Baked Alaska

Sourdough "Unofficial" Olympic Triathlon
Fairbanks, Alaska, July 17, 2004
Not a 1.2 mi swim / 56 mi bike / 13.1 mi run
But rather, 1500 (?) yd swim / 24.8 mi bike / 10k run
And we were lucky to get that.

PART TWO of TWO

Race day started out blessedly cool and clear, with blue skies and fluffy white clouds. We were meeting up at the race site at 10 a.m., an extremely civilized hour, though one I would later regret. Carol and Richie and I borrowed an ice chest from Mike and Floss and stopped at the faithful Fred Meyer for potato salad and "summer crunch" salad for the post-race picnic, then went across the street for some coffee so that Richie would be able to formulate a coherent sentence.

We got to Chena Lakes at around 9:30 and found Bad Bob and a few other folks milling around the parking lot, setting up their "transition areas" on the scrubby grass next to the bike path. A couple of people, obviously accustomed to these very small triathlons, had little bike stands to hold their bikes upright, but the rest of us just laid the bikes down on the grass and put our towels next to them. It was a far cry from the enormous parking lots with rows of numbered bike racks that I usually see at my races. I kind of liked it. I chatted with people, swatted my first Alaskan mosquito, and daubed my arms and legs with Ultrathon bug repellent.

Sharon ("Mrs. Bad Bob" as I liked to think of her) and their son Dan were in charge of placing the buoys for the swim course, so around 10 they set off in their canoe with a bunch of ropes and a few orange swim buoys. They placed the first buoy, then headed south around a little headland to place the next one. They were gone for a very long time. Meanwhile, it was getting hotter and hotter. Bob said weıd start as soon as Sharon and Dan came back, and until then nobody wanted to put a wetsuit on. Finally the canoe arrived, and there was a certain amount of conferencing. Apparently the arm of the lake that we wanted to swim in was just too small. We discussed our options for a while, and finally Bob pointed to the dock on the other side of the lake and said, "That looks like about a quarter mile. How about if we swim to the dock and back twice?" We all looked at each other, shrugged, and said, "Sure, what the heck." Bob warned us to stay out of the weeds if at all possible, since they harbored some nasty little microorganism that causes Swimmer's Itch. Bob was sporting a fresh case of it on his shoulders and upper arms, and it looked pretty uncomfortable. Wetsuits would provide some protection, but the best thing to do after swimming in such waters is apparently to shower off immediately with soap and hot water. Well, that wasn't going to happen since weıd be riding and running in our wet duds for at least two hours after we got out of the lake. Oh well.

So around, I don't know, about 11 or so, Sharon paddled out in the canoe and gave the signal, and we headed for the dock. My shoulder seemed to hold up well as I swam along, though with such a small field I was well towards the back. The swim seemed to be taking forever, but as I checked my split times, they seemed OK, if the distance was really around a quarter mile. The great thing about this little unofficial race was that it was hard to get too het up about it all. The lake was a pleasant 70 degrees or so, the weeds were only an issue near the shore, and it was nice to be swimming. I checked my watch and it looked as though the dock was in fact about a quarter mile from our starting point. Amazing.

Finally I hauled myself up on the beach like a primeval sea creature making its first tentative flops onto dry land. Carol and Richie were hooting and howling like banshees and Richie had the camera going full bore. The run to transition was the shortest Iıd ever seen - about 25 feet, so it was OK that it took me a while to get my wetsuit off. The bike route consisted of a 1/4 mile paved bike path out to the main road, and then three laps up and down the road, past the park entrance, a quick U-turn, up to the salmon viewing station on the dike above the river, and back again. The road was pretty flat, and on the northbound legs we did get nice views up the valley, where we could see smoke from the various fires billowing into the blue sky. The pavement was smooth, except for the freeze-induced cracks every 30 or 40 feet which rattled my jaw every time I crossed one. Voom, voom, voom, voom, and then guh-DUNK! Voom, voom, voom , voom, guh-DUNK! Urgh. I kept my head down and pedaled, waving to my fellow not-really-racers as we passed each other. '

I was moving at around 18 mph on the road, not quite as fast as Iıd hoped for on such a flat bike course, but fast enough to keep a nice breeze flowing over me. I stayed busy drinking my sports drink and my water, even chugging a gel midway through the course. It was weird out there, pounding away, not able to get in contact with any other riders. I was passed by one guy about halfway through, but I didn't have the gas to go with him. I should probably have noticed that and taken heed.

Finally the three laps were over. I pulled into the "transition area," laid my bike gently on the grass, and grabbed my water bottle belt, as there would be no aid stations out on the trail. My hat, too, to protect me from the sub-arctic sun. I trotted off into the trees. It was a pretty trail, wide and graveled, undulating along the side of the lake and into the birch trees and spruce. Bob had placed mile markers along the trail, and I started checking my watch and looking up the trail for the first one. Hmm, 11 minutes for the first mile. Not so great, but I was still looking to get my running legs back after the bike. Or so I thought. I also thought that even at this pace, I could still get back and break three hours for the jaunt.

As the trail wound along, I found my back stiffening up. Not down in the lower back and hip, where I usually get sore, but right in the middle. I attributed this to my jury-rigged aerobars and the position change they forced on me. I kept having to bend over and stretch my back out, and then I couldnıt get my rhythm going to run. I felt hotter and hotter, and weaker and weaker. I felt like I was running in molasses. The next mile marker took me twelve minutes to reach. This was not encouraging at all, nor was it any fun. I tried chanting one of my recent affirmations: "Iım impervious to pain and heat," but it turned out I was pretty pervious after all. Dave passed me, with a lot of encouragement, about 2 1/2 miles into the run, as we turned along the Chena River and headed into some shade as the trail shifted from loose gravel to packed mud. Here the running was a little easier and the heat was mitigated by the trees, but the mosquitoes made their presence felt pretty quickly. I could hear the whole forest humming and whining, but the Ultrathon stuff kept most of them off me. At least the little buggers made me run a little faster.

At long last the turnaround came, and it was back through the mosquito forest. It didn't look like I was going to make my 3-hour mark, but I thought, well, maybe I can at least beat my 2nd worst Olympic distance time. (My slowest time over this distance was at Wildflower, where steep, nasty hills add a solid 1/2 hour to a race.) I was still suffering, but not so much that I forgot to look for moose in the river. They hang out in the water when itıs hot, cooling their massive bodies. I wanted to do the same. I had forgotten my heart rate monitor on this trip, but I kept checking my pulse and my watch, and it seemed like it was up a lot higher than it should be for a 12 1/2 minute/mile pace. My back was still tight, but mostly I just felt completely spent.

This was super disappointing, since I had trained so hard to be able to run a much greater distance after a much longer bike ride. I couldn't figure out what was wrong, besides the back not working right. And this is kind of a problem - it's hard to generate an easy running rhythm when your core muscles are out of whack. I admit, I spent some time beating myself up for putting on a bunch of weight in the last year. I could feel every pound, multiplied tenfold. I was jogging a couple hundred yards, then walking, stretching, jogging a bit, then walking again. And still my heart rate was up around 165, way too high for that kind of pace. At long last I passed the five-mile marker, and right at a turn in the trail, I saw Carol waving madly. I was gratified by the encouragment, but sort of embarrassed that I had taken so long to get back to the finish that a search party had set off for me. Carol walked and jogged along with me, and even carried my water bottle belt, long since emptied of water. I just couldn't wait for this ordeal to be over. We passed the six mile marker together, and even then I couldn't get motivated to take off and run the last two-tenths of a mile.

I mustered up a bit of a run for the last 100 yards or so, and again, I was both pleased and embarrassed by the enthusiastic cheers I got from the rest of the crew. Dan had drawn a finish line in the dirt, so that gave me something to shoot for. I begged Bad Bob for a Coke and drank it so fast the carbon dioxide threatened to blow me up like a balloon. Then I staggered into the lake, Swimmer's Itch or no Swimmer's Itch. I floated around in ecstasy. I donıt remember ever being so glad that a race was over. It wasnıt that I was feeling the effects of hard work on my muscles and lungs, not like I usually do after a race. I was too feeble to have pushed myself into that state.

It was time to pull myself together, though, as one salmon was already off the grill and the other one was about ready to hit the fire. There were two kinds of potato salad, three kinds of other salad. There were sausages and chips and dip and brownies and cookies and all kinds of delights. But mostly there was a cooler full of iced tea and sodas. Normally I don't even drink iced tea, but I quaffed three of them in about ten minutes. It took a while for me to feel like food was a good idea. More water, more iced tea, an orange soda. It began to dawn on me that perhaps the reason I'd had such a hard time out on the run is that I was a tad dehydrated. As my fluid levels began to rise a little, my brain cells started to work again. I thought I'd been drinking plenty of water and Cytomax before the race, but looking back, I think the excitement of tourism in Fairbanks might have distracted me from hydration.

I had completed a triathlon in Alaska, which was a major goal of the summer, and I had learned a tough lesson. Don't take your drinking for granted. Oh, two tough lessons. Don't do anything to your bike that changes your position the day before a race, even a non-serious, unofficial race. This is a pretty basic lesson, but I just figured I didn't have any option.. Oh, three tough lessons. Mostly, the people nuts enough to do a cancelled triathlon just for "fun" are going to be faster than me. I think looking back that I should have eschewed my aerobars entirely and just stayed in positions on the handlebars that I know are comfortable. I wasn't sure how to feel about the event as a whole. At the time I was sort of disappointed in my performance in a confused way, especially before I figured out I was dehydrated. Now, as I write this, I feel pretty good about the fact that I kept my feet moving forward in spite of my spot of bother on the run, and that I finished the "race."

We hung out by the lake for a couple of hours, eating and drinking and chatting, Carol and Richie blending into the triathlon world like they'd been doing it for years. Finally we headed back to the house to wash off my Swimmerıs Itch and get changed. We had arranged to meet one of the racers at the Coffee Roasting Company to get her a copy of my book, and I felt like coffee would be a Good Thing. Best darn cup of brew ever. Then off for a quick Thai food dinner, and back home again. Carol and Richie were taking the train to Denali in the morning, since they already had tickets. I decided to drive the two hours down there and pick them up at the station. It was time for me to be their staff.

I dropped them off early and planned my departure from town for around 8:30, so that I could catch the start of the 2004 edition of Sadler's Ultra Challenge: the world's longest and most gruelling wheelchair/handcycle race. The Challenge was taking off from Ester, just outside Fairbanks on the road to Denali. The athletes would end up in Anchorage on Friday, covering something like 267 miles by sheer upper-body power and endurance. I was in awe. I also wanted to check out the event because my bud Suzanna Schlosberg had been a volunteer driver for one of these amazing racers a while back at the very same race. She was on a quest to be useful after spending most of her life to date writing articles like "Lose That Stubborn Tummy Flab!" Personally, I think that seems pretty useful, but Suzanne obviously has higher standards. Anyhow, when I got to the Ester turnoff, there were a bunch of guys and a few women milling around in these wild looking low-slung three-wheeled racing machines. Most of them had handcycles, with the considerable benefit of gears for hill climbing, but a few guys had racing wheelchairs ­ so they were going to be hauling themselves up the hills with no mechanical advantage whatsoever. Phew.

I started chatting up a guy with a Sadler's cap. Turns out he was from Sadler's and he was pretty proud of this event. "We have people here from Germany, from Canada, even one from Kazakhstan." I was intrigued. Where I used to hang out in the Siberian Altai is pretty close to some parts of Kazakhstan. When Evgeni came wheeling around, with his semi-battered machine, I greeted him with a hearty "Dobroe utro." We bonded pretty quickly, and he was more forgiving of my rusty Russian than I am. He's a 61-year-old professor of linguistics at Northern Kazakhstan University, which is about 600 miles from where my Kazakhstan friends live. I mentioned that I used to travel around the Altai, and he told me he was born in Barnaul, the jumping off point for all my Altai adventures. We were both going "Whoa, dude! No way!" or the Russian equivalent of that, when the announcer started to get the race under way. "Give me your card, weıll email!" he yelled, wheeling away. "No, give it to Robin, my driver!" But Robin had to leap into her Isuzu Trooper and follow Evgeni. She gave me her video camera to film the start, and I barely got it back to her before they took off. I figured out to give the card and a copy of my book to one of the race staff (I think there were two of them) to pass on to Evgeni at Nenana that night.

It took a while to pass all the racers and their support vans as they headed up a brutally steep climb. I honked and waved, but I didn't expect them to remove a hand from their wheels to wave back. I thought of them every time I went up a hill, all the way to Denali. It was a great drive, vast and mostly empty, with towering clouds making the light dramatic. I looked for moose all along the way, without success. As I got closer to the jagged Alaska Range, the Nenana River started dropping away into a canyon, then a gorge. Going into the mountains through this river gateway was like something out of Lord Of The Rings ­ steep, breathtaking, a little ominous. But pretty soon I came across a rustic mall of gift shops and lodges, so I felt reassured. The train station in the park has to be one of the prettiest stations anywhere outside the Alps, and Carol and Richie arrived in fine style in a big blue and gold train. I tried to help them with their bags and be their staff, but their bags were being ferried straight to their cabins.

You can't drive too far into the park in your private car - the officials are trying to avoid Yellowstone or Yosemite-type traffic - but we went in as far as we could, and wandered along the banks of the Savage River, a swift-running glacier-fed stream. There were delicate wildflowers along the trail, and a couple of white Dall sheep up on the rocky crags. We could tell they were sheep because they were moving. Otherwise we would have thought they were small bits of ice or snow. We looked for "the mountain," Denali itself, but it remained resolutely shrouded in clouds despite a couple of false alarms on our part. And still no moose. But finally, on the way out, we saw a park bus pull over at a turnout. There was a small pond down in the valley, and Carol leapt out and started looking for moose. I parked the car as Carol beckoned eagerly. "Whatıs that over there?" she whispered. "You mean the moose?" I replied in jest. But sure enough, that big brown mass that looked a little like a dead tree? That was a moose. A big bull moose with a huge rack of antlers, just kind of standing there. It was hard to see that it was a moose until it turned broadside to us and displayed a familiar silhouette. Those things are huge. No fooling.

My trip to Alaska was complete. I drove Carol and Richie to their little rustic cabins and headed back north. Passing through Nenana, I thought of the wheelchair racers and Evgeni, and considered stopping in to party with them, but I needed to get back and pack for a 6:30 flight the next day. That's in the morning. That's a 4:30 a.m. alarm. Ouch.

Heading back to the great metropolis, the smoke from a batch of new fires brought visibility down to brown murk. My eyes reacted by coating my contacts with a thick layer of gunk, so that I could hardly see the road in front of me. I had to resort to pinching the side of my nose to make my eyes tear up. Yes, I did have eye drops with me, but they just weren't working. Back in Fairbanks, I stopped by Samıs Sourdough for one last batch of addictive, tangy pancakes, and then I headed up to Cranberry Ridge Road to pack up and say goodbye to Floss and Mike, who had been such personable hosts that I felt like I was staying with Welsh relatives.

I could not believe how tired I was when my alarm went off at 4:30. I hit the snooze button a couple of times, which, in retrospect, I probably shouldn't have done, since when I got to the airport there was a huge line to check in. Most of the passengers were firefighters going back to their home forests. I saw caps and shirts from Idaho, Arizona, California, and Utah. It was taking a scary long time to check everyone in, and with 25 minutes till my flight, I jumped the line and asked the lady at the counter who had just come on board, "Um, my flight's at 6:30 ­ what should I do?" She narrowed her eyes at me just like a diapproving schoolmarm and answered, "Have you thought about missing the flight?" I restrained myself with difficulty from decking her and gave her to understand that I was not going to go into the whys and wherefores, but I was going to get on that flight. She sighed and told me to bring my stuff up to the counter. I felt bad when a couple who had been in front of me in line said, "Hey, weıre on that flight too!" The snooty schoolmarm said, "Well, youıre going to miss it." They claimed to have been in line since 5:15, but she wasn't budging. I donıt think they did make the flight, especially because I heard the guy cussing out the schoolmarm as I dashed for the gate, so I donıt think she was going to help him.

Me, I snuggled into a window seat in an empty row at the front of the plane and enjoyed spectacular views of mountains and glaciers and rivers until I fell peacefully asleep with my head lolling against the window. I dreamed of moose and fresh, perfectly roasted coffee all the way to Seattle. Back to Part One