committed to the rest of the drive, all 5600km of it, to Anchorage. Tracy and I kept in touch mostly over Viber, the WhatsApp-type messaging app common in Eastern Europe, though increasingly there were few hours where we were both conveniently awake. It was hard being apart, and the university news made it seem like we would have to remain separated for months to come.

The Elton John song So That's Why They Call it the Blues had come to mind when I was still in Alabama, and it became something of a theme that summer.

Most of us know Fargo from the movie, which to be fair, didn't even take place in Fargo. I associated the movie with Ottawa, where I'd seen it years ago with Tracy and mostly thought about senseless violence and Minnesota. The city itself was a mystery, a spot on the map in a state I'd never visited, but in planning out the drive to Alaska, it seemed a logical place to stop, and I had a friend there I'd not seen in years.

Jenn and I had been Fulbrighters together in Berlin in the summer of 2008, just before DOE recruited me and the world changed. With her and Noah Zerbe, we spent two weeks studying and carousing around Berlin and Brussels, just before a summer spent in more somber Sarajevo. A microbiologist and helminth infection expert, Jenn and I wrote a book chapter together on tropical disease and security in Africa. I had seen her briefly in Alexandria, Virginia in 2009, and with her family in London in 2011. Jenn was one of those figures that passes through your life quickly but has an influence, a subtle nudging in a particular direction that only seems profound in retrospect. We hadn't had a chance to sit down and really talk in ten years, and like my other friends on the roadtrip I was looking forward to some sense of reconnection.

Jenn and Noah in Brussels, summer 2008

(More musical interlude)

While schedules were set, all plans were falling apart. The same morning that my mountain bike had been stolen in La Crosse, I received a series of texts from Jennifer saying she wouldn't be there in Fargo. Her father had an accident, she had to fly to Arizona, but, well, go there anyway and stay at her house.

Well, that was odd.

I left the Minneapolis suburbs and drove toward North Dakota, on painfully flat interstate that stretched endlessly. For me, this was the first I was driving on new routes, and I'd never even been to North Dakota before. I arrived in Fargo in the afternoon, found her house, found where Jenn said she'd hidden the key, and then felt extremely awkward in an empty house. It was big, she had ordered a cleaning service to come ahead of me, and I couldn't just sit around until the next morning.

I looked up a bike shop. Google said they had a group ride that night. Bingo.

Cycling is a strange sport, as it's highly individually based, but people also work in teams, and teams compete against each other while also cooperating. Group rides are sponsored by clubs and local bike shops, and they are also somewhat unique in sports in that strangers can drop in and participate. Groups have different characters-- the ones in DC were very Type A and competitive, the ones I knew in Georgia were extremely welcoming, though all of them will look a new rider up and down to gauge how experienced they are and if they can be trusted in a high-speed group. It's bit like high school standing there before a group ride, wondering what group one fits into, feeling a bit self-conscious about dropping into an established bunch, hoping I didn't have any glaring and embarrassing problems with the bike or kit. My first time showing up in Carrollton, Georgia had been instructive to that region. The bike shop owner, Allen, had spotted me as the new guy, walked over and asked about me, then loudly introduced me to the group and asked that everyone make sure I made it back to the shop in one piece. Some of the people I met that night later became close friends and good cycling buddies.

Slowly through the suburbs

Like most clubs, this one was composed of an odd mix of cyclists, from hard-core racers to grizzled veterans (which was I?), mostly men - but this one had at least one woman stronger than almost anyone. The ride immediately crossed back into Minnesota, wound through the tree-lined streets of Moorhead, and jumped onto straight country roads and windswept plains toward the village of Sabin. The first leg was mostly into the wind, I took my turn pulling at the front and tried being careful not to jump off the front, fighting a stiff headwind and feeling a sense of speed for the first time in a week or so. Everyone regrouped next to a grain elevator.

The next leg went straight north, and with a strong tailwind the pace picked up considerably. I kept jumping toward the front, and went with one man and woman who stepped up to around 30mph (50kph) average. I even attacked on the one small piece of elevation available, a highway overpass, then had to sit up and let others pass because I realized I was in front with no idea where I was going. Regardless, it was a way to burn off energy. I'd done easy rides for the previous days, and with no hills AT ALL, speed was the only substitute.

Strava climbing challenges in this place?

The pace back toward Fargo was more subdued, and I noticed a worrying instability in my left shoe-- when I stopped to look, I was missing two screws from my Speedplay cleats. Alarmed, I pedaled the rest of the way with my right leg, knowing I had to replace the cleats. I'd known that before, had tried substituting replacement screws in Kosovo, but the cleats threads must have been stripped. So I sat up and just marveled at the plains-- this was the very opposite of Kosovo.

I picked up pizza and beer to take back to the house, pitched a sleeping bag in the basement (I was offered a bed upstairs, but felt weird about that), and tried to rest. The next day would be long, the start of marathon driving days to get to Tracy's parents in British Columbia, and then from there to Alaska.

I'd written before that taking the backroads in Indiana was a good idea, and rather than follow the interstate straight west, and then north to Calgary, instead I drove northwest on smaller highways toward Saskatchewan. Part of me wanted to get into Canada sooner rather than later, partly I wanted to take the less obvious route, but I drove through Minot (which exists mostly for its Air Force base), got onto two-lane roads toward the border, and had all too much time to think. I really had not been on long car rides in ages. Car rides in the Balkans can only go for so long before hitting borders. Pristina to Thessaloniki was maybe three or four hours, to the Albanian coast perhaps the same or even shorter. The concept of driving for 12 hours in a day and not feeling like much progress had been made, that concept was completely alien. But here I was driving across the back roads of North Dakota, occasionally stopping for road crews, and it is too much time to be with oneself. With bad news, the prospect of even worse news, the realization that Tracy was on the other side of the globe.

The news in Alaska was still bad. One of the cyclists in Fargo was a professor at Minnesota State University in Moorhead, and couldn't believe I was driving to Alaska to take up a job there. Every professor in the US had seen the news about budget cuts in Alaska, and here was this idiot actually trying to go there (me). I was far beyond the safety of Wisconsin, hadn't seen Tracy in about a month, and felt very much alone on roads that were very much empty. Hours I could spend thinking over things, and what hit me the most was the realization that I couldn't be apart from Tracy for so long. 

I crossed the border without too much hassle, but the problem was stopping at a gas station to get Canadian cash. The Royal Bank ATM ate my card, and there was no way to get it back-- despite the employees angrily calling the local bank (most Canadians hate RBC, and I had my own run-ins with them as a student). I had to call USAA, who said the best they could do would to send a new card ahead to my address in Anchorage.

A bit dispirited, I drove even more off the main road, straight toward Moose Jaw. I was a bit comforted by how Google driving directions switched back to metric (how do I know what 300 feet is?), but there was nothing to see, it was windy as all hell, and I even had to take the road bike off the roof rack and stuff it into the back seat. But then part of my brain noticed text on the side of a grain elevator, and I braked hard into the next side road. Was it? Could it be?

I had just found Dog River, Saskatchewan, a fictional town and the setting for the Canadian comedy Corner Gas. For those who don't know the show, it's best described as Seinfeld for the Canadian Prairies, and GO WATCH IT. 

Anyway, I'd found the spot of filming, and the real village it was based on. It was the most random discovery, a link to my time in Ottawa, and.... it really was that flat and windy. C'MON I WAS EXCITED! It had been a dispiriting day, endless hours on empty roads, and here was a completely random place in Canada that held connections to our days in Ottawa, that I found completely by accident. (The original set is gone.)

I won't say that Moose Jaw was exciting, though it was friendly and comfortable, and while the former railroad station in Fargo had been converted into a bike shop, in Moose Jaw it was an expansive liquor store. I'm not sure what that meant.

If you need alcohol in Moose Jaw, you're in luck...

The next day was another long drive to Calgary, and this mostly forgettable along the drive. I was on the Trans-Canada highway, and in Calgary checked in to a motel so I could meet up with my brother-in-law Shane. We'd just missed each other the last time I'd visited Tracy's parents, and I mean just. As I walked off the plane at the Prince George airport, I could see him in the terminal waiting to board. 

With Shane and some Greek pizza

 Shane is a quiet type, and I suppose I am as well. Tracy can keep him talking for hours, but for us it was enough to reconnect over pizza.

With Kelly Cryderman

I had one other reconnection that night, since I knew I'd have to leave first thing the next morning. Kelly Cryderman had been a student of mine at Carleton about twenty (!) years earlier, when I was a grad student teaching US politics during the Clinton impeachment. Kelly had been a journalism student, the epitome of the keener who sat at the front of the class and actually paid attention in a 3-hour night course. I remembered her well from the first day. As a PhD student I wasn't sure what undergrads should call me, was nervous about having a whole 3rd year course (with my own TA), and at the beginning of class Kelly sat up like Tracy Flick and asked some question by addressing me as 'professor.' First person ever to do so, and it set a tone for the class-- funny how easily one remembers that. She's now a journalist for the Globe and Mail in Calgary, and seeing her in person after so long, now with a family, was perhaps similar to the shocks I'd had in previous weeks traveling. At least neither of us had aged a day.

The next morning I had to drive all the way into British Columbia and to Vanderhoof, nearly 1000km through the mountains. It would have been a long day in any case, but I had a plan. According to my calculations, I was just short of hitting 1000 miles on the bike for July, and I was determined to make that goal in Banff. Part of that was Tracy's fault. All the times I'd traveled to western Canada, I kept going to her hometown in the central plateau of BC, and the few times I'd driven to Calgary from there, the mountains had been socked in with clouds. The weather report for my drive said clear early, then clouds and rain. So, early. I could do that, I was known for that in Kosovo, I would get up at 4am and bike those last miles while I could see actual mountains.

Sunrise over Alberta

It's not like the roads made that easy. I left Calgary before dawn, but luckily had the Google driving directions turned on my phone, despite the straight road to Banff. I was told to exit the highway, and like a good cyber-citizen obeyed, quickly realizing there had been an accident ahead and the road was closed. I took back gravel roads for a fair distance as the sun rose behind me, then got back onto the highway just before hitting the resort town of Banff. I pulled up to a Tim Hortons, grabbed some oatmeal for breakfast, and then took the bike up the first mountain of the day, a 1000 foot climb overlooking the town. I already felt rusty for climbs, had no chance to warm up, but the biggest problem was the cattle gates set into the roads in Alberta, massive pipes that threatened to eat entire wheels at the bottom of mountain descents.

Slippery when wet

First climb

 I took a bike path along lakes for some distance, amazing views in the early morning, and then had to brave a short 2km stretch on the Trans-Canada highway to reach the second climb. I try to avoid highways when at all possible, but the further north one goes, the fewer roads are available.

Picture-perfect

 The climb up to the Sunshine Village ski resort was quiet, populated mostly with mountain goats, and so quiet after days in the car.

I braved a few more cattle gates, again on the highway, and made it back to Banff in one piece. Realizing I might be a touch short, I circled the town once more to clock in the distance I needed for my Trek t-shirt (this was important, people), and ended again at the Tim Hortons, this time with deer to cheer on the end of my 1000 mile (1600km) month-- not a minor achievement while also driving across a continent.

I still had a long drive that day, through national parks, into Jasper, British Columbia where intense crowds kept me from anything other than a 7-Eleven hotdog, into the vast expanses of Eastern British Columbia and the central plateau, through Prince George, and after another 100 km finally reaching Tracy’s parents’ house in Vanderhoof. 

I stayed there for a few days to rest and to visit with Tracy’s parents and grandparents. The sight of our car in Vanderhoof was always a little jarring, a reminder of how far I had already driven, but in the knowledge that I still had three very long days to go. There is not much in central and northern British Columbia. The normal access to the Alaska Highway was through Prince George, which I had already passed, and the only other road north was the Stewart Cassiar highway to the west, even less densely populated– and by that I mean there is one motel along a 1000km stretch of road between Smithers and Whitehorse. (And several people had been killed in Dease Lake the weeks before.)

Again, all too much time for self-reflection, for counting black bears (I counted 12 the first morning out of Vanderhoof), one giant bull moose who ran in front of my compact car, but otherwise nothing but trees and trees and more trees for around 24 hours of driving, until reaching the more tundra-like expanses of the Yukon. 

Whitehorse was almost metropolitan in comparison. I noticed I had a headlight out and was happy to find a brand new Canadian Tire in town. One guy working there said that there are about 45,000 people in the whole of the Yukon, and 30K of them live in Whitehorse. The size of territory was just staggering. I stayed in a cute B&B with tiny cabins, run by a couple who had noticed my USAF hat and insisted on feeding me a lavish dinner-- the more I protested that I wasn't really a fighter pilot or anything like that, the more they pushed. 

I had one final, long day, from Whitehorse to Copper Center, Alaska. I had planned this weeks or even months in advance, to be in Copper Center, a tiny outpost, by August 2nd. The Denali Randonneurs, the local endurance cycling club, was planning a 200-400K ride that day, and I was determined to be in on it. I can't explain the motivation for that, but the closer I came to Alaska, the more determined I became to see what I could before I was kicked out again. 

I stayed in a "rustic" (I think that's the polite term) lodge near the Copper River, really only notable for a bar and a load of fishermen, but there were some die-hard cyclists as well. Trish, an English professor at UAA who I would know in the future, Veronica the retired USAF vet, Burney the ride leader, and the Gilligan's Island cast of others... early on the morning of the 3rd we set out on a brevet, taking dirt roads part of the way (my Trek 5200 does not like such roads) to the Tonsina River, back to the Richardson Highway toward Valdez, and then... my right knee was not exactly happy having driven a manual transmission car (no cruise control) across the entire continent, and I could feel warning signs suggesting I should cut it short that day. I know it sounds strange to others if I say that "cutting it short" and embarrassing myself meant that I only rode 100 miles (160km) that day, but... cycling psychology is weird. I had to turn back early, then circle Copper Center once or twice to make sure I hit 100 miles exactly, getting back into the car and then driving the last 4 hours into Anchorage.

Mind you, I had yet to see the house I had rented. A colleague at UAA had helped arrange the rental, I had already been paying rent, but it was all a mystery. I drove through the Matanuska Valley and past glaciers and mountains, after hours finally seeing some sign of civilization in Palmer, then another 45 minutes into Anchorage. I kept thinking the Google driving directions had given up on me, I kept driving more and more into downtown, I knew from my short time there before I could only go another 1km or so before falling into the ocean, and my phone hadn't said a word for hours. The same road, keep going straight, straight, still straight, don't turn, finally turn left, turn right, turn left immediately and you will be at your destination. Huh.

Moose greeting me driving into work my second day

So there I was. A cute house in a cute neighborhood, not much to put into it except a bike and some clothes... and then what? I raided Target, Best Buy and Kohl's (I had no work clothes) Sunday morning, had to show up for work on Monday morning, to an empty college where only a student assistant was around the greet me and give me keys. I had finally made it, but now what?

Between Kosovo and Alaska -part seven (Wisconsin)

“Old places fire the internal weather of our pasts. The mild winds, aching calms, and hard storms of forgotten emotions return to us when we return to the spots where they happened.”

― Siri Hustvedt, The Sorrows of an American

The stretch of road was short and unremarkable, traveled countless times as a 50 meter link between the south end of Woodenshoe road and County Highway GG. I couldn’t even remember if it had a proper name. It was one of those places that has meaning only because of shadowy memories, of a moment in time from July 1987 when so much changed, when I became a real cyclist.

Erich and I had set a goal that summer to ride the 100-mile (160km) Wolf River Century in August, a marathon distance for cyclists and not an easy task for anyone to tackle the first time out. We had a routine down, at least. I would get up early each morning, jump on my Panasonic Villager III 10-speed bike, and ride the long way into Neenah from the farm. I would set out south on Woodenshoe Road, jog onto GG over Highway 41, and take Old Dixie Road to Muttart, Adella Beach Road, South Park, Cecil, and finally onto Oak. I can still write those names without looking them up, can still remember the road textures, the short areas of higher traffic on Highways G and A, still remember where his family hid the house key. I would say hi to his mom Katy, run upstairs and kick Erich out of bed (he was not a morning person), and have breakfast with them before he and I rode together out to the farm. Erich worked with my brother Sean and I on the farm each day, and at the end he would ride by himself back into town.

We had no bike computers, and judged the distance to be 12 miles each way. That was not entirely accurate, I learned years later, but I still consider 24 miles (38.5 km) to be a standard distance for a training ride. On the weekends Erich and I would venture a bit further out, following paper maps north and trying to learn by trial and error about how to ride long distances. One morning we made it to the village of Larsen, turned back south along Pioneer Road and County M, finally turning back east when we reached GG. It seemed like a long distance, though we couldn’t be sure. We turned off GG to take the short jog and final stretch on Woodenshoe, the same motion we’d done together every morning, but this– somehow this was different. We’d been out riding all morning, we felt good, looked at each other...and we knew. 

Erich punched his right fist into the air, and yelled, “We’re in!”

Erich, me and my brother Sean, the night before I left for Norway, August 1989

He meant, and I knew exactly what he meant, that we could do the Wolf River. We had probably only ridden 40 miles that morning, less than half a century, but so much of cycling is psychological. It’s possible to ride long distances only because you believe you can, and absent that mental commitment, endurance rides are almost impossible. The physical fitness is important, but secondary to being able to imagine pulling through each mile, of knowing the end is reachable. In retrospect now, it was good we knew that, because the Wolf River, despite being a completely flat course, was tough. Two storm fronts moved through that day, soaking us all through our cotton t-shirts and driving blinding headwinds seemingly from all directions. I slept for two days after finishing. And at age 14, I was really too young to have tried it, but with youth came the naivete of not realizing that kids don’t do marathons. It was the only full century Erich would ever ride. He died two years later at age 19.

And there I was, 32 years later, standing on the same road. I had to stop and look, and it was a strange feeling. I had two points on the map I had to see in person, two forgotten backroads that were linked to memories forever burned into me, that stood out among other random moments so clearly that I had been drawn there from thousands of miles away. I had arrived in Neenah the day before, driving from Indiana, and for weeks (months?) had been thinking of this bike ride, of the ghosts from this town I had barely seen in the past 13 years. 

The writer Summer Brennan had written recently that the COVID-19 pandemic (raging as I write this now) had reminded her of an old writing exercise, "describe a barn as seen by a man whose son has just died in a war–without mentioning the man, the son, or the war."

Briggs farm, with Bruno, 1988

That was what I was feeling at the time, and how I feel now trying to see everything through a prism of years. The day was hot, sticky, mostly overcast with an unusual wind from the east. I just stood there by the side of the road and tried to see the start of Woodenshoe with anything like the same eyes I had from over 30 years before. Of course I would never see it the same way, I would mourn the loss of that vision, of those feelings, and sense the disconnect that came with it. Where did I belong, and where was I going? I stood there for only a few minutes, maybe less, and turned away from Woodenshoe Road. I had not seen the farm since leaving the for last time in 2006, and I knew it had changed too much. I actively avoided seeing it, and turned back to Highway GG toward Winneconne, pointedly taking the long way round.

I couldn't really explain the route I was taking that day. I had ridden the long way around Lake Poygan only once before, in 1999 just before leaving for London with Tracy, so doing it again (in reverse) made no sense. Except that I needed more miles for that Trek t-shirt, and something was burning inside me. I had considered snaking back and forth along the country roads north of the farm, but...that wouldn't do it.

The wind was blowing fiercely out of the east, usually a sign of storms to come, but the weather forecast insisted I was safe for most of the day-- probably. The road to Winneconne was flat with a slight uphill. I was confused by a few of the intersections, major highways that had not been there before, but rolling into the village of Winneconne it was just as it ever was. I had ridden here plenty of times in the past, usually while taking Count M north-south. This time I kept heading west, jogging northwest onto smaller roads nearer Lake Poygan. I followed the GPS track on my Wahoo computer, past small farms with suspiciously few cows, past long stands of wildflowers with no bees, past supper clubs with no customers. The road curved north into the even smaller village of Poy Sippi, on the western edge of the lake, where I stopped at perhaps one of the nicest Dollar Generals I'd ever seen. Huh, the village even had its own library.

The roads snapped back and forth on the Wisconsin grid slowly back toward the east, into a sweltering headwind, stopping again at a gas station in Freemont, and taking what used to be Highway 10 back toward Larsen. From Larsen back north again, where the new houses disappeared, the signs of new road construction faded, and I found the small backwater of Winnebago County I had been really navigating toward all day.

Shady Lane.

East Shady Lane is plenty built up, was even back in the day, but no one ever goes to the western end of the road. I mean, really, no one. The road marked the northernmost east-west border for most bike rides, and only once or twice did Erich and I venture farther north from that point. We always stopped at the road's end, where there was nothing, save an ancient steam shovel that by 2019 had itself disappeared or been swallowed up by the clay. It hadn't changed in decades, and was another otherwise unremarkable place that I kept thinking of, year after year, always associated with Erich. He always referred to it as the 'end of the earth.'

The western end of the earth

And there was another time. In the summer of 1991 I had just graduated high school, was back from Norway and getting ready for college. Erich had been gone almost two years, Sean was in the Navy, and everything was uncertain. Late one summer night, I had dropped off Ann Anklam at her house and drove back home, except I kept driving, and turned north toward Shady Lane. Before reaching it I hit a dense fog bank, which itself was strange, and slowed as I drove up Pioneer Road. The fog broke just as I reached the end of Shady Lane, a small pocket of clear surrounded on all sides. I turned off the car and got out, looking up to a clear sky above, and one where silvery northern lights were waving back and forth. I was stunned. Northern lights were almost never seen that far south, and the fog made it seem that I was the only one seeing them. I stood there, transfixed, and had this feeling that it was some message-- that chaos was about to break loose again, but trust that I would survive and find my way through. 

That much proved to be prophetic. 

So why not come back, when there was already chaos around, and try to find some sense of reassurance? I can't describe that, and I can't say if it helped in the end, but I needed to see the place again.

35 years and exactly the same

Lighthouse at Kimberly Point, Neenah

The rest of the ride back into Neenah was unremarkable, various detours for construction, a mandatory stop at Archie's Dairy Queen on Commercial Street, and I had already circled Riverside Park and seen Haylett Street (where I first lived in town) on my way out that morning. And I needed to get to Milwaukee that evening.

I don't want to make it sound like I was only seeing ghosts in Wisconsin. The night before, when I had arrived from Indiana, I had dinner with Amy Gehrt (Pottner). Amy and I had barely spoken in junior and senior high, in fact I really only spoke to her once, and that in grade 12 at the Nautilus gym. But we became good friends after running into one another at a party in Madison, and she would frequently drag me to 80s dance nights at Bullwinkle's. We really hadn't talked since she'd been my date to a wedding in December 1995 (I was rarely in the US by that point), and it was amazing to see her again.

In Milwaukee were more friends, and I drove down to see Dave Graf and his wife Rachel. Dave and I had been nerdish rivals in 5th and 6th grade, then fast friends, and through college I would periodically drive to see him Minneapolis. He also flew to visit us in California and Ottawa.

Milwaukee exercise

There was really no schedule with Dave. He had taken time off work, and I mostly remember ending up bowling at a mall (how Wisconsin), drinking margaritas near the airport, and watching an ancient rerun of The Fall Guy. It was that sort of normalcy I needed. (I hadn't bowled in maybe 20 years.)

With Laura Schmitz (Hargis) I could finally meet her sons, and spent time with them and her husband downtown in Milwaukee. Laura and I had also become perhaps better friends in Madison than we had been in Neenah, even sat together through a very odd meteorology course, and in past years Laura had been facing her own tragedies. It was reassuring to see a good friend like her again in person, as if a reassurance that things were still real.

My next stop was Madison, a place I'd called home for years, both as a UW student and then later as a government official while finishing my PhD. I hadn't been back to the city since 2006, but kept dreaming of it. I was staying with Mandy Zdrale, another Neenah native who I'd known in junior and senior high, we'd been classmates at the UW, but really I didn't feel like we'd become good friends until the class reunion in 2011. Mandy and I walked downtown from the Capitol to the Memorial Union, ate ice cream at four different places around the city, and at night watched Derry Girls. Her husband Eric was a designer at Trek and owned his own bike shop south of Madison in Paoli.

Eric, Mandy and me

Madison worried me, if only because I had a clear vision of the dean in Alaska calling me to say that I had no job to go to. I even knew the exact place she would call, a quiet country road south of Madison that I had known from my student days. I rode there from Paoli, I stopped. I got out my phone and checked. And waited. She didn't call. So I went back a day later, on the end of a 100-mile loop out to Barneveld. Still nothing.

Hm...

So that meant I needed to keep going. Wisconsin was the last safe harbor of sorts. One of my new colleagues in Alaska had even called asking if I should stay there for awhile, just to see how the winds were blowing. But no, I needed to go west. And north. 

I'd already written about Minnesota, so the next stop, really, was a place I'd never been.

Fargo.