Evening in the saddle

I was kicked out of the house last night by my girlfriend who was throwing a "no males invited" party. Harsh, I know. But I took advantage of the situation to take my bike for some long moderate miles. I got out of the house shortly after six and decided on a long loop that would be almost entirely on roads (both dirt and pavement). As I started up the first climb the sun was still shining in the western sky but the air was notably cool, almost wintry. On the descent into Goldstream Valley I passed through Fairbanks' inversion. This, for those of you unfamiliar with the phenomenon is when the cool air sinks to the valley bottom and creates a lake of cold stagnant air. Just a few feet above, the temperature can be 10, 15 or even 20 degrees warmer. At speed, on a bike, in the late autumn, hitting that layer of cold air can feel like plunging into cold water.

When I got off the dirt road I'd descended I wandered northward toward the cabin I am about to buy. There was a bit of hill heading up the road in that direction, one I had not really noticed the many times I've cruised down this stretch in my truck or on my motorcycle. It wasn't really difficult, just unexpected, but it did lead me out of the cold air and back into the welcoming moderation of hills. When I arrived at the cabin after my first descent of the rough driveway on my bike, the last of the sunlight was just leaving the surrounding woods and everything had a golden glow. I'd like to say it looked so lovely and idyllic, but really the old log cabin just looked kind of sad. Lonely, maybe. No one has lived there for four or five months and the place and land wants for some human presence. There were no lights on, no music playing, no dogs romping in the yard. The leaves that were still attached to the nearly barren branches looked brown instead of yellow. Lonely, yes, but that will be resolved in the very near future.

After poking around for a bit longer and growing steadily colder, I donned some long underwear under my riding shorts and went out to find the local trail network in the last of the day's light. It was an unsuccessful search. A winter trail departs right from the property but it is much too soggy for riding during the unfrozen months. So I climbed back up the hill and explored around some little used powerline cuts before finding my way back to the main road. I was getting hungry so I pointed my front wheel toward town and spun down the long hill to the bottom of the valley. As I was climbing up the notorious Ballaine Hill it was getting dark and I realized I was wearing black on a busy road. This is not a good combination. Luckily, and for once, I had had the foresight to bring a flashing red light for my camelback and a headlight for the bike. I turned them both on and suddenly felt much safer out on the road.

Road riding is an odd thing, so different from trails and back road paths. I'm not sure what I think about it. I like the speed, the rhythym the continuity but at times I also hate those things.

And I really hate traffic.

After the steep descent back toward town (42 mph according to my GPS) I found my way to the local coffee shop and some much needed sustenance before heading toward home under the now starry skies. Riding in true darkness is not something I've done much of since moving to Alaska. Back in my days as a full-time bike commuter in Olympia, Washington, riding in the dark (and rain) was second nature. But here I've been spoiled by our summer's light and though I hate to admit it, my bike has mostly been relegated to storage during the long winters. Watching my shadow race past me each time I passed beneath a street light brought back a flood of memories of Washington State. I could almost smell Puget Sound in the air.

When I escaped the lights of the main roads I entered the tunnel. The tunnel where everything but where the headlight beam falls is dark. There is no real sense of motion, just the cracks in the pavement passing quickly through the window of light, and the occasional brush on the shoulder that swings vaguely into vision through the milky haze. I looked mostly down, following the white line and watching my knees pump up and down, the knobby tire spinning a blur and my gloved hands working the gears. Riding in such conditions is a nearly dreamlike state, sometimes it can be addicting, others, like last night, it just made me want to get home. So I stepped down a little harder and I went.

23 September
Running: 3 miles
Biking: 24.5 miles

September Totals
On Foot: 59 miles
By Bike: 113 miles