The road that didn't bark

I stopped again at the overlook, feeling that something was out of place. I was at around mile 80 (130km) for the day, well past the last water available at the Slana ranger station, and still 45 miles from the finish at the Gakona Lodge. The 5000 meter peak of Mt Sanford was in the distance, the foothills of the Wrangell Volcanic Field wrapped in cloudbursts. On the long climb out of the Slana valley I’d considered packing away the long-sleeved jersey, it was sunnier and warmer than any previous day in Alaska that summer, but still frigid compared to what the rest of the continent was experiencing. I was on the long road between Tok and Gakona, a 200km stretch that during the summers was choked with traffic to and from Canadian border, long lines of cars, RVs and semi trucks.

Nothing. I hadn’t seen a single vehicle, house or person for ages. 

It’s difficult to describe something that isn’t there, that defines the space by its absence. Summer Brennan is one of the few who can. She recently wrote, “I went to have a citron pressé down by the river, and saw that two of the big quay trees, poplars that were downed in the recent storms, had been chopped up and stacked, ready for removal. In their place was the bright shock of empty air, a nothing where once a whole moving world had amassed, of shadows and birds and scrambled light. I felt an affinity for that space, where a tree’s branches had swayed for half a century but now were gone. I thought, I am like that air, shimmering with lack.”

The traffic was more or less missing. Like some 28-days later horror movie, the silence was welcome but unnerving, I kept feeling there were cars I wasn’t hearing and I kept looking over my shoulder for no reason, or at least no effect. I was supposed to be good at looking for things that were missing, not just like the Sherlock Holmes story about the dog that wasn't barking, but I've written about the concept of dark reports for national security- tracing what was missing from risk assessments and scientific discussions, tracking down why the data weren't there and what the consequences could be.

I was happy not to fight for room on the road, but the silence just highlighted the pandemic to me, of everything and everyone that had been lost. Everyone was trying to ignore it now, pretend that Covid didn't exist, everything back to normal in the interior with no masks and no distancing (also alarming- most of the people in such regions weren't vaccinated). Except it wasn't the same. Shops and restaurants were closed, time had halted. And only Alaskans were driving.

For a road cyclist, however much we are frustrated with and worried about traffic, it largely defines our experience. Riding bikes in Pristina was a 12-dimensional game of awareness and avoidance, the countryside shifted in summers when the diaspora Schätzi took to the roads in overpowered German cars. When riding on highways we always kept an ear attuned to what was behind us, even during races one looked out for the pace and team cars. But here, on an arterial road, there was nothing. Our one support car had gone ahead to Gakona for the day, I was alone, hours from the finish under a bright sun, three bottles of water left on a single, winding ribbon of asphalt. And with the border still shut from the pandemic, there was little reason for anyone to be in Tok, or trying to get there. 

It was difficult to explain to people what we had been doing there, either. On the previous morning three of us had left the Gakona Lodge at 6am in the cold and rain, intent on riding the Richardson Highway north through the Alaska Range to Delta Junction. This ride was one of my goals for the year, perhaps even for two years, having been robbed of most long-distance cycling because of the coronavirus pandemic. 2020 was also notable for lack in that way, as after years of racking up 10,000km years, the longest ride I did last year was 80 miles while never leaving municipal Anchorage. My longing for something more than that, to see more of the state, was obvious in my quest for another bike specifically tailored for endurance rides. The new Domane was a sort of commitment, and the 400km ride to Seward at the start of June was the practice ride. The real goal was the Solstice Ride, 600km over two days, from Gakona to Delta Junction to Tok and back to Gakona, a wild triangle through interior Alaska.

The rain didn’t surprise me, but starting a long ride in such conditions is psychologically tough. The two other riders, Veronica and Martin, also clambered into thermal rain gear, our brevet administrator Tom looking on from the porch. I was dressed mostly in British-designed DHB rain kit, from the merino wool socks to waterproof knee warmers, rain jersey and heavy rain jacket. I had wisely packed some Castelli Oomloop thermal shorts and a Sealskinz cap, but had neglected to bring waterproof gloves and had seriously erred in my shoe inserts. While I had rain booties, the arch supports only went 2/3rds of the way forward in the shoe, leaving several air vents open– my socks would be wet within the first half hour. The bike itself was heavily loaded, with plenty of food that I would be too cold to eat, plenty of water that I would have to force myself to drink, and extra gear, dry clothing, rain jacket, lights, batteries, tools, etc that I hoped I would not need. The clothes and extra gear added close to 20lbs (9kg) to my weight, and made bike handling a bit tricky at times, compared to a ‘clean’ racing configuration.

There was a 6% climb right out of the lodge parking lot, a right turn onto the highway, and then a slow climb toward Paxson. The ride seemed sluggish from the start, as in forcing myself to drink only 5km in my gloves slipped and the bottle went flying off into the ditch. I had to stop and spend several minutes finding it, worried that this was some omen about the challenges of cycling in Alaska– where drinkable water was never easy to find. Then catching up with Veronica and Martin, we had to stop for the first of two construction zones. As with many remote and long construction sites they were using pilot cars, where a flag person would stop us and then we would have to wait for a car to guide us through the zone. Being cyclists, this meant loading the bikes onto the pilot car (usually a pickup) and riding in the cab, which was *not* desirable in the rain. The first section we had to wait 20 minutes, shivering in the cold as all we could do was stand in the wind and rain, and then got into a truck where a woman repeatedly asked us if we’d been dropped on our heads as children. The second section, much longer and more dangerous, I came up first to the woman flagging and told her that there were three of us cycling. She looked at me with the blank stare of Marilyn from Northern Exposure, then got onto the radio.

“This is Control 2, I have three cyclists here.” 

She listened to the reply in her headset.

“Yes, on bicycles.”

"..."

“No, I’m not kidding this time.”

That section we definitely needed the escort, plus the female driver warned us about a family of 6 grizzlies that lived near the northern end of the zone. I was happy to get moving again, in the rain a cyclist can keep warm if moving, but when stopped all the heat gets torn out of the body and it becomes hard to build up that heat again. Soon after starting I cursed as we hit a fast downhill, even worse for warming up than standing still– climbs were what I wanted. Tom had leapfrogged us and was waiting at the now-closed Meier’s Lake lodge, then again around mile 53 near the broken-down Paxson lodge. I topped off my water and then knew we were climbing over Isabella Pass, a remote area and we wouldn’t see Tom again until mile 132 (over 200km) in Delta Junction.

The road rose into the Alaska Range, and soon the biome shifted completely. The trees disappeared, lush green covering permafrost but with only sparse, lonely trees along the ridges, huddled as sentinels. The land rolled into lochs along narrow bodies of water, snow still packed at the same elevation as the road, clouds low and the rain unrelenting. The land then opened up into spaces more like Norway than Scotland, the peaks towering above from behind the clouds, the road continuing to wind past aquamarine blue pools of water. My phone was packed away under several layers of clothes, and I could not see that much in any case to take photos. At some point the water began falling to the north instead of the south, and the road gradually descended. I kept up my pace as much as possible, partly to take advantage of the tailwind, but more because the weather promised to be sunny and dry somewhere ahead. The faster I could pedal the sooner I could get there, though for hours it seemed like a cruel joke. My glasses refracted light to blue in my peripheral vision, constantly leading my brain to think there was blue sky somewhere ahead. When I did finally see it, coming out of the mountains near the Black Rapids lodge, I couldn’t quite believe it was real. 

I stopped several times to peel off rain gear as the sun came out and the air warmed, climbed once more past Donnelly Dome, and then an arrow straight road led down to the town of Delta Junction. The wind was howling behind me, pushing me along, but it was also troubling. In the places where there had been a crosswind, the bike had bucked and shifted, and I knew that the second 200km of the day was the road southeast to Tok. Even with a quartering crosswind, that ride would be brutally difficult. 

A 600km ride, meaning 400km the first day and then another 200 the next, was always a worry for me. As I’ve written before, my TBT injury from decades ago has made sleep deprivation a real risk, and all that I’d read about 600Ks from friends like Betty Jean Jordan suggested that sleep was a scarce resource. I kept calculating in my head how long it might take to get to Tok, what my knee (still strained from the Seward ride) felt like, and where that would leave me the next day. The road between Delta Junction and Tok was nothing too special, it was from Tok to Gakona that needed seeing. So while riding past Fort Greeley into town, I decided it was best to abandon the ride that day, catch a ride with Tom to Tok, and live to ride the next day. 

Alaska pipeline outside Delta Junction

Tom was waiting by the large gas station in town. I told him what I had planned, checked that it was ok (actually, Veronica had already asked over breakfast, so this was partly her doing), and went to the Buffalo burger shack down the road. While waiting for food outside in the warm sun, I had the experience that cyclists often crave– that of recognition and amazement from others. One woman approached me with an accusing finger, but then said, “You are the *only* person here... who deserves this!” A group of people there had stayed at the Gakona Lodge the night before, and must have passed us along the road somewhere. They were amazed to see one of the cyclists there so soon, alive, and not visibly suffering. Veronica and Martin passed by not long after, turning the corner toward Tok. I loaded up my bike with Tom, and when catching up with Veronica down the road, she also threw in the towel for the day– Martin kept on.

It was the right decision, it allowed me to get a decent night’s rest in Tok, three meals (lunch, dinner and breakfast) I would have skipped or skimped on had I been riding into the night, and it meant I was more or less ready for the morning.

So there I was past Slana, looking at Mt Sanford on the horizon. Tok to Gakona had been a long and lonely day, often into strong headwinds. Martin and Veronica were already on the road when I left town, and I knew they had a good lead in time and distance. I eventually caught Veronica at mile 100, and we rode into Gakona together the last distance. Martin had somehow gotten lost at Slana (I’m not sure how anyone can get lost on a ride that has literally three right turns) and eventually showed up 30 minutes after us, but having finished the whole 600K. 

For me, this was the Alaska I’d wanted to see. Not just the roads without traffic, but cycling gives a different sense of the world, there are details that one would never see from a car or train. It gives a sense of space and distance, of how remote a place is, and what travel must have been more like in past ages. I was away from email and news and all other stress for days, and there was only the road, the bike, the gear, nothing else. One pedal stroke after another, mile after mile, hour after hour, it’s like a deep form of meditation. (Oh, and this time when Prince’s song Raspberry Beret came into my head, I knew the lyrics.) The ultra distance, however, is not entirely my thing. I know I can do 400km in a day, but to ride it alone is not ideal, and after 100 miles I tend to get bored. Perhaps the ultra riders get a different form of dopamine reaction, but for me 100km (especially full gas through Balkan mountains) is the closest I get to euphoria. 

Besides, as I wrote three years ago, after finishing the Tour des Stations— what else was there after a race like that?

Oh, the recognition, I suppose. Sitting at the bar that night with Veronica, having a group of Harley and Indian riders compliment us meant something, but apparently I can get that just sticking to Rule #9 (“If you are out riding in bad weather, it means you are a badass. Period.”) Plenty of chances for that in Alaska.

Alaska: endurance cycling to Seward

 When bears come out from hibernation in Alaska, they’re usually pretty grumpy. Imagine sleeping and dozing for months, inside a dark space, and emerge to find little food and yet added responsibilities (in the form of bear cubs, perhaps). Not to make a direct analogy, but it’s sort of how I felt after this pandemic winter in Alaska, the difference being that bears lose weight over the winter. 

Cycling had already been difficult last year. All the organized events had been cancelled in Alaska, I lost my daily bike commute to the office, and could no longer go to the gym for spin classes. I still managed to clock in 1000 miles last July, but that came from diligent 30-mile rides inside Anchorage, and once the cold August rains came, even that became too dreary. After all, that 30-mile route is known as the ‘dump run,’ as the landfill is the turn-around point (I became the Strava ‘local legend’ for that dubious segment). So I spent the winter in mostly one room, stressed from work and trying to track political events, and wondered how I would ever get back into shape.

This is April

One saving grace was Eric Maves at One Oak Bikes in Wisconsin  - who had sourced and was building me two bikes. The first was a Trek Checkpoint gravel bike, an aluminum frame with every component chosen specifically for me and riding in Alaska. I’d only ridden gravel once before, during the one organized race last year (which I happened to win, on the 72-mile course), but it seemed a good choice for the backroads and sketchy main roads of this state. That bike arrived in March, though I had to wait until April before the ice had cleared enough to even test it. For early season it was ideal, considering the piles of gravel on all the roads (salt isn’t used in the winter here), mud, dirt, and other hazards of spring cycling. I tested the new Checkpoint in Homer, on the first 100km ride of the year, a sunny but briskly cold day and the first Denali Rando club ride since 2019. I didn’t know the roads around Homer or how well cleared they would be, and figured 62 miles on a gravel bike was doable.

Well, sort of. By definition, the bike was heavier and had fatter tires than anyone else’s, and I was aware that the saddle was too high– but with a carbon seat post, cutting it shorter would take professional tools I didn’t have. That put extra strain on my back for the longest ride I’d done since last August, but was really a problem on the steep climbs. Let’s just say that on steep slopes (over 10%), a high saddle digs into places it shouldn’t, and I was enormously sore afterwards. I soon after ran to the Trek shop and had them cut off 1cm, which was a pretty massive change. 

Chilly morning in Homer

The following weekend was the debut of the other new bike Eric had found and built for me, a mint-from-warehouse 2016 Trek Domane carbon, also built from the frame up. I’d wanted a Domane for years, since I first saw them advertised around 2012. Designed as a long-distance bike, it was much more suited for endurance rides than my Trek 5200, a bike I’d taken on ultra-endurance rides but was still a pure racing bike in terms of stiffness and gearing (but not as bad as my Fondriest- I once rode 200km on that bike, and couldn’t feel certain fingers in my hands for weeks). The Domane was lovely, a small frame (like my Scott CR1) with an extended stem and compact gearing. I took it to Talkeetna for a 200km ride the week after Homer, but after riding with a fast group of people like Kristin Wolf, turned around at mile 31 to keep the total to 100km. The bike, as with many high-end ones, had teething issues that still needed working out. The rear derailleur’s adjustment screws were loose, meaning the chain was skipping when I was on the small chain-ring, and my new Wahoo Speedplay pedal cleats weren’t set right– two of the screws had come loose in one shoe. I couldn’t possibly keep riding 200km while soft-pedaling and at the same time being stuck in higher gears, so cutting the ride short was the right call. 

Domane tricked out for 16+ hours in the saddle

But, that was a psychological blow. Long distance cycling is a good deal about mindset, and in my mind I had planned to ride the 200km and then progress a few weeks later to the much more difficult 400km, and ultimately the 600km Solstice ride in June. While the Denali club had more rides scheduled in the intervening weeks, I waved off the following weekend in Palmer due to rain, and not knowing the roads around Palmer and Wasilla. Besides, I could think of a different way to punish myself: Alpine Valley.

Alpine Valley is a small ski hill in the mountains above Anchorage, accessed only through a steeply winding gravel road that passes through part of the US military training grounds. I had seen the road on Strava but not been there myself, so I took my Checkpoint and rode the 15 miles to the start of the climb. The first part was fine to the overlook, where one can see into downtown Anchorage, but above that it was rutted with large rocks, and often climbing above 10% grades. I even had to walk one short part, as my bike had lost traction in deep gravel on a steep slope, and it was impossible to get moving again (I did try, and ended up tipping over onto the rocks). By the top of the climb it was snowing, the only consolation being a woman in a van who leaned out of her window to shout, “Oh my God, you’re amazing!” I can’t say anything positive about the descent– perhaps other riders with far greater technical skills could take it at speed, but I just kept thinking of hitting a rock at the wrong angle, and seeing my front wheel fly sideways. The feeling of drifting is not in any way natural to a road biker, because when it happens on a road bike the result is often a bike flipping over when it catches traction again. So I inched my way down.

I can’t say I was much more confident the next weekend, though obviously others were. There was a gravel race at JBER (Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson), through the thousands of acres of forest and bush, around old army airfields and artillery ranges. It was beautiful landscape, but again I was slow on the descents, and every time my rear wheel felt like it was sliding I would slow down even more. I suppose at least I didn’t injure myself (or anyone around me), since I was still working up for the longer road rides.

With the Domane adjusted, I tried preparing by using a training loop around Anchorage I’d found last year (about 43 miles, or 70km), or snaking north past Eagle River– but with work and rain I only fit in one more 100km ride before the Seward ride was scheduled. And that had me worried.

400km (250 miles) in one day is no joke. I’d last done it in 2016 with Jen, Betty Jean, and Julie, a 420km ramble through Georgia in the September heat. But in fall of 2016 I was in top shape, had many thousands of miles under my belt that year already, mostly through the mountains of Kosovo. By June 2021 I was just coming out from hibernation, and wasn’t even confident in finishing 200km without injuring myself. But, there it was.

A smallish group of cyclists assembled at the Carr’s grocery store in south Anchorage to leave at 4am - when it was already light out but traffic was sparse. Three of us took a shortcut through a residential road, and found it wasn’t. A massive female moose stood in the middle of the road looking at us, while we kept our distance and looked for any calf she might have. A woman had just been trampled when approaching a moose calf, and we figured it wasn’t a good way to start the day. Eventually she wandered off, and we caught up with the riders who’d taken the long way around.

I only knew Veronica from the group, and for the most part I rode alone that day, which was quite unlike the women’s team I usually had in Georgia. The road to Seward left Anchorage and followed the coast around the Turnagain Arm inlet, about 50km to Girdwood, and then swept around southwest to climb onto the Kenai Peninsula. Watching the sun rise onto the mountains was just gorgeous, and for the most part the road had a six foot (2 meter) shoulder protected by rumble strips, with most of the traffic that early consisting of fishing boats headed to Whittier. The tide was low, and along sand bars at one point were dozens of bald eagles, all waiting for the light to hit the water at the right angle for fishing. We passed the Girdwood gas station (one of the few signs of human civilization) before 6am, and just past the Wildlife Conservation Center turned left into the Portage Glacier field. That small detour was a short breather from traffic, but as I was warned, was also much colder than elsewhere, meaning it was literally freezing. 0C is cold enough, but when cycling 30kph the wind chill can be stunning. 

Packing for the ride was none too easy. With temperatures ranging from freezing to summer hot, I was wearing three layers (summer jersey, long sleeved jersey, windbreaker), had long-fingered gloves, a buff, and had packed away a rain jacket and extra socks. I also had to carry all the tools and lights I would need for the day, a battery to recharge the GPS computer, and took along a Katadyn filter bottle for water. In retrospect, I should have stopped to get and filter glacier water while leaving Portage, as I knew the next chance would be at mile 75 or so (115km), which is a very long distance to go on two water bottles. I think I hesitated because of how cold I was, but rationing water so early left me dehydrated later.

I then made my second mistake, upon finishing the first climb (1000ft, or 300m) into Kenai. I felt that the saddle was a touch too high, so I stopped to adjust it, and by mistake left it too low. While too high a saddle can cause back pain, too low - even by a millimeter or two - can leave too much pressure on the knees. I would realize that a good deal later.

A group of four of us made it to the Summit Lake Lodge around 9:45am, where a very cheery and helpful morning crew served us coffee and muffins. It never helps to stay long off the bike, so we continued on toward Seward, taking advantage of a tailwind and some descents from Moose Pass to kilometer 200. At that point, where we had to take a small detour into the Exit Glacier field, was where the wind become obvious, pushing against us as it roared down the valley. Knowing that meant uphill and into the wind while leaving Seward was not encouraging, but at least we’d made it halfway.

Seward itself would normally be chock-a-block with people this time of year, as cruise ships can’t dock in Anchorage itself. So thousands of people alight there, and then take buses or the train into Anchorage or points further north. Saturday it was fairly quiet, though the line at Subway was busy enough I relied on my own food and just refilled water. Going back to Summit Lake was 50 miles (80km) uphill, but I had spotted a shop in Moose Pass and planned on stopping there as well.

By this time I was riding by myself, and I began to notice my knees becoming sore- I could not tell at first if this was a saddle height issue or just my being out of shape. But when I felt the balls of my feet heating up from pressure, I stopped a couple of times to readjust the seat again. I finally had it right by the time I got to Moose Pass, where I bought a Coke (the woman at the shop asked, as everyone did, where I was riding from and to– when I said from Anchorage to Seward and back in one day, her response was that one Coke wouldn’t be enough). I had seen Veronica standing off the road near the fish hatchery, and would later learn that she abandoned from a knee injury. For myself, I had to soft-pedal up the climbs, though getting out of the saddle in a higher gear seemed ok.

I was less than 2000 meters from the Summit Lake lodge when I felt rain drops. I figured, “Fine, I’m almost there,” when I saw the road ahead looked like it was smoking. Crap, a micro-cloudburst in an otherwise sunny day. I slammed on the brakes, ripped open my saddle bag and grabbed the rain jacket, just in time to get hit with a deluge of rain and hail. I was mostly soaked by the time I reached the lodge, though not as badly as it could have been– and when later changing into dry socks (don’t do that in cafes, kids) it justified the extra kit I was carrying around all day. That stop at the lodge was longer, as I needed to warm up with coffee and pizza. By that time it was late afternoon, and the next stop in Girdwood would be late evening and another 80km away.

The evening climb over the last pass was lovely, and I could take the bike path from the Homer turnoff to the Johnson Pass lot. I felt like I was stopping far too often to make adjustments or to stretch, and it was a relief finally to hit the descent. That part felt great, both the 300m drop and the flat road beyond it with a strong tailwind, but rounding the inlet toward the northwest the headwinds hit again. By that time I was full of natural painkillers, but still had 40 miles (70km) to go. One last stop at the Tesoro gas station (Smart water and Hostess cupcakes), more questions from friendly Alaskans about where someone would be going on a bike at 9pm, and I caught the Gird-to-Bird bike path. One rider, I think Ritchie, had taken the path early in the morning instead of the highway, and had been stopped by moose and coyote encounters. I didn’t see any wildlife along its 30km track, but it was far preferable to fighting traffic along the main road.

I had to get back onto the highway into Anchorage, at times fighting headwinds, at times just wondering how much extra distance I had put on by taking the path (only 1 mile in the end), so that I would know exactly when I would finish. My head was a bit foggy, not so much from lack of sleep as just whatever endorphins were running through my system, and I tried to get songs through my head to distract myself (where was Betty Jean’s singing voice?). But finally I saw the lights of Anchorage, turned north past Potter’s Marsh, saw the sun setting/rising in the north, and took the highway exit onto the Old Seward Highway. No moose on the residential side street, and then there was my car (admittedly, I had worried all day about getting towed, and then having to bike 15 extra miles home).

Ending these rides is always anticlimactic, whether the Georgia Audax rides or the Tour des Stations in Switzerland, but in Anchorage I had several people call out to me as I reached the car. Cyclists from our group who had ridden 200km and then taken the train into Anchorage, they had only arrived back at the same time as me (11:20pm), and were cheering me on. 

I plan on riding the 600km solstice ride in two weeks, from Gakona to Delta Junction to Tok and then the next day to Gakona again. It’s remote, wild, and what I came to Alaska to experience. Riding to Seward was necessary to prove that I would be ready, but beyond that, it made me feel like I had some of my old cycling mojo back– stuff I’d lost when leaving Kosovo. 

Strava ride