Between Kosovo and Alaska- part three (back in the USA)

“Sometimes the most scenic roads in life are the detours you didn't mean to take.”

― Angela N. Blount, Once Upon an Ever After

I left the bike cafe late on Friday night, the last of several farewell parties and bike rides, a quiet ending to four years in Kosovo. In some ways everything seemed routine, especially since Tracy and the cats remained in the apartment, and the only real difference was packing up the bikes and leaving no trace of cycling behind. In the morning I rode to the airport as I'd done dozens of times before, sat in the departure area with Aimee (another American leaving), and set for the flight to Istanbul and then long leg to Atlanta. I had no idea at that time what was happening back in Alaska, what political bombshell had been dropped about the same time I'd left the cafe late Friday night, and that everything was about to change.

With my Scott and Fondriest bikes, leaving Kosovo

What I didn't know was that at about the same hour I was leaving Kosovo, it was Friday afternoon in Alaska, and the governor was releasing a bombshell set of line-item vetoes that would set the state on fire, metaphorically speaking (much of the state would literally be on fire within weeks, but that's another story).

I flew from Prishtina to the new airport in Istanbul, a sparkling, multi-billion dollar project that was perhaps too fancy for its own good. I raced through (extra security check, plus layers of document checks before boarding a flight to the US), just wanting a bottle of water to buy, not a Hermes scarf or a Rolex. Then a long flight to Atlanta, where upon landing I tried catching the free airport WiFi to check my mail. At the top of my email inbox was an odd message from the dean in Alaska, saying in effect, "We'll work through these cuts, nothing affects you personally yet. Don't panic."

The new Istanbul airport

That's weird, I thought. I knew it was the end of the fiscal year, and the legislature had agreed to cut the university budget by 5%. But we knew that already, right? Why would Karen try to reassure me over something I already knew about?

The WiFi cut out when entering the immigration hall in Atlanta, and I focused more on getting through and finding the bikes, hoping they were in good condition (they were). My dad met me at the arrivals hall, we drove back to my parents' house across the state line in Alabama, and I tried to get some sleep. Ambitious as I was, I had set up a bike ride for the next morning near Heflin, Alabama, and had invited several friends up from Georgia. Jen wrote the next morning saying she couldn't come, but Jim was driving from Carrollton, and Betty Jean from much farther away in Monticello.

Jim, a geology prof from West Georgia University, had ridden with me since 2014, while Betty Jean was an environmental engineer and cycling hero of mine since I 'd read about her RAAM race in 2015, and we'd become friends and long-distance cycling buddies since the following year. They'd agreed to meet me and ride the Cheaha route to the highest point in Alabama, and met at the Heflin ranger station. I'd tried thinking of everything I needed for the bike to be ready, the Trek 5200 I'd kept stored with my parents for long rides back in the US, and even gave myself extra time in case a tire was flat-- as one was.

But, and this was a big but, I'd forgotten my shoes. For those not into cycling this is not a minor point, as our pedals (and especially my Speedplays) don't work well without specialized shoes. So  -sigh-  we drove back toward my parents', and then rode a simpler route along the state line. Perhaps that was for the best anyway, the Cheaha route is punishing and this was more social, and I could reward Jim and Betty Jean with my mom's cookies while overlooking the Tallapoosa River.

The big problem with the easier Georgia/Alabama routes are the dog hazards. Unlike the rather tame Kosovo dogs, in the South they seem to appear every 400 meters along the road, chasing after us and even affecting which routes we choose. On the circle where I took Jim and BJ^2, one long stretch can really only be ridden south-to-north, as going the opposite direction requires a long climb where dogs are free to catch cyclists. If doing it as a descent, the trick is to keep up speeds above 25mph (40kph) to prevent dogs from having a chance at getting to the road. Admittedly, it's stressful and plenty of my local friends have crashed due to dog attacks.

I preferred the Kosovo cows.

With Jim and Betty Jean on the West Georgia roads

Betty Jean and Jim were, as ever, good riding companions. Always strong but laid back, they're the sort of cyclists who never complain about anything, are never out to prove anything to others, and are aware of their environment. I don't mind cyclists who are competitive and always focused on the bikes themselves, but bike rides can serve different purposes, and for relieving stress over long periods it's better to ride with someone who works with you instead of against you.

There's something deeply cathartic about the bike, and not just as an exercise in physical exhaustion -- in fact that often backfires on a bike, where it can be difficult to sleep after tearing up leg and back muscles. There is certainly the dopamine reaction, the release of euphoria-like chemicals in the brain after pain recedes (especially hard mountain climbs), but for me it has also been the escapist factor, too. Getting away, either alone or with friends, onto country backroads that few others see, escaping the closed rooms where I would just be pacing and fidgeting, focusing instead on the mechanics of the moment: speed, gear ratios, climb grade, cadence, shift position, stand up, signal to others, shift gear again... there is a constancy and simplicity to what needs to be done, and it allows the mind to clear. Well, except for when someone puts a song in my head, those can take ages to get rid of (and Betty Jean has been known to break into song on very long rides).

Group ride near Carrollton, Georgia

Oh, and we went to Burger Chick afterwards. If anyone finds themselves in Tallapoosa, Georgia, this small shack is a must-see experience.

With Linell and Jen at Burger Chick, April 2018

It wasn't until Sunday afternoon that I saw a message from a cycling friend in Colorado (Lisa) who wrote with a link from the University of Alaska president, and she asked how this would affect me. I read the letter.

Oh f*ck.

It would affect everything.

There are times when you see a news item and it just stops everything around you, not in the world-shattering 9/11 sense of things, but language being used in what should be quite a conventional manner but you immediately feel things unraveling around you. It was the same feeling I had when I saw this tweet pop up, what was for me early morning in London when the Tohoku earthquake occurred (later revised to a 9.1 event). It was a slow feeling of dread that bad things were about to happen, that if I kept looking at the computer I would just see carnage.

OK, this was a political earthquake, but I'm trained for that, too, right? I was between contracts, between homes, Tracy still in Kosovo and everything balanced on a tightrope that had suddenly been cut out. So how does one even raise this issue at the dinner table? How do I write to Tracy to alert her to the news? (Answer: she's used to disasters and war zones, too-- the blunt approach worked.) And what would it all mean? I had previously been a budget director, so I knew that my own position was especially vulnerable, an administrator for a program that did not yet exist, with a contract that did not start for another six weeks. I was instantly reminded of the start of the Michael J Fox movie from the 1980s, where he was unceremoniously fired the moment he showed up for work.

I found myself turning disaster planning skills onto my own life, something I've done time and again but always hated doing. Contingencies, plans A and B and C and mapping out possible alternate pathways, etc, etc. It's enough to drive anyone crazy, and I won't go into details. Suffice it to say that even my scenario planning skills were sorely tested, working through alternate logistics of whether to go to Alaska, what should be taken from where, if and when Tracy should fly to Anchorage (she already had airline tickets, including for the cats), and if somehow I still had a job when I arrived in Alaska, how to start a new program when everything else is being cut.

I had already set out a detailed itinerary of the road trip, which was due to start July 9. I kept abandoning my bewildered parents to ride with cycling friends. Jen, of Kosovo and Albania legend, had stayed in the area longer to see me, and we circled Carroll County while trying to think of how to prioritize protecting my own job, Tracy's well-being, my university program, the related research...

Trying to sort out problems with Jen, cycling Queen of Kosovo

I do not even remember where we biked, other than we started in Bremen. Jen and I had become friends during the Dublin 420 K back in 2016, the same long ride where I got to know Betty Jean and Julie G so well. Jen had flown to Kosovo the following year, after riding in the world championship in France, and we had spent two weeks (usually with Gjengiz and Migjen) climbing the mountains of Kosovo, Albania, and Montenegro. So it was not just the bike, riding with her was a good way to clear my head, to keep from pacing the hallways in my parents' house. Jen had to leave for Canada, but I really appreciated seeing one of my best friends before she went.

Then there was Jason. Jason had been a close riding partner starting in 2014, but especially during the summer of 2015 in the time between Budapest and Kosovo. A soft-spoken Marine, riding with him was never so much conversational as physically demanding- we would push each other's limits, save for 200km or longer rides, when I felt I had to hold him back a bit. He never complained when on the bike, whatever I threw at him or extra distance I caused by poor navigation. He and I rode in some backwoods areas I had not seen before, pushing the pace on the Scott I brought back from Kosovo.

Linell is another story. Jen's best friend and bike/running partner, Linell was the Tennessee state mountain bike champion when she was younger, and apparently never lost any of her energy since that time. From previous rides with her, I had these vivid memories of her climbing hills on her big (53) chain ring, calmly dictating text messages into her phone, and then wondering why everyone else was staring at her. Pure energy and pure goodness, we also rode together on a long, rambling circle around Carroll County.

Rare shot of Linell slowing down to check directions

Riding with Jim on the 4th of July

I also escaped for two days to north Georgia to ride with Julie, another long-distance randonneur and professor at Emory U. She had invited me to come and stay with her and her husband at a cabin near Dahlonega, meant as a group ride but for some reason only I was brave enough to follow her around the mountains. Our roughly 200km ride had over 3000m (10000ft) of climbing, often the short, sharp hills that are easy enough at first, but increasingly wearing as they offer no rest. We were in the back of beyond in north Georgia near the Tennessee border, a hot day spent dodging thunderstorms, visiting general stores where Fourth of July sales had candy and firearms on offer, and where I was completely, utterly lost. Julie always knew where we were, and she did remarkably keep us clear of thunderstorms that we could hear crashing around us.

With Julie in the north Georgia 'secret gaps'

The night before the ride we watched the movie Animal House, my choice and perhaps trying to find some humor in university administration-- though I was beginning to sympathize with Dean Wormer.

What happened in Alaska on June 28th shattered not only my own peace of mind, but those of most Alaskans and others across the US. Ignoring the bipartisan compromise budget the state legislature had worked out over months, Governor Dunleavy had, with one stroke of the veto pen, erased $135 million of funding from the University of Alaska system, along with a number of social programs, infrastructure, and other public goods. No university in the US had ever been attacked like this, given a 41% operating budget cut the afternoon before the new fiscal year, and ignoring the majority of Alaskans and their representatives. My feelings were summed up here fairly well.

I kept texting with Tracy as best I could given the time difference, and give her credit for her coolness under fire. She emphasized that she'd be there with me, whatever we decided or what happened. It was a rotten time to be apart, though that had happened often enough in the past. But we had to sort out what the budget cuts really meant. I figured I would start on the road trip, and kept having visions of Karen (the dean, and my immediate boss in Alaska) calling me when I was on the bike in Wisconsin, telling me to stay in Madison because there would be nothing for me in Anchorage. I did not even know what to pack, not knowing how long I would be in Alaska, and I tossed out earlier plans to mail boxes of clothes and books from Alabama to my new office. The car ended up being packed with a strange mixture of summer clothes, emergency road equipment, my laptops, and admittedly a fair amount of biking gear (including and especially the Trek 5200- the Scott and Fondriest would stay in Alabama).

So on July 9, I left early in the morning on the first day of three weeks across the continent - first stop Blacksburg, Virginia, where my friend were experts in disasters and tsunamis.

Between Kosovo and Alaska- part two

“At the end of the day, your feet should be dirty, your hair messy, and your eyes sparkling.” –Shanti

With Miriam at the Woodrow Wilson Center

I traveled to Washington, DC in May to launch the new book with Miriam (please buy it!), an event where I was struggling with a high fever and then collapsed afterwards for a few days. I limped back home to Kosovo, finally got back on the bike for a few shorter routes, and then left again for Ukraine. Odessa was strange- I won’t get into it here, but between the disbelief from my colleagues over moving to Alaska and the realization that I wouldn't escape the war anytime soon, it was sobering to realize that I had to leave Europe in a few short weeks. We'd been in Europe for almost five years at a stretch, and it would be a shock going back to the US.  The plan was for a road trip across the continent, with Tracy then flying with the cats straight from Kosovo to Anchorage. Our car was still in Alabama, I would drive up to DC to arrange for our things still in storage to be moved, and I would have a chance to reconnect with the US and Canada on the road. Sort of like the end of the movie Elizabethtown, though over three weeks and an entire continent.

The summer would also be notable for trying to cram in as much cycling as a could between the middle of June and the beginning of August. There were really only two goals involved. I had to bike as much as possible in Kosovo in the two weeks before I left, and then once back in the US, I had to bike 1000 miles (1600km) in order to earn a Trek t-shirt. Yeah, I know. T-shirts can be bought in stores, they can be ordered from my phone while laying comfortably in bed, and there is no concrete need to wake up at 4am and pedal for hundreds of miles just to get a free one. It's funny how we react to small incentives. No one could pay me to work so hard, but for something I already loved, that I knew I needed (ha, no idea yet!), having a set goal was necessary. Promise that I'll bike 20 miles and I feel no incentive. Promise myself that I'll bike 1000 and I build up spreadsheets to make sure I reach the goal and don't fall behind, spend hours researching maps and charting routes so I can hit 1000 (spoiler: I reached 1000 miles my last day of cycling in July, in front of a Tim Horton's in Banff, Canada).

With Uta and Tracy at the Bike Cafe

I had to start the goodbyes already- Uta was about to leave again for Nepal, and we wouldn't see each other again before I left Europe. She had been a great influence on me and remains a good friend, so it was hard when Tracy and I had to say farewell (hopefully she can come to Alaska and climb Denali).

With Bashkim and the "No Fun Club"

For Kosovo, I needed to spend more time with my local cycling friends, and there were two other related goals that needed attention. I had not climbed the south side of Bajgora mountain north of Prishtina- I had twice climbed the north road, and once raced up the new and incredibly steep section from Vushtrii, but the long, winding climb from Podujeva had escaped me. Bashkim and I rode that once I was back from Ukraine, on a foggy morning where we climbed Stallova above the clouds, descending again toward Dyz, and then on the long slog toward Bajgora.

Above the clouds on Stallova-Koliq

Northern Kosovo road furniture

The Bajgora ride, which turned out to be just under 100 miles for me in the end, was an example of the challenges in dressing for a long cycling route in Kosovo. It was cold and rainy at the start, warmed up on the first climb, was cold on the descent, grew outright hot toward the start of the big climb, and on the way back we were trying to stay ahead of a massive thunderstorm. While we can carry extra clothes, the immense amount of climbing involved in Kosovo makes that ponderous- even a couple extra kilograms are really noticeable, plus bulky in the back of a summer jersey (in the photo above, you can see Bashkim was wearing a vest early on).

Local cycling heroine Vera (right) and her slower husband Lindi crest the Gateway climb

The route back included a new climb that had just been paved in the spring, and which (for some reason that now escapes me) I had named the Koliq Gateway climb. It was tough, 5km of steep climbing with rolling grades between -1 to +16%, so steep that tired legs have trouble moving at any speed, and this came at the end of a long day of climbing. I kept a decent pace up, but Bashkim was definitely slowing down, and was some 15 minutes behind me. All the while, I saw this massive storm front moving in, could see lightning and hear the thunder, and I kept wishing Bashkim would hurry up so we could outrun the storm back into town. Getting caught in the Grashtica valley with this storm would be Bad. That's not a joke- despite the lack of tornadoes and such in Kosovo, the poor road drainage and geography make rain storms dangerous for bikes, even more so when one considers roads covered in motor oil and full of potholes. Just before leaving Ukraine this last time I had been caught in a storm, lightning all around me on the Prison Break climb, then coming into Prishtina my wheels were submerged in at least four inches (12 cm) of water, brakes not working and the risk of potholes or slipping all around. Getting wet I don't mind, drowning while still on my bike would just be embarrassing.

Bashkim did finally make it up the Gateway climb, and we pushed on tailwinds ahead of the storm, which... well, come to think of it, for some reason it didn't hit Prishtina. Stupid clouds. (Strava record of ride)

Early morning to Mitrovica

The other goal before leaving Kosovo was really more Gjengiz's idea than my own. After completing the 420km Dublin ride with Jen, Betty Jean and Julie in 2016, a jealous Gjengiz had mapped out a 300km route inside Kosovo. There were a few variants, but essentially it called for a counter-clockwise circling of most of the country, heading straight north from Prishtina to Mitrovica, southwest to Peja, southeast to Gjakova and Prizren, over the Prevalla pass, and back to Prishtina via Gjilan. I wasn't a fan of the route, and my own variants had us skipping the Gjilan road in favor of a tougher, hillier route. I had frequently biked the Gjilan road over short segments, but it's busy and dangerous, and in the summer Schatzi season especially so. But Gjengiz had no one else who would do this ride with him, and I agreed to give it a try.

We left at sunrise around the summer solstice, figuring that an early morning dash up the Mitrovica highway would be safe and quiet-- which it was. From there we had a vague idea where to turn, but it was strange for me as I had done this same-ish route but in reverse during a multi-day ride in 2017. The leg from Mitrovica to Peja was green and rolling hills, with the Prokletije (Accursed) Mountains to our right. We joked about taking a short detour up Kulla Pass to the border, that without my passport I couldn't climb all the way into Montenegro, but it was the sort of joking bluster that masked our uncertainty over how long our planned ride would take.

Stopping at towns along the way, we restocked on bananas and water in Peja, and then found the main road from Peja to Gjakova was busier than expected-- plus, it was being resurfaced. For some 15km (at least) we had stretches where the asphalt had been stripped, leaving waving grooves in the roads and raw tar that coated the bottoms of our bikes. It was not at all pleasant. We arrived in the lovely town of Gjakova around 10:30am, having already biked some 150km, and had decided that we would rest for lunch there. We found a restaurant willing to serve lunch early, and indecisive between sweet and salty, I ordered a Hawaiian pizza.

 Gjakova bike lanes- don't go anywhere and are used by horses

OK, for those of you who don't like Hawaiian pizzas, I got my punishment. Apparently for Gjakovars, Hawaiian pizza is not just ham and pineapple, and in fact the fruit portion was a bit scarce. No, they seemed to think that since Hawaii consists of islands, that the pizza also needed fish, so they added plenty of tuna. Tuna. And not white albacore tuna, but the brownish, low quality tinned tuna that most cats turn their noses up to. Yeah, I ate it anyway. All of it. Carbs, protein, whatever. For some reason I was reminded of the Anne Bancroft lines from Home for the Holidays, "Where is everybody? There are starving people in the former Yugoslavia." Maybe the taste made me hallucinate. Even the memory of it makes me a bit dizzy.

The road from Gjavoka to Prizren was mostly flat, climbing toward the second city before the road disappeared into the Sharr Mountains and Prevalla Pass. Gjengiz and I had just raced on much of the same road in April, during our epic breakaway. This time I could tell that Gjengiz was slowing down. He had turned to running recently, and long distance was never his specialty, so as we crossed over 100 miles (160km) I was impressed he had made it that far. And I figured he would be done by the top of Prevalla, an HC (beyond category) climb to an elevation of 5000 feet (1500+m), one which we knew well, and while a fairly gradual climb, was always a tough effort. We stopped near the start of the Prevalla climb to fill up on water and take a dose of electrolytes, but he told me to go on ahead. It was a slower pace for me, and I stopped at one point to talk to a rival racer from a nearby Serbian village, who was coming from the other side of the pass. He was surprised I was leaving Kosovo, and said, "So, you go to US, and you must send back someone like you. We need serious cyclists." (Jimmy, you're up.)

Prevalla Pass (photo taken with Anja Kalan in Sept 2018)

Although I thought I was checking my phone, I didn't see the text I was expecting from Gjengiz throwing in the towel. I turned around and rode back down, which I was happy to say had come at the end of road repairs for the Prevalla road. It's a long. long descent to Prizren, and this time on the best road conditions I'd seen in Kosovo. It was a great end to my last HC climb of the season, and I was glad to avoid the Gjilan road on a Saturday night. We took the bus back to Prishtina. (Strava record here)

On the Grashtica Road leaving Prishtina

The last rides I took were familiar roads with familiar friends, perfect summer weather around Batllava reservoir, and the simpler ride to the Bear Park. I will always miss this rides from Lindi and Vera's bike cafe, the dodging of traffic out of Prishtina to the Grashtica road, the endless coffees and the stoic cows, the kids cheering us on from the sides of the road, I know those rides will always be unique in my memory to Kosovo. I saw most of the country that way, all the cities, hundreds of villages, the beauty of mountain passes and the scars of environmental damage. I could not imagine having a feel for the country had I just stayed in the city, writing from my office. And while I took a bike with my to Kosovo when I first moved in 2015, without Tolga and others I would never have explored so far into the countryside and the mountains. Thanks, guys.

With Tolga near Badovac Lake

With teammate Migjen and others at the bike cafe

There was one last thing I had to do before leaving. I had thought that I would miss it, but the Kosovo Security Forces had their ceremony for commissioning cadets into officers. I struggled to dig out my suit, scrounged for dress shoes to borrow (thanks, Agim), and tried to remember how to find the barracks in Ferizaj (they leave military installations off Google maps). Cadets had been part of my classes in Kosovo from my first semester, and I had taught them everything from information warfare to ethics.

I was proud of them, and happy that I could attend as they became junior officers in the KSF. A few of them that day had been first semester freshmen my first fall in Kosovo, so it was a rare chance to see how far they'd come. 

I'd wanted to think that I had learned a great deal in four years, as well.  The cadets and civilian students had certainly taught me a trick or two about irregular warfare in simulations, things so surprising I had to include them in the book. I'd learned about Kosovo, Albania, North Macedonia, I'd spent months in Ukraine working and learning Russian. We'd adopted two cats and rescued/rehomed about a dozen dogs to the US and Canada-- some of it seemed like drops in a bucket, but one had to try.

But I had to learn something new, live somewhere I'd not been before, get back into climate security issues where I felt more comfortably than tangling with Russian security services. 

Alaska would challenge me more than I could imagine.

Between Kosovo and Alaska- part one

“There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart's desire. The other is to gain it.”

― George Bernard Shaw

Kosovo winter ride in the Obiliq smog

January was rough. The air quality in Prishtina had predictably plummeted, with frequent PM2.5 concentrations above 300. There was a dark haze over the city, much of it sulfurous coal dust from the nearby Kosovo A & B power plants. I woke up every morning with a splitting headache. I couldn’t get to the gym, the weather prevented me from getting on the bike outside of the city, and once Gjengiz and I tried to drive to Albania, only to be forced back by blowing snow and cars sliding dangerously around us. One puppy we had tried fostering died of a parvo-related heart attack his second night with us. The president of the university had just been fired, and the board seemed to expect me to fix ‘faculty morale’ problems. I'm not saying I was having a tougher time than most people in Kosovo, but I was having a hard time seeing the future, and my body was rejecting the idea of any more soot-choked winters in the Kosovo capital.

Inspirobot.com motivational poster

So there I was on a video conference with Anchorage, Alaska, 8400km away. It was a late night (for me, morning for them) preliminary job interview, and the internet kept cutting out. I had to speak in sentence fragments, trying to answer difficult questions about management styles and experiences while often waiting 20 seconds for buffering. I could only try to imagine what their impression was in Alaska, but they later told me the biggest takeaway was my ability to stay calm for an hour of complete frustration. I had submitted my application to them on November 30th, arguing they needed someone with experience in disaster planning, and four hours later a massive earthquake hit the city. Apparently I made an impression. And so began the journey.

I meant to keep updating this blog through the spring and summer, but the anticipated (though often uncertain) move back to the US was hard to describe at the time. The dean at my school in Kosovo (RIT-AUK) asked me to keep my departure a secret, and in Kosovo even telling one person would have meant the entire country would have known within days. I felt guilty for leaving my students, my bike team and buddies (sorry, Tolga), my fellow dog rescuers, my friend and business partner Uta, all the friends like Ivana who had been so close to us during our time there. The thought of leaving them, not the place, was difficult. I felt bad for leaving my defense work in Ukraine behind me. The war was still raging and I had a role to play in helping, but going to the other side of Russia would mean abandoning that work. After all, who would be talking about Ukraine in the US come late 2019?

The in-person interview came first. I was due to fly to Anchorage just before the start of the Iditarod, taking the long route via Frankfurt and Denver, a 28-hour itinerary.

Before I left for Alaska, I received an email from Marie Lowe, the chair of the search committee, asking how tall I was. I stared at the email on my phone for a time, wondering what the heck kind of question that was for a job candidate, until my eyes caught the text below explaining that they were asking so that they could find a bike my size during my visit.

You see, cycling is what led me to Alaska. Last year, while recovering from the Tour de Stations I had starting reading Jill Homer’s books on cycling. The first one I read was her Be Brave, Be Strong about her Grand Divide race, but the others were about racing the Iditarod on a bike, a 1000-mile trek across interior Alaska in the winter. Her stories were beyond crazy, but I couldn’t stop reading them. I’d lived years in Canada and Norway, but had never been to Alaska. My Arctic work had been put aside a number of times, either by the Air Force (retasking us to Hawaii), or by needing to focus on the Balkans and Eastern Europe, or...whatever. But her stories were in my mind when I ran across the job listing at the University of Alaska in October. I had only applied for four jobs last year, and Alaska became one because I had longed for open spaces, clean air, I suppose the sorts of things I definitely did not have in Kosovo. And I remembered that during the January video call, the one period when the internet worked well and I could speak at length, was in answering the question about why I had thought of moving to Alaska. I told them about Jill Homer, about how I could only move back to the US if there was some edge to where I was going, some way to avoid a cloistered and overly comfortable existence somewhere.

Sunrise over Anchorage

I flew to Anchorage on a Monday, leaving early morning from Kosovo and arriving late at night (or 9am the next day back in Kosovo), with a taxi driver who had grown up in Skopje. With a hotel window overlooking the Chugach foothills and Elmendorf Air Force Base (JBER), I slept most of Tuesday, but had arranged to arrive plenty early so that I could spend a day fat biking around Anchorage. I walked from downtown to midtown (now that I live here, that seems crazy) to the Trek store, and started riding along the Chester Creek and Coastal trails- the same ones I now ride every day. The snow was plentiful and well groomed on the trails, the temperature hovered around -15C, and ... it was a lot of work.

Remember that I’m a roadie, so riding for nearly four hours and working hard, only to discover that I had covered only 50km or so, that seemed frustrating. I kept seeing people skate-skiing on the trails, and couldn’t help but think that would be easier, but I was determined to ride to Kincaid Park and back, part of the way to the university, and not completely wear myself out before my interview proper started the next day.

But the air- so clean even for the middle of a city, the views of the mountains, the lack of trash or stray dogs or illegally parked cars, or ... it was exhausting yet calming, thrilling yet soothing, and I only regretted not seeing any moose that day. I could spend hours on the snow, within and yet not in the city, the only people being skiers with their overly happy dogs running alongside. I was just flown halfway around the world (10 time zones) and was determined to try the place out.

Of course, riding trails isn't Alaska. The hiring committee, in particular Kevin Berry, had the idea from my Jill Homer references to take me outside of town on Friday afternoon, following the last of my formal interview and before my Saturday morning flights back to Europe. Kevin and I drove up to powerline pass near Flattop, with knee-deep snow and more real conditions for fatbiking in the bush. It made me even more appreciate the Homerian odysseys in the Alaska interior, or having to push the bike half the time, and this without all their gear and still within hiking distance of the parking lot. It was more humorous than anything, really. At one point, riding behind Kevin, my front wheel post-holed into a snow cavity, sending me flying over the handlebars just as he looked behind to check on me. His thought was, "Crap, the dean will kill me if I injure Dr. Briggs," while I was just laughing. Having broken and cracked bones in Kosovo and Albania, diving into soft snow was more like being a kid. It was a metaphorically perfect way to end the trip.

Powerline pass outside Anchorage

I received an offer shortly after returning to Kosovo, and negotiated a good contract-- the final verbal negotiation with the dean taking place when I was in Cairo, in the middle of the night overlooking Tahir Square. It was a promotion in my career to become an administrator, a chance to start and develop a new masters degree in public policy, a chance to get back into Arctic work and be at the front lines of climate change, and a chance to step away from the constant, existential stress of working on information warfare. Ha, well, Alaska would have plenty of surprises for me yet.

Celebratory martini while crashing a 2am private party at the Ritz Carlton Cairo

(continues in Part Two)

Knight Riders in Kosovo

In northeastern Alabama, north of Muscadine where a quiet country road crosses Highway 78, there was a rundown biker bar by the side of the road. Outside was an old sign that read “Bikers Welcome.” It became something of a running joke between Jason Perez and me, that someday we would walk in, bikes on our shoulders, and order strawberry daiquiris. As an ex-Marine, it wasn’t like Jason was some willowy figure or hadn’t been in rough places. It is reflected the obvious point that there were two irreconcilable biker cultures in the world, and never the twain would meet.

Well, maybe not. Maybe in Kosovo. After all, there I was on one of the main streets of Prishtina,
riding in the dark just behind four Harleys, their riders in black leather jackets that read “Kosova Free Wolves” on the back. Behind me were about 140 cyclists, from young kids to teenage mountain bikers to old men, blowing whistles and yelling like it was a Mardi Gras rave on wheels. The motorcyclists were escorting us on a 10 km circuit through the city, slicing through traffic and blocking off sidestreets, until we ended up at Prishtina’s “bike-friendly café.”

The bike café was new, set in Dragodan just a short walk from our apartment, and had been opened in late July by its owners Vera and Arlind (“Lindi”). Lindi explained he had built most of the interior, from the brickwork to the tables and chairs. Knowing how most construction takes place in Kosovo (Dragodan is full of it), it was easy to believe. No one could buy this sort of look, not here. It was small, was out of the way, but seemed immediately successful with the locals, even those who didn’t care about the bicycling motifs. It also immediately became the jump-off point for all of our local weekend bike rides- 7:45am, just when the bakery delivered the fresh croissants.

But they HAD advertised it as the “bike friendly café.” so here, one August afternoon last year, the other biking culture appeared. I wasn’t on my bicycle that day, had just dropped by, and they are on the narrow street were ten particularly large motorcycles. In there, seated around a table on the deck, were ten particularly large motorcyclists. They fit in- why not? And considering how much beer they were drinking, why would Lindi even suggest their bikes were the wrong ones? Cyclists are horrible for cafes, quaffing a quick coffee and then off on the road, little else. It was funny seeing the motor gang there, but this being Kosovo, it wasn’t enough.

Lindi and Vera didn’t just want a café, they wanted to change Kosovo culture and attitudes toward cycling. While it was great that “real” cyclist came and parked our bikes at the café, we were considered the crazy ones. To counter that, why not be even crazier? So, in cooperation with a group called Critical Mass, they started organizing group bike rides at night, the idea being to get normal people out on normal bikes, and get them in the streets as a sort of cultural protest/demonstration/celebration.

Last fall, once a week for the chilly nights of October, large groups of cyclists went out in the streets. It was nothing more than a 12km loop through the downtown and back, but like with all things in the Balkans, being quiet and polite doesn’t change things.

The traffic is still crazy, we don’t see the motorcycle gangs that often, but the Bike Café is still about the best place in town.

Take the Fondriest, leave the cannoli

The spring classics in Kosovo

Those of us addicted to cycling struggle through cold winter months, seeing every day our bikes sitting forlornly, our Strava accounts reminding us how far we already are behind annual distance goals, and our summer bike clothes not fitting as smoothly as they should.

I was struggling after returning to Kosovo from New Year’s when the air quality grew to become among the worst on the planet, and for much of January and February I was fighting with constant migraine headaches. I’ve discussed my theory that this winter was worse than most because of a new vein of sulphur-rich coal the local utility started burning, but whatever the case, I was slow to start the new season. We did get out in March, intrepid cyclists braving snow and ice in the low mountains east of Pristina, and by the first race of the season, we had an amazing break of warm weather.

The real sign of moving into the season, for me, is getting onto my designated racing bike. Since I was 21 and suffered from a knee injury for pushing too hard, too soon, in the spring season, I’ve had at least two road bikes to swap between. One has always been an aluminum-framed Trek used for winter riding and geared lower (easier on the knees), the other a carbon-framed bike with full-sized cranks and the sort of gears that take a good deal of power to muscle through. Some years I never left the training bike, but those were times when my goals were much more modest. And occasionally I’ll use the Trek when race conditions are particularly rough.

For Mitrovica in March I was (barely) ready for the Fondriest. My Fondriest TF-3 I bought soon after arriving in Kosovo- it was barely used, and while I’m not the sort to spend time drooling over photos of bikes online, when I saw this one all I could think was, “Damn, that’s sexy.” Italian-built and one of the lightest bikes around (a stripped-down weight of only 1.6kg) and ultra-stiff, it’s like owning an Italian sports car... beautiful, fast, but uncomfortable and a maintenance headache. The first race was mostly flat (by Kosovo standards), so Gjengiz insisted that I take the bike with the most power available.

An unusually warm and clear day for March in Kosovo, it was nonetheless balanced with high winds from the west. Our team drove to the center of south Mitrovica, with Migjen, Gjengiz and our new master’s teammate Jimmy. Dorant was not feeling well and was acting as soigneur. Jimmy was new to the team but had been diligently training on Swift in his garage each morning at 5am throughout the winter, and seemed in better shape than most of us. He also had a new bike, a high-end Bianchi from Italy that had taken months to arrive through Kosovar customs. My plan was to let Jimmy escort Migjen, and I would stick with Gjengiz in case the groups were separated. That way Jimmy and I would be domestiques, but the plan quickly fell apart after the race started.

Winter cycling is serious business

Leaving Mitrovica, the pack of 40 racers headed west, and then turned south to climb over Lubavec. Migjen and Jimmy surged ahead with the lead group, and while I was alright on my slightly higher-than-normal gears, Gjengiz (a natural climber) fell off behind quickly. Toward the top of the climb I saw Jimmy stopping just ahead, who had been dropped from Migjen’s group when his chain fell off, and his misaligned front Campi derailleur had just failed again. Without pausing, I yelled at him to look after Gjengiz, and decided to sprint ahead and chase after Migjen’s group.

The course took a steep, winding descent toward Novolan, where a plateau dropped down onto farmland below and the city of Vushtrii. I had a younger rider in front of me that I was slowly reeling in, bunny-hopping over potholes and railroad tracks, and once I passed him I could see Migjen’s group in the distance, just turning into the Vushtrii town center. The race through the town was not controlled, not really, plus as with all spring classics the downtown had ancient cobblestones. We weaved around parked cars, startled pedestrians, my bike jarring the life out of my arms (the Fondriest was not designed for cobbles), and I did not even notice that Jimmy had given up on Gjengiz and was chasing my wheel. The road led out of Vushtrii onto the highway to Pristina, a flat road past commercial landscapes, where police were keeping side traffic from entering the road just ahead of bikes.

I could see Migjen’s group about 200 meters ahead of me, but in cycling terms that distance can seem like an ocean. Closing on a pack working together, especially in windy conditions, took every gram of energy I had, and I could only focus on that point, creeping up on them meters by meter, oblivious to the traffic– or that I had a teammate right behind me, who was too tired chasing me to help out until the end. The movie Breaking Away captures that moment better than any other visual I’ve seen.

Photo of Indiana, not Vushtrii

Once we caught them, I rested in the back of the pack for a time, but then took over my role to protect Migjen. The pack had a mix of teams, but it was up to Jimmy and I to protect Migjen until the end, even if that meant helping the other teams in the process. Given strong crosswinds, the best tactic for me was to keep up a fast pace, preventing attacks off the front and wearing out anyone behind as much as possible. We biked most of the way back to Pristina, turned around and then raced back up the highway, back through Vushtrii, toward Mitrovica. Our pack stuck together, I kept in the lead as much as possible, and then at the end did the other thing domestiques sacrifice themselves for– while pacing the group I stopped pedaling, knowing that most of the guys behind would do likewise for a few seconds, giving Migjen the chance to jump ahead in the sprint. Migjen took second in the end, but I had a hard time explaining to others that my time (two seconds behind the leaders) was intentional. I was not a sprinter myself, and in any case was too tired to attack the rest of the peloton. Poor Gjengiz, dropped off the back in high winds on flat roads (his worst conditions) dragged in some time behind us. But overall, it was a good day.

Migjen, me, and Jimmy at the race finish

I then dropped off from cycling and any sense of fitness for weeks, as I headed to Egypt. Almost two weeks of academic conference, Nile River archeological visits and endless food.

When I returned to the bike weeks later, I felt as if I had gained 8 kilos. I forced myself right onto the hard training routes from Pristina- Marec and Kamenice, and yet was hardly up to my previous fitness by the time the Prizren race came around on April 21.

Prizren city center

Like the previous race, April 21 dawned sunnier and warmer than the previous cold, blustery weeks
leading up to it. Four racers, this time with the accomplished runner Albion instead of Jimmy, piled into Rexha’s small car and headed to the city of Prizren. The last race there had been cold and rainy, and my spirits were no better than on that day. I had hardly slept, was feeling groggy, and was imagining getting dropped early on the longish, 110km course. The center square of Prizren is still largely medieval, with a communal fountain, cobbled streets, and a castle overlooking the town. We usually start from Prizren to head into the Sharr Mountains that loom above the city, but this time I was told we would have another largely flat race, and again I had brought the Fondriest. I had hardly touched that bike since Mitrovica, and could only imagine finding out that the route was indeed mountainous, or had a typical hilltop finish. I didn’t even manage to get a coffee before the start.

The peloton headed out to the edge of the city for a neutral start, and the first line of cyclists were lined up for a sprint start. When the whistles blew they didn’t start out too quickly, but the first part of the race was a constant series of surges and attacks off the front. While I ignore most of those and try to keep a constant pace, the attacks that day were quickly wearing, and I told my teammates I couldn’t keep up if the attacks didn’t stop. Still, I carved out time to take a selfie, despite the speed and constant danger of potholes. I found myself trailing a number of times, though at least on the first climbs I managed to stay with my teammates. The route followed much the same route as in October, only turning off to head toward Gjakova before the larger climbs hit. But the Gjakova road had its own series of climbs– the first was not so bad, but on the second I saw the peloton draw away from me ahead, while at the same time I heard Rexha calling from the team car, offering me a bunch of bananas. While I didn’t want them, I understood my role was to stuff them into my jersey and take them up to my teammates. I wasn’t sure I could even do that. I had to slow on the climb to grab the food, and was then caught in a series of cars that were impatiently being kept behind the peloton by police. Finding no room on the right curb and having to slow for traffic, I took to the left lane and just started passing cars as quickly as I could.

Me, Gjengiz and Migjen

I caught the peloton again just as we entered Gjakova, whipping through a roundabout and headed back out on the road toward Prizren again. While we’d had a tailwind on the first part of the race, now we faced a stiff headwind, and the diminished peloton couldn’t decide whose responsibility it would be to take the lead and work into the wind. KC Trepca was doing work unhappily, and I was trying to keep my teammates from going to the front. That would be my job, assuming I had the energy, and when would I start? We’d been told the course was 110km long, but no one knew for certain, and we were only at around 70km. Our pace had dropped from 40kph average to just over 30, and the lack of cooperation meant we kept getting slower. Frustrated, I jumped in front, only to have three cyclists immediately attack, then slow down to 25kph. Then they attacked again, and slowed.

Racing next to Dragan (in black)

I shouldered past them, impatient. Like in the Ferizaj race last year, it was easier in my mind to establish a faster pace into the wind, and keep attacks from surging ahead. I would only do it for a while, I told myself, since we still had some 30km to go, and no one knew the end terrain. After about ten minutes my impatience wore off, and I looked behind to see who would take over for me.

Only Gjengiz was there.

The rest of the peloton was already almost out of sight behind us, and Gjengiz shouted, “We have a good gap!”

Crap. I’d started a breakaway too soon, and without even knowing it. We raced through the village of Pirane, over the Drin River canyon, and I figured, hell, might as well try and see if I can set up Gjengiz for something.

Now, nothing against my teammate, but as I’ve written before, Gjengiz is not meant for flat roads and wind. Even staying on my rear wheel his heart rate was averaging 170, and he could do little to help. Like our training rides into Shkoder in Albania, I had to keep up the pace myself, as long as I could.

We turned a sharp corner, keeping the chase group from seeing us. Later I learned that the peloton wouldn’t chase us. Migjen was the real threat and was still with them, Gjengiz’s breakaways never worked, and that other guy was a crazy old American. While the Serbian rider Dragan tried to rally the group to chase, they argued that there was plenty of time. But time was exactly what I was afraid of.

Breaking away

My legs were burning with averaging 300Watts and 37kph into a stiff wind, over rolling terrain and toward the village of Krajk, where the October race had ended. Yet instead of being directed up the final climb as before, we turned back onto the final October road in reserve direction, back north toward Lukinaj. This was terrifying. Just past Lukinaj was Kushnin, where we both remembered a fast descent– meaning this time it would be a steep climb. “I don’t have the legs for any climbs,” I said as I looked behind me and saw a flash of red. I looked behind again.

“Crap, they’ve caught us.”

The peloton was finally bearing down on us, and I remembered this scene so well from watching professional and Olympic races, the helpless feeling of seeing breakaway leaders like Mara Abbott (2016 Olympics) get swallowed and quickly passed. Gjengiz and I sat up on our bikes and waited for the rush of cyclists around us, when we’d struggle to keep up.

Except it didn’t happen. Dragan pulled up to me, and I joked, “Hey, can’t you give an old man any fun?” but the rest stayed behind. I didn’t know what their thinking was- likely everyone was dreading the Kushnin climb and had expended energy in the chase. They were collectively catching their breath, rather than pressing the advantage.

Meaning I was still in front when I came around a corner and saw the final flags 200 meters in front of me.

Now, I wasn’t being modest when I said I wasn’t a sprinter. I still have some sprint KOMs, but those are from seated sprints, long leads instead of 1000-Watt explosions of power. Yet there I was sprinting, not knowing why I was not being passed. In a bike sprint, the lead person never wins, since the cyclist behind has the advantage of drafting, and can use that extra 30% of energy to sweep around the lead. Professional teams designate sprint lead-outs, whose only job is to help get the real sprinter into position. Someone finally tried passing me at the line, but I took it by a hair. Well, I’m sure I did, though in typically Kosovo fashion, even the finish line wasn’t painted straight. But it didn’t matter- all the elite riders were behind me, and I had just surprised everyone, especially myself.

We had the usual post-race lunch and awards ceremony, rode a short recovery ride the next day (though Gjengiz attacked a new mountain road, and Albion went and ran five miles or something crazy), and now that it's the last week of classes at AUK/RIT I'm swamped with work again. Sunday was a great memory, and shows how unpredictable bike races can be-- I still had an extra banana in my pocket when I finished.

Mitrovica race (Strava)
Prizren race (Strava)

(Last three race photos credit to KC Trepca)