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