Sidewalk Singletrack

Reminisces, words by Lael Wilcox.  This story was originally written for the Dirt Rag Literature Contest.

Under the dull orange glow of sodium lights the urban snowscape is flat and calm. In the dark season, only the clock indicates morning. I feather the brakes all the way down the neighborhood hill– the kind of hill a four year old learns to ride a bike on. It’s January and I’ve been doing this for a month. A fresh layer of snow covers slick ice. Focused, I anticipate falling. I’ve already taken a couple of spills this year as my back tire loses traction and slides out, or I turn too quickly or a pile of snow redirects my front tire. Just around the corner from the house, I’m already five minutes late. Subtle brake control is beyond the ability of my mittened claw hands, but this time I come to a stop at the bottom of the hill before turning left. Made it.

Exiting the neighborhood, I pedal toward a narrow gap in the fence, a natural corridor created by alternating snowfall and pedestrian use. Fresh snow blankets a month of frozen accumulation, and my daily passage ensures that this path remains rideable. On four-inch tires I can casually ride through some fresh snow, but six heavy inches are hard to ride. Fortunately, the walkers travel no matter how much it snows and some boots have shuffled through already. I nose my tire over loose piles and try to stay afloat. In these conditions the hazards of falling are laughable– the entire world is padded– although a faceful of snow isn’t welcome at 7 AM. The front tire washes, the rear tires spins and I punch a boot through the adjacent bank to remain upright. Today, more pedestrians and cyclists will groom this route and by dinner is will be a perfectly rideable single-track. Connecting the sleepy neighborhood to Midtown Anchorage, this is my portal between worlds. Still straddling the toptube, I shuffle the bike through to the other side.

I cross the boulevard and ride onto the sidewalk, the zone for misfits. Each passing windshield provides a glimpse of the driver. Those whose windows are still painted with frost, except for the requisite peephole, are like me– always late. Fully defrosted windows with operable wipers signal a prudent character, a complete breakfast, and some kind of fantastic job, most likely. I’m a math tutor and I pounded some dry wheat toast on my way out the door. A herd of traffic ambles past, each driver cradling a steaming cup of coffee, and each vehicle sharing its voice. Conservative talk radio wanders out of a rusty Ford; somewhere, Gotye is on repeat and Adele is “Rolling in the Deep” really early in the morning. Some of them check me out as we wait at the stoplight. People in cars feel entitled to stare. If you meet their gaze, they abruptly look ahead and pretend like you don’t exist. This is a really long light and we ignore each other for another two minutes. The signal turns green.

The crosswalk is a mess. I loft the front wheel over and over; every lane of traffic that I cross features a pair of icy ruts, like a giant washboard, and the orange display flashes “Don’t Walk” even before I start. Riding on a tightrope, my right knee draws outward to compensate for momentary imbalance. Looking back across six lanes, I lift my bike over an encrusted berm and am back onto the sidewalk– misfit but safe.

Every road loses a lane in the winter. Snow and ice obscure traffic paint and four lanes are reduced to three, three to two, two to one, and narrow roads nearly become tunnels. Drivers closely follow each other’s rutted tracks, afraid to change lanes. Winter lasts for six months and people have places to be every day. They don’t slow down for the weather and the city doesn’t do much to make the roads safe, even in a winter of record snowfall. Everyone has studded tires, if not also a big truck. With an average speed of 5 mph, I can’t expect to ride with this crowd in these conditions. Winter in Anchorage is the only place I routinely ride the sidewalk.

For several blocks I lay down first tracks on the sidewalk, running against traffic on Benson Boulevard. Secret shortcuts across boot-packed singletrack and empty parking lots speed up the trip. I bump across the lawn of a giant oil company on a path that leads over a snow pile and drops me into a plowed parking lot. A well-worn trail passes the busy exit of the McDonald’s drive-thru window as moose feed on the trees outside the restaurant– just passing-thru like the rest of us. In winter, Anchorage becomes a maze and commuting is a game of connecting the dots, requiring deliberate route planning based upon changing conditions. Every morning, I dial 844 for automated local weather conditions before leaving home. Every morning is different.

Past the public library, I turn onto the C Street sidewalk. Several years ago the city put up signs to indicate a bicycle route. This morning it is a frozen sculpture of a dried-out creek bed, strewn with the jetsom and flotsam of a recently plowed roadway. I scan for tire prints hoping to piggy-back another rider’s route, but there aren’t any. The walkway is peppered with frozen cobbles and boulders and even as I try to pick a rideable path, a firm-looking mound melts under my weight. Guessing my way through, I give some gas and hope. The front tire pushes through like a sled. I lean back and weight the rear tire, but it still spins. I put a foot down.

Alongside the ironic white snow bike I unscrew plastic valve caps and dab the stem with my mitten. Even in the cold air, the tube’s exhalations smell like canned tuna. The tire sidewalls nearly fold over themselves with my weight. I tighten my core and propel the bike forward, grinding until I pick up speed. It works! I roll up to the next red light, grinning. This three mile stretch, a signed bicycle route, is stunted with seven major lights. Even so, I’m getting somewhere, and I have somewhere to be.

Unzipping several inches of my parka, moist air steams in front of my frozen face and a trickle of sweat runs down my spine. I pull my Buff up to my eyes and suck frozen air through its fibers. Within several minutes, each inhalation is joined by water, condensation formed as my breath meets the cold air. Soon, the wool is frozen and a white beard grows around my face– the Buff holds its shape. If I was planning to be out much longer I’d be more careful not to sweat so much, but mittened children march along on sidewalks, which means I’m close.

Other teachers are running the short distance from their cars to the school doors like desperate urbanites in a rainstorm with newpapers over their head. Casually rolling my bike into the school, warm with energy, I smile at them. The bell rings and millions of squeaky boots storm the hallways for another day of cat and mouse. It is my job to be a diligent math cat to dozens of remedial math mice.

At the last bell of the day, the streets are dark once again. I zip into my fur-lined sledding boots and knee-length parka, pull the Buff over my head, buckle my snowboarding helmet and decorate the ensemble with a reflective construction vest. I mop up the puddle of water under my bike and roll out the door, emerging on the streets like a neon hobo power ranger. Riding out of the parking lot, a teacher rolls down his window and asks if I am training for that big race that they do with these bikes. No, I’m just riding home I tell him. I have somewhere to be. 

A year ago, Lael and I were riding through a winter of record snowfall in Anchorage, AK on our Pugsleys.  The title to this story was inspired by this post, and our daily travels through the organic urban snowscape.

 

Lael’s globe of adventure

She carries a globe of adventure and has taught me more than anyone how to let go, give up, and go!  She’s the one that gives away clothing and books like she never cared about them; and in a moment, they’re of so little importance that they never existed.  It’s smart not to clutter your mind with such trivialities.  She likes strong simple bikes that don’t fuss, and she rides them.  She rides more than you or any of your friends, and wore out both of the rims on her Surly Long Haul Trucker this past year.  She rebuilt her front wheel just as the old Rhyno Lite rim bulged outward with 45 psi.

She’s the same age as I, for a month.  Yesterday was her birthday and I remembered on the 17th, forgot on the 18th, and remembered in the middle of the night– technically, it was the 19th already and I was sleeping by a river without internet or a way to connect with Corsica.  I presume she’s cycling and hiking along Corsica’s mountainous spine, or lazing along it’s azure coastline and having a good time of it.

She will drink more water than any other human and will pee on every road shoulder– on top of Boreas Pass, on the Knik Glacier, or in a snowbank on the Coastal Trail.  When the weather gets bad, she burrows deeper in a sleeping bag leaving me to sweat the details that don’t need sweating.  She never gets tired or sore on the bike and she never rides beyond her limits.  If you don’t call it “mountain biking” she loves it, and riding to work through six inches of snow at 7 AM is just another day.  And then she rides home, and runs to yoga in six inches of snow, and runs home from there.  And with nothing to prove she will out-run, out-ride and outlive most of us.  That’s Lael.

Happy birthday!  See you in a month for the Colorado Trail.

Kick, kick, and the Colorado Trail.  Below is Lael’s second day of “mountain biking” on the Monarch Crest Trail, a diversion from the dirt roads of the Great Divide Route.

Consider this a virtual birthday party by leaving a comment celebrating Lael and wishing her a happy birthday, even if you don’t know her in person.  In a month, we’ll be lucky to see photos of Lael riding her bike above treeline on the Colorado Trail.  In a month, I’ll be lucky to be riding with her.  Here’s to another year of acting like kids and riding bikes.

Globes of adventure, like “globes of boredom” from John Steinbeck’s Log From the Sea of Cortez.

Having my cake with the Pugsley

I’m a long way from Alaska, a long way from dry-cracked knuckles working at The Bicycle Shop, a long way from riding amidst the cavernous iceforms of the Knik Glacier or the rutted singletrack of icy Anchorage sidewalks.  And finally, it’s not so far to Missoula.  I’ve got my sights set on a new Marge Lite rim to lighten my rear wheel and some Surly Larry tires– they’ll be waiting in Missoula and I’ll be riding a full-fat setup for the rest of the summer.  It’s been over seven months since I first acquired the purple Surly Pugsley in Seattle and I never imagined it would have taken me here.  I needed a “snow bike” at the time.  I needed something that would take me places in January at 61 deg N latitude and 13 deg below zero.  Now I’m riding it though four seasons, through climate and time zones and across continents.  I’m starting to think it’s not just a snow bike.

Having purchased the bike used, much has been repaired or replaced.  I’ve also optimized the ride to my unique needs with the switch to drop bars and Ergon grips, with the Shimano dynamo hub and a mix of Supernova and B&M lighting, and with the 2.35″ (60mm) Schwalbe Big Apple tires.  As a result, the bike has been almost perfectly free of maintenance save for a new chain in Whitehorse, some chain cleaning and lubication and an occasional turn of the dial on the Avid BB7 brakes.  Since leaving Anchorage over six weeks and 3000 miles ago, I’ve only put air in my tires twice and once was to account for having relieved pressure on the Dawson Overland Trail.  Bigger tires just don’t require as much care, as I recall checking tire pressure almost every day to avoid pinch flats while riding 700c x 28mm tires.  It’s been several years since I’ve bothered with such things as 28mm tires.  I’ve managed not to pick up any flats so far, which is credit to larger tire volumes at lower pressures and Schwalbe construction.  Perhaps, I’m just lucky.  In addition to large volume Schwalbe tires, I recommend luck.

Here’s where I’ve been with the Pugsley (most links lead to old posts about how I got here, and life with the Pugsley):

After buying the bike used last December in Seattle I spent three days riding around the city, then back to Tacoma via ferry and Vashon Island.  An overnight trip the following night out to Kopachuck State Park with Alex’s 1989 Trek 520 and Josh’s 1983 Univega Gran Turismo assured me that this beastly thing could roll.  With legs fresh from the Divide I had a small advantage, but the Endomorph tires rolled well and I waited atop hills for my friends.

I flew to Anchorage in early December, assembled the bike at the airport and rode to my new home over icy roads at night.  On the first significant snowfall since my arrival, I slipped around in 8-10 inches of new snow at 7AM, making fresh tracks.  I was learning a lot about the importance of tire pressure and ultimately, the limitations of fatbikes.  I was quickly wishing for wider and wider rims and tires in these conditions, and a snowy month had me convinced that wider rims were nearly necessary for winter riding.  An almost record cold January convinced me otherwise.  Clear skies and hardpacked conditions made for fast riding and floatation was never again a serious problem on 65mm rims.

While searching local groomed multi-use trails, I discovered winter singletrack.  It had been there all along, and others were riding it as seen by multiplicitous tire tracks. What great fun!.  Lael and I rode singletrack almost every night for a full week.  Late February and early March were a great time for us and we’d never ridden so much in a non-touring setting.  We were riding a mile to the multi-use trail, four more miles to the singletrack, and then a 10 mile loop before headed back home.  We would often race home just as the warmth was running out of our hands and toes.    The Campbell Tract is known as the coldest place in Anchorage, and we put in more than a few rides at ten below.

I caught up on repairs: a new FSA ISIS bottom bracket replaced a crunchy Truvativ; the rear XT hub got a new cone, bearings and grease; T9 (as a rust retardant inside the frame) and lube on all major moving parts, lots of deep cleaning and new cables and housing really perked things up.  I also opted for a wider bar with a little more sweep.  The Salsa Bend 2 bar gave a lot of control in challenging conditions, but was almost always comfortable.  The 17 deg bend was nice, but I’d have liked a little more.  A Surly Nate tire improved my traction in urban winter conditions, especially compared to a worn Endomorph.  The Nate dug deeper into snow, bit harder into crusty ice, and prevented much of the sideways slipping that the Endomorph was prone to.  On busy rutted icy streets, the Nate was essential.  Those of us that commute on fat tires are calling for a studded fat tire, while those that only ride the trails for fun don’t seem to understand the need for studded fat tires.  On some days, you needs studs and floatation.

Enough of the city life!  I decide that working at a bike shop isn’t quite as great as riding bikes.  While tossing around the idea of a fatbike trip across Europe, I eventually decide to ride south toward some unfinished business.  A year ago in Colorado, I had my eye on the Colorado Trail, Kokopelli Trail, southern UT routes, and the Arizona Trail.  Instead, I continued south on the Great Divide Route, pushing over Indiana Pass in late October.  This year, I return to Colorado to pursue the other route.  A bike more capable than my trusty Schwinn High Sierra would be necessary, or at least I would need to fit 2.1-2.3″ tires.  With the Surly Pugsley at hand, I didn’t have to reach far to make my decision.  As well, the High Sierra was in Tacoma with a friend that was in need of a bike so I didn’t really have anything that was ready for an extended tour.   Excitement and trepidation fueled several mad concoctions of 29″ wheels, lighter-weight Marge Lite rims, and half-fat setups.  My “problem” was that I wanted the bike to excel on pavement, on dirt roads, and on rugged mountain singletrack.  Finally, the simplest solution arose.  On 65mm rims with 2.3-2.5″ tires, the bike would handle paved and dirt roads well.  With fat tires, I would enjoy dirt roads and more rugged singletrack trails.  A second 29″ wheelset was not necessary, and the bike wouldn’t be a burden on long paved stretches.  The Pugsley is much more than a snow bike.

For the last six weeks I’ve had intimate experiences with the Pugsley, from Anchorage to Banff, in a variety of conditions.  Much of the my route has been on paved or sealed gravel roads, but almost 600 miles have been on dirt roads and trails.  I’ve ridden six days over a hundred miles each; I pedaled and carried the bike through beaver ponds and streams on the Dawson Overland Trail; and have ridden up and over mountain passes in places such as Denali National Park, on the Top of the World Highway, and along the Icefields Parkway in Jasper and Banff National Parks.  There are some compromises to having a bike that can ride through an Anchorage winter and on every conceivable road or trail surface (such as heavy wheels, but the Marge Lite is a huge improvement), but when the will is present, the bike can push well over a hundred paved miles too.  When asked how the bike is “for touring”, as if touring is a singular activity, I smile and say “quite good”.  The Pugsley is not just a snow bike but it’s also not your average touring bike.  It’s been great and is a touring bike of the broadest definition for everywhere, and eveything– I’m having and eating my cake simultaneously.

A brief history of the phrase “have one’s cake and eat it too” is enlightening.  The list of similar expressions in other languages is priceless; my favorite is nadar y guardar la ropa - swimming and keeping an eye on the removed clothes.  WIthout further context, I fail to understand the Persian expression “to have donkey and God as well”.

Roadside aurora

The day barely dims to night up north this time of year, so the aurora borealis aren’t in play, but color flares abound on the roadsides in every direction.  The above image is darkened  by wildfires over the Dempster Highway near Dawson.  Incidentally, I’ve ridden from Dawson City to Whitehorse on a section of paved road called the Klondike Highway.  The exception–  for the final two days into Whitehorse I’ve found some of the mythical Trans-Canada Trail, which doubles as the Yukon Quest 1000 Trail (like the Iditarod).  To see what a snowmobile trail looks like in the Yukon in summer, come back tomorrow for the swampy, muddy mess.  Beavers really are industrious creatures, and they’ll have nothing to do with a trail in their backyard.  Rather than petition local governments, they flood the thing.

Most of these images come from the Yukon, while a few are remnant memories from my Alaskan adventures.  Persistent headwinds and sunshine have been challenging, namely in definition.  How does one describe a day of riding into stiff headwinds, interspersed with suntanning, swimming and picnicking.  Beautiful day, eh?  Fucking headwinds.

There are worse things to be doing for eight hours a day, and the winds keep the bugs off, mostly.  And from twenty feet away, a lynx stealthily ambles though my camp.

A dedicated list of cycletouring links will reside permanently at the bottom of the page.  I’ve populated it with some of the obvious resources for now, but feel free to suggest additions as you find them, or as I’ve forgotten them.  These could include resources on camping and hosting, routes and maps, bikes and equipment, rideshare boards and transportation resources, and helpful forums.

The bus

When a motor vehicle dies in Alaska, it does’t go anywhere– there are old trucks and buses scattered all over this land.  This Ford school bus is situated just a mile from the Nabesna Road on the Tok Cutoff (Glenn Hwy) behind the Midway Grocery in Slana, AK.  Jay and Debbie Capps welcome cyclists by the dozen every season, allowing them to camp on their property or spend a night in “the bus”.  Power and propane are luxuries to a touring cyclist; a cassette player, a dinner table and a drip-coffee maker are divine.  With a selection of groceries nearby and a propane stove, creative home-cooked meals are possible and I finally sampled a can of corned beef hash that I’ve been seeing in rural groceries for four years.  Augmented with lentils and curry, it was a treat.  I stayed in the bus the night before my Nabesna adventures and again on the night following.  I drank a lot of coffee; read John Steinbeck’s account “About Ed Rickett’s” who was the real life ”Doc” from Cannery Row; and got lost in Neil Young’s Harvest on a worn cassette tape.  I think Neil was a road guy like us.

“Think I’ll pack it in and buy a pick-up
Take it down to LA
Find a place to call my own and try to fix up
Start a brand new day

The woman I’m thinking of, she loved me all up
But I’m so down today
She’s so fine, she’s in my mind
I hear her calling’”

“Out on the Weekend”, Neil Young, Harvest, 1972

The aura of goodwill and kindness extends to the handwritten notes on the walls:

And assorted memorabilia from past bike trips:

Be sure to stop in Slana at the Midway Grocery.  Our welcoming hosts, Jay and Debbie:

The forgotten Nabesna Road

Visitors to Wrangell-St. Elias National Park typically visit from the south entrance, which is a 60 mile dirt road ending in the revitalized town of McCarthy and the expansive copper mine in Kennecott.  By most reports, it’s an “adventurous drive” as it is probably as long any most people have driven on dirt in a long time, if ever.  ”Check locally about road condition” say all the guidebooks.  I’m sure it’s fine, but be sure to tighten the straps on the canoe on top of your RV and the bikes on the back.  I’d have visited if I had been passing the south entrance, but the flow of tourists deterred me from going out of my way.  I recall visiting Talkeetna for the first time, which is often described as “quaint” and a “town”.  Although people do live in the area, it’s a well-disguised tourist town with unique eateries and gift shops, but it’s not a real example of Alaska.  I suppose this is the Alaska that they want.  It’s also the Jackson, Breckenridge, and Key West that they want as well.  I’d still like to go to McCarthy and Kennecott.

From the town of Slana on the Tok Cutoff of the Glenn Highway, the Nabesna Road pierces the park from the north.  The settlement of Nabesna, which is no more than a few private lodges and an airstrip, is located forty-two miles down the road.  The Nabesna and Rambler gold mines are a short distance away.  See my post about the Nabesna Gold Mine.  The road is mostly dirt and quite passable in most conditions.  Only after a rainy week or during the spring melt is travel restricted, although four wheel drive vehicles can almost always pass.  Several stream crossings near mile 30 were as much as a foot and a half deep as I found them, and I was easily able to ford with my bicycle.  I’ve heard about these streams from many miles away when asking about the road.  It’s amusing to encounter a relative trickle.   The first eleven miles of road are sealed; after that, the road is generally well-graded dirt while some spots appear to become a little muddy after a good rain.  Until the three stream crossings near mile thirty, the road is like most dirt roads– passable, but a little bumpy at times.  By bicycle, the road is thus far accessible with almost any bike, although a 32mm tire or larger is encouraged.  A typical touring, hybrid or cross type bike will do, while proper mountain bikes are well suited.  In dry summer conditions, it sounds as if the streams may almost completely dry up and make travel to Nabesna possible in any two-wheel drive vehicle.  On a bicycle, you may get your feet wet.  The remaining ten miles to Nabesna become more scenic as you enter into the mountains, although you lose elevation into Nabesna, with a few short climbs.  Several sections of the road cross stream beds of gravel and cobbles, but were ridable on a larger tire.

To start, eleven miles of sealed roads through boreal forests are following by graded dirt roads.  A few signs of a muddy spring are present, but mostly the road was fast and dry.

The road is largely unregulated, at least in the way you might expect in a National Park and Preserve.  There are many turnouts for camping, including several waysides with pit toilets.  Several campgrounds along the way offer multiple sites although none were in use, owing to the low traffic volumes on the road.  At mile 29, the Sportsman’s Paradise Lodge operates a bar with wireless internet, and has potable water.  I’m not really sure if they do much business; they’re still flying the Palin flag with pride.  When I stopped, Copper River salmon were being prepared –a few hours to dry in the sun followed by a full day in the smoker.  A handful of rocks and a watchperson stands guard against camp robbers– the persistent gray jays.

After the stream crossings, the final few miles to Nabesna become a little more rugged, and scenic:

Nabesna is a really only an airstrip with a a few homes and small planes.  The Ellis’ Lodge has been in operation for over 40 years, long before the park’s inception in 1980.  The road officially ends here, while several miles of unmaintained road take you to the Nabesna and Rambler Gold Mines.  Either by foot or by bicycle, they are worth a visit.

The Rambler Mine is up a 0.7 mile trail that gains about 700 ft of elevation; the trail begins about a mile past the Nabesna airstrip.  A hike to a secondary mine shaft ascends another 700 ft (approx.) to superlative views of the Nabesna River and the surrounding ranges.  Regarding sites of historical interest, both mines are quite raw without printed history on display.  This is real discovery.

For out of town visitors, a good way to make a day trip to the mines would be to leave a car at the first stream crossing and ride the remaining ten or twelve miles to Nabesna– this is the most scenic part of the road anyhow.  For cycletourists, ask at the Midway Grocery for a place to spend the night before or after riding the road.  Located about a mile east of the Nabesna Road on the Glenn Highway they offer an old school bus, refit to accommodate several people and have ample space for tent camping.  Jay and Debbie are inspiring people, and the bus is wallpapered with warm thanks from travelers.  Their grocery is well-stocked and is the best place to pick up supplies between Glennallen and Tok.  A NPS office is located about a quarter mile down the Nabesna Road.

Nabesna Gold Mine

The color and geometry and antiquity enamored me.  Located on a small tract of private land within Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, the Nabesna Gold Mine is a charicature of frontier industry.  It would never have been recreated this well by historians and set-artists, but the contrast of order and chaos is exactly what it would look like if it had been.  A 42-mile dirt road penetrates the park from the north to the settlement of Nabesna.  There, a muddy two-track takes you the additional four miles to the gold mine at the end of the road, which was abandoned back in 1945.  I tip-toed and shutter-clicked around the decaying structure, careful not to awake any ghosts or critters.  I put one foot forward with half my weight, testing floorboards and stairs and ladder rungs.  And when I was done I walked briskly back to my bike, stopping for a few extra clicks of crusted ferric sediments, a broken window and the orderly disorder of rusting barrels.  The circus left town on this place; I left just as quickly,

One of only two roads into the largest national park in the United States, the Nabesna Road is under-visited, largely due to the rough dirt road and multiple stream crossings which thwart most two-wheel drive cars and larger RV’s when the waters run high.  Additonally, there are no tourist facilities at the end of the road, such as in McCarthy.  By bicycle, the road is quite rideable but offers enough challenges to come home hungry at the day’s end.  There is another small gold mine near the end of the road only a short hike away.  See my post on biking the Nabesna Road.

The latter third (of the Denali Highway)

Another edition of racing from rainclouds:

I’ve posted about the nature of the Denali Highway, which is a more typical American playground that the highly regulated Denali Park Road. On the Denali Highway, feel free to roar around on an ATV, shoot a gun, burn your beer cans in a campfire and generally, excercise your liberties. The first portion of the road passes through the drainages of the Nenana (Tenana, Yukon) and Susitna Rivers. Crossing the Maclaren River begins a climb up to the second highest motorable pass in the state. Maclaren Pass, at 4086 ft is the gateway to a tangle of kettle lakes and classic glacial terrane–U-shaped valleys, eskers, glacial erratics, and palsas are omnipresent. In the current climate, alpine glaciers are tucked back in the valleys, pouring milky meltwater downslope into ever-larger channels and finally into the Yukon, Susitna and Copper Rivers. Spring has finally arrived at 4000 ft and is progressing at a rapid pace. However, summer will have to hurry to find a few weeks before fall arrives in late August.

My purple rando-monster, as I call it, continues to prove itself as a viable hybrid. The French word “randonee” refers to any sort of overland (or water) travel, as we might use the work “trek”. Modern American connotations suggest randonee to be the kind of spirited riding associated with brevets. This bike is capable of spirited riding with the appropriate motor and fuel, which I supply. But, it is a monstrous vehicle capable of real overland travel, especially when fat tires come back into the picture. I’m thinking that MIssoula will be a good place to make the switch. I’d estimate that my operating pressures are between 15-25 psi for most riding. I’m not obsessing about it and probably tend towards lower pressures, as I often do. Last summer on the Divide, I remarked that Greg’s tires seemed really hard. We measured his pressure at about 50 psi on 2.25 Schwalbe XR tires; my 1.75 Schwalbe Marathons were at 20 and 25 psi (front and rear). Without monstrous loads I can operate at lower pressures, floating over gravel and washboard. Lael says, it’s like riding a gel pen.

The Revelate bags are working out nicely and fulfill my desire to tour rack-free, or rack-lite in this case. The frame bag is designed for the current medium Pugsley and isn’t perfectly mated to my frame, but it’s all Eric had available in his shop in Anchorage. Boxes full of top-notch bikepacking kit were awaiting shipment to QBP, where they are undoubtedly already spoken for by shops all over the country. No matter– the misfit bag still holds food, clothing, a tube, and a tangle of electronic cables and chargers. Without the laptop, camera, external hard drive and associated cables I now carry, I’d be able to remove either the framebag or the Carradice saddlebag. The smaller pocket on the other side of the frame bag holds my toothbrush and toothpaste, along with some zip ties and a steel spoon. Between spooning peanut butter and toothbrushing, this is the most used compartment on my bike.

In the uplands between Maclaren Pass and the Tangle Lakes Inn are multiple opportunities for trail-riding. Most are multi-use ATV/bike/ hike routes, but would seem to be ridable in drier conditions.

The eastern section (42 miles) of the highway climbs and descends several times before meeting the Richardson Highway in Paxson, which isn’t much of a town. Actually, Paxson is mostly a crossroads with a dilapidated roadhouse that manages a little business, despite appearances. The Tangle Lakes Inn (about mile 20) is a hospitable place and has a bar and restaurant that is a popular local spot for fishermen. The eastern twenty miles of road are paved. Amidst a rainstorm, I encountered the most beautiful roadkill; I prepared a gravelly grave aside a lupine. Glacial topography abounds.

Better weather and breathtaking scenery encouraged some fast riding. Dodging rainstorms from multiple angles continues to be my game, and encourages even faster riding. I remain relatively dry.

Racing away from rainclouds, my reward comes in the form of a thirty mile-an-hour descent into more promising skies.

Maclaren River Lodge

Alaskan hospitality can be hit or miss, but the folks alongside the Maclaren River are wonderful and a ride down the Denali Highway should at least include a slice of pie and a coffee.  On a clear day the dining room has views of the Maclaren Glacier about a dozen miles upriver, and a BLM mountain bike trailhead marked “Maclaren River Road” will take you to the terminus of the glacier.  Unfortunately, a river crossing four miles down the road was impassable after several days of rain.  On the other side of the river, the trail continues another eight miles.  Glutenous, homemade country bread is just like grandma used to make and an entire loaf only set me back $7.  I tried eating it with drops of honey alongside the road, but it’s so good that it’s best enjoyed on it’s own.  It’s a real fine food source in a land of understocked grocery stores and dusty Hormel cans.

A nagging cold and a persistent rain led me to take a day off the bike to enjoy bottomless coffee and internet.  Somehow, four homestyle meals and an equal number of hot showers along with a day-long coffee fix only cost $40.  The Maclaren River Lodge has a reputation for being kind to cyclists, but the experience outweighed both the modest price and the reputation.

Alan and Susie spend the winter here and use snow machines to transport goods to the lodge, which remains open to winter enthusiasts even though the road is closed.  Yes, it’s cold here in the winter.  Yes, they get a lot of snow.  And yes, it’s dark.  ”But it’s worth it”, they say.

Boy Scout bicycling merit badge

I encountered a group of eleven young cyclists and several leaders on a semi-self-supported tour of the Denali Highway, which is almost entirely dirt road.  They carried their own tools and clothing for the day; at night they camped and cooked and told ghost stories.  The group from Cordova has done rafting trips and hiking trips and at least one other cycling trip, which sounds like an active troop.  The three riders in the back were the oldest, and carried tools in the event of a mechanical that one of the younger riders couldn’t handle.  Apparently, there is an official Boy Scout merit badge for bicycling and bicycle maintenance which they were unable to show me as it was sewn to their uniforms at home.  While I was whittling balsa wood cars and wind-up “rockets”, I could have been riding a bike?  I never made it past cub scout status.

Their plan was to ride three twenty-five mile days, and then one big fifty-miler on the final day which will take them the complete length of the 135-mile Denali Highway.  I met them as they had just descended from Maclaren Pass at 4086 ft, which put smiles to their faces.  I laid my bike down on the gravel shoulder and one rider remarked, “I’m surprised a bike like that doesn’t have a kickstand?”.  For what it weighs, I am too.  As I pedaled away, they wished me luck for the big climb ahead.  Thanks guys.  Merit badge: earned.

 

If only I had something like that to show for all my pedaling.