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Baked Alaska
Wining and Dining My Way
Through Iditasport
By Monique Cole
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Something silver gleamed from the snowy
trail, catching the light of my head lamp. Stooping over, I picked
up a party tiara whose crown was formed by the words, "Happy
New Year!" In my exhausted, semi-catatonic state, I figured
this was a totemic gift from above, the meaning of which would
later be revealed. So I placed it on my fleece-covered head and
pedaled the final 50 yards to the Iditasport banner as the last
cyclist to finish this 150-mile ultramarathon.
The meaning did become clear as I sidled
up to the bar of Big Lake Lodge, race HQ, the tiara still perched
on my head. Sipping yet another beer, I realized that I had pretty
much partied my way through Iditasport, supposedly the "toughest
mountain bike race in the world." The hat was symbolic of
my sybaritic race strategy: to wine, dine and sleep my merry
way through the course. Iditasport was my first race of any kind,
and after spending four months training and hundreds of dollars
buying special cold-weather equipment, I wanted to have a good
time and finish in one piece.
I had developed this plan of action
the previous year while volunteering and observing at the Skwentna
checkpoint halfway through the course. The leaders were in and
out of the cabin - quick and businesslike - before the heat of
the wood stove could warm their bodies or cool their resolve.
After all, they were professional athletes and this was their
job.
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Later came the recreational athletes
trying to catch up with the big boys. Most were fatigued, hypothermic,
puking, or a combination thereof; many dropped out of the race.
I remember delicately removing a cup of soup from one racer's
hand as he fell asleep sitting up.
Unexpectedly, the third wave of racers
arrived in high spirits. "This is really fun," said
a jocular cyclist from Colorado named Gary Sweeden. His statement
seemed almost sacrilegious in light of Iditasport's reputation
- tough, grueling, cold, insane, dangerous, certainly not fun.
With no delusions of placing in the top 10 or even 20, though,
Sweeden was just out for a good time. He was my inspiration.
I had another hero. In March of 1906
a young lawyer named John A. Clark set off from Valdez, Alaska,
for Fairbanks with five friends on bicycles. In a book called
"Sourdough Sagas" Clark wrote about packing his heavy
clunker over mountain passes, swan diving into snow banks, dodging
mules, and sailing down river ice in 60-mile-per-hour tailwinds.
Clark was one of hundreds of men who biked the trails between
boom towns during the turn-of-the-century gold rush. Heavy dog
sled and foot traffic packed the snow into a ridable surface
and road houses spaced about 30 miles apart provided food and
shelter.
Iditasport, with its snowmobile-packed
trail and checkpoints every 15 or so miles, was a short, modern
version of Clark's adventure. In my latter-day journey, I hoped
to live up to my hero's sometimes subtle, often sarcastic and
profane, sense of humor, and his obvious appreciation for small
luxuries.
The bunks were constructed of round
spruce poles and the mattress and springs of the same material.
Some of the road house keepers, having evidently been accustomed
to luxuries before they came to Alaska, sprinkled a few spruce
boughs over the poles, and some of them actually had a few blankets
to spread over the boughs. After sleeping on one of them, I concluded
that the blankets were for purposes of concealment. But after
a day on the trail, even the presence of a few boulders, cannon
balls, broken glass, and other trifles would not have been noticed.
- John Clark
So with Sweeden and Clark as my patron
saints, I set off from the start line into the unknown of Alaska's
outback. This moment, months in the making, inspired an ecstatic,
Yahoo! Elation turned to concentration as I learned to maneuver
my bike over the punchy trail across Big Lake. Pedal, pedal,
sink; pedal, pedal, sink. I was developing quite a rhythm doing
the Iditasport two-step as my back tire became mired in soft
spots. New challenges greeted me as I left the lake to follow
a roller-coaster trail along a survey line cut straight through
the taiga -a spider's web of stunted spruce, frozen swamps and
braided streams - without regard to terrain. When the forest
opened into a swamp the snow would get softer, forcing me out
of the saddle to push. And the numerous stream banks unfortunately
came in pairs. The careening downhills were a blast, but were
always followed by a climb on the other side - imagine pushing
an over-burdened shopping cart up a ski jump. My friend, Michael
Bane, pulled out a pair of crampons to ascend one particularly
icy bank.
We kept each other company for about
four hours of redundant dismounts and remounts and laughed at
the absurdity of riding a bike in Alaska's winter. Voices carry
very well over the snow, I discovered as I heard two snowshoers
gaining on us. You see Iditasport is a multi-sport affair, with
a 150-mile course for bikers, skiers and triathletes (who bike,
ski and run) and a short, 70-mile trail for runners and
snowshoers. One of the voices belonged to Roman Dial, a biology
professor at the University of Fairbanks who was pontificating
to athlete/journalist/archaeologist Chris Kostman on the nuances
of animal urine in the wild.
"Bad day for bikes," Dial
said as he passed Michael and I pushing our bikes uphill once
again. But then I remembered the sage advice of former Iditasport
champion Gail Koepf at the start line: "Take the time to
adjust your tire pressure, it's worth it." I flattened my
tires to almost zero, started floating over the soft stuff,
and said a reluctant good-bye to my heavier companion.
Now my only company was the voluptuous
Mount Susitna, or Sleeping Lady, which formed a backdrop to the
taiga. Local legend says a young woman fell asleep while awaiting
her lover's return from battle. But her soldier is dead and her
family lets her sleep on indefinitely in innocent bliss. I envied
her position as I pedaled wearily on, ever fearful of the dreaded
psssssss of a pinch flat. I cringed every time I went
over a "whoop-de-do" and my rim hit bottom.
When I rolled, snakebite-free, into
Big Su, my spirits lifted. Cheers and hugs from my friends Marge
Stoneking and Lynelle Kukowski greeted me. I lingered too long
basking in the warmth and fellowship of the sweat-scented racers'
tent. I must have said, "OK, I'm going now," at least
10 times. When I finally did leave at sundown Marge and Lynelle
sent me off with more cheers, votes of confidence and promises
of beer when I returned to Big Su, which was also the last checkpoint
on the lollipop-loop course.
"Boy, this trail is great,"
I said to myself, "I feel so light, I'm just floating over
the trail like a hydroplane." No wonder I felt so light,
I left my fanny pack at Big Su. Gloves, food, and stove are not
the kind of things you want to go without, so I doubled back.
"You all gave me such a great send-off, I decided to come
back for an encore," I joked to my confused friends. Marge
marveled at the fact I had retained my sense of humor, but hey,
Gary Sweeden and John Clark wouldn't have let a little back-tracking
get them down.
My spirits remained high for the next
15 miles of hard-packed trail. If Disneyland had an Iditabike
ride, this would be it - banked turns, rolling moguls, phantasmagoric
arches formed of fallen spruce frosted with snow. I stopped often
just to soak in the magnificence of being alone in the Alaskan
bush at night. The Northern sky swallowed the light of my head
lamp as the stars shone back from light-years away, mocking the
insignificance of my ten-foot beam. The full moon still rested
below the horizon and there were no city lights to drown out
the perfect sky.
The purr of a generator broke my reverie
and signaled my proximity to Eagle Song, the second checkpoint.
Inside the warm cabin two tall, handsome young men (checkers,
not hallucinations) signed me in as I wondered how many women
dropped out at this checkpoint. Next door, at the lodge, I gorged
myself on chili, reindeer sausage on a roll, chips and juice.
Tearing myself away from a conversation with Kostman and Dial
(who had since moved on to topics more scintillating than animal
excretions), I finally crawled into a warm bunk. Exhausted as
I was, I had no trouble succumbing to sleep amidst the happy
snores of my comrades.
"Up lad: when the journey's over
/ There'll be time enough to sleep." As if heeding the advice
of Alfred Edward Housman, I sprang out of bed seven hours later
ready to continue on my journey. Perhaps I should have checked
the thermometer before leaving. The mercury had plunged to 20-below
while I slept and the rising sun provided only psychological
warmth. "It'll warm up soon," I lied repeatedly to
myself. It was the classic catch-22: To put on extra clothes,
I needed to stop riding, but I had to keep moving to stay warm.
So I did the circulation jig, dancing around while adding a layer
of fleece to my head, hands and torso, and windproof gaiters
to my feet.
The nine miles to the next checkpoint
sped by - I guess the fear of death by freezing is a good motivating
factor. Because Rabbit Lake was frigid, even inside the tent,
I spent only a few moments there and pushed on toward the race's
halfway point, Skwentna, 22 miles away.
This was the stretch I feared the most.
Historically it had proven a death march for cyclists who were
forced off their bikes by soft snow, deep moose prints and the
moose themselves who refuse to yield to humans on strange wheeled
contraptions. But the previous night's low temperatures allowed
the trail's crust to "set up" into a ridable surface
and I saw no signs of a rumored "belligerent moose."
Three bikes abandoned along the trail bore eerie witness to racers
who braved the cold night only to give up the race and their
$100 evacuation fee for a snowmobile ride to safety. Despite
the sympathy I felt as I passed the road kill, I couldn't hold
back the satisfied shout, "Hah, I've made it farther than
you!"
However, it still was a long, lonely
22 miles. The monotony of swamp, trees, swamp, trees was broken
by Heartbreak Hill, a small geological protuberance which afforded
a spectacular view and a screaming downhill. I had passed at
the feet of Sleeping Lady, careful not to wake her, and now had
a more vertical mountain to admire - 23,320-foot Mount McKinley.
Basking in the pink morning light and dwarfing her neighboring
peaks, she truly lived up to her native name of Denali, the Great
One.
I was sure the image in the distance
was another hallucination born of loneliness and boredom, but
it was ultra-runner Cindie Grunt. The woman had run seven 100-mile
races last summer, but was not enjoying this 70-mile trudge.
"I hate walking, but it's all I can do," she said.
I gave her the sleeping bag pad she had left at Rabbit Lake.
Later when we met again at Skwentna she would return the favor
by delivering my fleece top, which I unknowingly dropped on the
trail during a pee break.
Alaskans believe in insta-karma. A man
once told me that if you see someone stuck on the side of the
road in winter, you stop to help - even if it's the guy who's
been screwing your wife. You could be the one stranded tomorrow
and he your savior, he explained. This willingness to help others
in need is an odd complement to the independent, often reclusive,
tendencies of Alaskans. But that dichotomy is the essence of
life on America's last frontier.
Finally I reached the familiar cabins
of Skwentna, where I had volunteered in '94. My friends Jay and
Bill Laxson pampered me with a shoulder massage and the best
bunk in the house. I ate everything in sight: fat-filled chocolate
muffins, dinner rolls slathered with butter, hot beef stew, a
pizza pocket from my drop bag, and hot chocolate. After laying
down for a few hours I left in the twilight with another cyclist,
Jim Bowron. It's amazing what 8,000 calories and some rest can
do for your attitude. We yeehawed ecstatically as we flew down
the frozen Skwentna river at a whopping nine miles per hour.
One of the checkers at Skwentna had sent us off with this blessing:
"May the trail be hard-packed and the wind at your back."
I never had the chance to thank him.
Fifteen miles later we reach River Song
Lodge where my friend Mark Flanum was volunteering. "What
can I get you," he asked as I entered the exquisite log
cabin retreat. "That looks good," I said pointing to
a wine glass in his hand. Moose stew and home-baked bread went
well with my two glasses of Merlot. Then again, my eager taste
buds would have considered SPAM haute cuisine. A sink with running
water provided the added luxury of clean hands and face. A lumpy
mattress on the floor and I thought I was in heaven. It's the
little things you learn to appreciate on a trip such as this.
Monday morning I awoke, dressed, and
sat at the breakfast table sipping coffee and reading the paper.
Just like home. Only it was the Sunday paper (what do you expect
- I was in the middle of nowhere) and I had the surreal experience
of reading about a race I was still a day from finishing. Overcast
skies foreshadowing a snowstorm added urgency to the morning's
departure down the Yentna River. Brian, a triathlete from San
Diego whose last name I will withhold for reasons that will become
obvious later in the story, joined Jim and I for the river running.
Being slightly slower, I urged Jim and
Brian to go on without me. I preferred traveling at my own pace,
stopping when it pleased me. Besides, the time differential in
rest stops made me experience penis envy for the first time in
my life. They didn't even have to get off their bikes, whereas
I had to dismount, sort through my various layers and squat with
my hind end exposed to the elements. Inevitably, all those objects
I was keeping thawed under my shirt - camera, Snickers bar, batteries
- would tumble out as I pulled my pants down. Jim and Brian politely
pulled ahead but remained within sight.
The frozen river stretched a mile across
and offered very little in the way of scenery. My mind hummed
with the drone of perpetual motion. I had often wondered what
hallucinations or imaginings would be inspired by spending hours
alone in the wilderness. But my mind's eye only saw the present
- the firmest line, the needs of my body, the distance to the
next checkpoint - or nothing at all.
Yet another friend, Walt Landgrebe,
awaited me at Yentna Station, the site of a surprise gear check.
After verifying that we all still carried the equipment necessary
for our survival, Walt ushered us into the family-run lodge where
a cat and a three-year-old vied for my attention. The hours hunching
over my handlebars were taking their toll on my scoliosis-plagued
spine. I begged Walt for a neck rub and indiscreet moans of pleasure
escaped my mouth as he untangled the muscles which were beginning
to resemble a macramé plant hanger. It pays to have friends
in remote places.
Another 15 miles on the Yentna River
and we arrived at Big Su. I reminded Lynelle that she had promised
to save me a beer. A woman of her word, she offered me and the
rest of us stragglers a cold brew. Raising our tin cans high,
we toasted the final leg.
We were on the stick of the lollipop
loop - a repeat of the first 27 miles. Exhaustion had negated
any bike-handling skills I may have once had, making my descents
on the numerous stream banks almost as slow as my ascents. Almost
immediately after leaving Big Su, Jim pulled ahead leaving Brian
and I behind.
"I can't believe Jim left us,"
Brian whined. "I thought since we rode together for so long,
we'd have a gentleman's finish and cross the line side-by-side."
"We'll be OK, there's two of us,"
I reassured him. "Jim probably just got tired of going so
slow."
The hours dragged by as we pushed our
bikes over a ridable trail. Brian's knees hurt too much to pedal.
I tried to pass the time with conversation but my questions were
met with monosyllabic utterances. "Why couldn't I be stuck
on the trail with a philosopher or poet," I wondered to
myself. I had the feeling of being stranded late at night at
a party waiting for my ride home. The buzz had worn off and the
hangover was setting in. I cursed the race founders for inventing
such a stupid event (come on, a bike race in Alaska in the winter?)
and myself for entering it.
"I quit! Take me to Big Lake,"
I teased my friend Richard Larson who was patrolling the trail
by snowmobile, assuring we Iditasport victims stayed on course.
We were about 15 miles from the finish and Richard informed me
that Laurel Drews, the only woman cyclist still in the race,
was not too far ahead and walking because of a sore knee. I had
a chance to catch her, my legs could still pedal. Temptation
reared its ugly head as I considered abandoning Brian to fend
for himself. But I had heard too many stories of Iditasport camaraderie,
of people helping each other when ego-centrism could spell death.
So I dedicated myself to keeping Brian in motion, gently urging
him to ride in granny gear when he wanted to walk and sharing
my trail mix because he had no food.
We reached the shore of Big Lake, five
long miles from the finish, where we saw Richard again. He warned
us of a flashing light at the Klondike Inn which was luring in
racers like moths to a light bulb. The finish was at Big Lake
Lodge, about a mile farther. "One of you is going to be
the last cyclist," Richard said as he handed Brian some
water. "Now's your chance, Monique, you could take off and
let Brian be the Red Lantern."
"I couldn't do that," I said,
thinking how much I'd like to. "After coming this far, we
might as well finish together." So I waited for my compatriot.
But with the end in sight, my body really started to feel hung-over.
It was all I could do to remain upright as I pedaled over the
punchy trail at about four miles per hour. Brian, on the other
hand, got a second (or was it a hundredth) wind and took off
across the lake. I shouted ahead to inform him he was thundering
off in the wrong direction. Once back on course, he dusted me
again.
"What a hypocrite," I muttered
to myself. "So much for a gentlemen's finish." But
I wasn't going to let some macho idiot spoil my fun. So I put
on my party hat and rolled triumphantly, if somewhat slowly,
under the finish banner.
In the lodge I found Brian telling Jim,
"I would've been here a half-hour ago, but I was waiting
for Monique." The next time I decided to party my way through
Iditasport, Brian would certainly not be invited.
Brian wasn't at the Iditasport awards
banquet Tuesday night. There were quite a few racers limping
on their frost-nipped feet and struggling to keep their sleep-deprived
lids open. "You look pretty good for someone who rode and
pushed a bike for 150 miles on snow," I said while admiring
myself - showered, combed and wearing a short party dress and
stockings. Each of us finishers received an engraved ulu, which
aside from being a great Scrabble word is also a half-moon shaped
traditional Eskimo knife. When I was called to the podium to
recieve my award for placing second in the women's bike division,
I purposefully walked with a spring in my step.
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