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.