My review of Danny Sokol's and Ioannis Lianos' new collection is up, as is a draft of a piece co-written with Danny Heidtke attempting to fit my theory of behavioral exploitation antitrust into a scheme for regulating the consumer subprime mortgage market. Comments -- in particular on the latter, which has yet to be submitted -- would be most welcome.
The hard part of the summer's work is nowhere near over, but I'm still going to celebrate. Off today to Alaska for the Solstice 600K. Here's a (lengthy) recap of this same ride from 2009, an edited version of which came out in the American Randonneur magazine that year. Apologies for taking all of your screen space with this one.
The Alaska 600K
My brother got me into this esoteric sport called “randonneuring.” It’s European, which is no surprise, because the sport lacks any traditional indicia of something an American would enjoy. There is no glory, there is no media coverage, there are no winners and no finisher medals. And, even if done fast, it takes a really, really long time, which is to say, it’s hard to squeeze in between your morning latte and the afternoon matinee. This is the story of the Alaska 600 kilometer “brevet” (French for “brief ride”) which I rode June 27-28, 2009, with my brother S and a small cadre of others too crazy to stay home.
S and I grew up in Alaska. We went there to visit home, to cycle through the long daylight hours, and to travel roads through the interior of the state that we had ignored when we were younger. Alaska never disappoints. People commonly say to me, “Alaska must be beautiful.” Well, so too are all the places I have lived and ridden. No geographic locale has a monopoly on beauty. But Alaska is truly unique in one way. Alaskan scenery is grand. The mountains, lakes, icefields – everything there is outsized.
I was not highly confident. Since I first rode a brevet in 2007, longer distances have presented me a substantial hurdle. I rationalized that even if I quit at the second turn, it would be my strongest ever ride. (S had not either finished a 600 kilometer brevet before, despite, in the past three years, finishing several longer rides with extremely fast times. I suggested an approach certain to guarantee his success: he should plan to ride twice around the loop for 1200 kilometers total, which we knew he could do, and I would throw a rock at him half-way.)
The route was uncomplicated. It used to be said that Alaska, with more acreage than California, Texas and Montana combined, has fewer miles of paved road than does Rhode Island. A cue sheet – which is handed out to riders so they know where to turn, not unlike a scavenger hunt without the riddles – might reasonably say simply, “start going north and stay on the pavement.” Cue sheets for rides in the east commonly require two pages for 200 kilometers. This sheet had six cues in total. That makes the route sound more complicated than it was. In fact, there are two turns on the Alaska 600. You ride Highway 4 north, you take a right on Highway 2, and you take a second right on Highway 1. It was this characteristic that gave me most of my meager confidence. I knew I could finish the first leg to Delta Junction. After some solid food, I thought the second, mostly flat, stretch to Tok was possible. At that latitude I could be assured of sufficient light. Because of the remoteness, quitting short of Tok was not a realistic option. I would decide then whether to make the second turn to the final leg, or not.
The Richardson Highway runs from Valdez to Fairbanks, and the ride picks it up around Mile 130 at Gakona Junction. For much of the 138 miles to Delta Junction, where it meets the Alaska Highway, the Richardson parallels the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. The first half of that leg follows the Gulkana River, winding through forests of climate-stunted black spruce; perma-frost bogs where moose stand on long legs to feed without fear of predators; countless lakes and streams; and meadows of lupine. Though we were riding toward the most impressive mountain range in North America, many of the views were obscured by the low clouds and cold drizzle. We saw 4 cars between starting and our first stop at 56 miles in at the Paxson Lake “control” (where you check in to prove you are actually riding).
After 75 miles the Richardson encounters the Alaska Range, where the mighty heft of the Wrangell Mountains pours westward toward Denali Park, Mt. McKinley, and ultimately on to the Alaska Peninsula and Aleutian archipeligo. Highway 4 crosses the range through Isabel Pass. Although the Alaska Range dwarfs competitors in Utah, Colorado and California, the mountains rise from close to sea level. Our highest point on the ride was about 3200 feet, total elevation gain a trivial 13,000 feet, and no climb involved more than about 500 feet of elevation gain. Through Isabel Pass the road follows the east side of Summit Lake, then joins the Delta River heading north. We met a cold wind blowing off of the Black Rapids and Gulkana Glaciers. All around the mountains – including such famous mountaineering challenges as Deborah and Hayes – rise with their magnificent white mantle of snow and the burdens of countless unnamed icefields draped over their shoulders or across their laps. At about this time, for a wonderful 20-mile stretch, the clouds lifted and the road surface dried.
On the descent from Isabel Pass, the wind stirred up by the mountains hit us with its full force. We struggled to make 12 miles per hour pedaling hard down a 2 percent grade. We were riding with Buzz, a cyclist from Anchorage, who rode strongly into that headwind and soon was out of sight. (We did have another cyclist sharing the road. At about Mile 80 we encountered a child, maybe 14 years old, riding alone on a poorly tuned mountain bike into that staunch wind. He said he had left Glenallen early that morning. If true, he had traveled 16 miles further than had we, and he was heading to Delta Junction. He appeared to carry no water and no supplies, and he had no concern that he would complete his planned 155-mile Odyssey safely.)
The wind let up and we enjoyed some warmer and dryer weather over some short climbs. During this stretch Andy, a recumbent cyclist also doing the ride, passed us on a long straight-away through Fort Greely, an Army Base-cum-missile site. We arrived in Delta Junction at about 4:30 and checked in with Kevin, the RBA -- “Regional Brevet Administrator.” One rider’s partner was also there offering hot chicken broth. We joined Buzz for lentils and fries at a Greek restaurant, and I was also happy to get a strong signal on the cell phone to call P. We finally departed Delta Junction to the southeast following the sign reading “Tok” and “Canada.”
For the first 30 miles, the Alaska Highway between Delta Junction and Tok is perfectly, unceasingly, straight. It crosses minor rolling hills, but never gives way to the right or to the left. We rode with Buzz in a drizzle, settling into the quiet as the late afternoon turned to evening and the light traffic evaporated. For miles on end I recall no thoughts but counting pedal-strokes and remembering to take scoops of crushed Fritos from my bento-box. Buzz flatted once here, one of only two flats for the group on the entire ride. After 61 miles we reached the Dot Lake control, where Kevin and a few others waited. One supporter once again had just what the doctor ordered – freshly brewed coffee. Andy was gone by the time we arrived. The evening chill was setting in, and I was soaked through. But Tok was only 47 miles distant and somebody had told us it was mostly downhill.
Moose come out at night. We saw three full grown cows, one with a calf, on the next stretch of road. The sun emerged and pink sky appeared to the north. (Recall that in late June at that latitude sunset comes sometime around midnight.) We saw next to no cars. By the time we hit Tanacross, 12 miles short of Tok, all three of us were sleepy. When Buzz flatted the second time, Sam napped by the road-side. I counted down the mile markers in my head. Thankfully Buzz had planned to stay the night and had a room in Tok he was willing to share.
We woke at 6:30. With a fast finishing time long out of the question, S and I took our time packing the bikes. A full sit-down breakfast was a real treat. Kevin stopped in to check on us before heading to the second-to-last control at Chistochina. S and I followed Buzz out of town. Andy, who had stayed in Tok as well, was already gone. Buzz set a monster pace for the first 15 miles. Before long, S and I independently decided 18 miles-per-hour plus was a little stiff for that early in our final 200K. We saw Andy and Buzz again at Mentasta Lodge, around mile 50 for the day, where I insisted on sitting for a cup of coffee.
Since Isabel Pass the day before, and until Mentasta Pass, where we re-crossed the Alaska Range, we had ridden in the Tanana River drainage. Water there flows to the north into the Tanana River, passing Fairbanks and emptying many miles distant at Fort Yukon into the mighty Yukon River, and ultimately into the Bering Sea at Bethel. South from Mentasta Pass, we followed the course of the Copper River, a famous salmon fishery that gathers water from the Wrangells to the east and the south side of the Alaska Range and carries it to Prince William Sound and the Gulf of Alaska.
The last 200 kilometers on the Tok Cut-Off from Tok to Gakona Junction was the hilliest part of the loop. It was also the most dramatic scenery, perhaps partly because the clouds had finally lifted and we could view the Wrangell mountains in all of their glory. The views over the Copper River into Wrangell-St. Elias National Park were breathtaking.
After Mentasta we flew through Nebesna (which comes at the bottom of the ride’s fastest descent) at about mile 310. I was by now riding mostly out of the saddle due to sores, blisters formed by perching that long atop a small wedge of metal covered in leather that become all the worse in the rain. We shed wet outer clothes and dried off in the sun, temperatures finally reaching into the 60s. We caught up to Buzz and Andy in the hills south of Nebesna, and met them again, with Kevin, at Chistochina. We waved and hollered to the proprietors as we passed the Chistochina Bed and Breakfast, a beautiful log home where S and I had slept the night prior to the ride. Chistochina is a precious roadside town at the confluence of the Chistochina and Copper Rivers, at Mile 33 of the Tok Cut-Off (which means with 33 miles remaining to the car). Posty’s Store, where Kevin situated the control, was in a well-maintained cabin with picnic tables. I was by now constantly hungry, and I ate ice cream and a microwave pizza to prepare for the final 33 miles.
That last stretch is mostly a blur. We climbed the steepest hills of the ride, which were mercifully short, followed a low plateau through thin spruce forests, then took a quick descent in a hailstorm to the town of Gakona, situated at the confluence of the Gakona and Copper rivers. The ride’s hardest climb was over the last two miles. It was a two-stage 300-foot climb from the banks of the Copper River to the top of bluff it had carved through soft Alaskan soil. We found the car at 5:30, 35 ½ hours after leaving it, an average pace of about 11 mph. Our pedaling average was a modest 15.
The group gathered at the bar at Gakona Lodge for a beer (Alaskan Pale Ale, of course) before splitting up. The others beat us there by a few minutes, but we arrived in time for a group photo and to swap some reminiscences. Funny thing about long events. When they are done, I always swear, “never again.” But after a couple of weeks goes by . . . .
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