PowerTap data, Iditarod Trail Race, 348 miles, 45,561 kj, 7 days

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1 2010 Iditarod Trail Invitational, 350-mile race Feb. 28 th - Mar. 7, 2010, ROCKY REIFENSTUHL rocky@arcticrecreation.com, 2329 Cordes Drive, Fairbanks AK 99709, mile Iditarod Trail Race: Knik Lake McGrath, Alaska Race Summary The Iditarod Trail draws me back for my 22nd year of human-powered racing in Alaska s wilderness. This year I again ride a PowerTap-equipped Bianchi 29er; all but one other biker is riding a fat bike. These single purpose bikes use massively wide ( mm) rims, and are indeed, appropriate snow-riding technology. My high tech companions are a PowerTap disc brake wheel and five CPUs to monitor and record many days-worth of race metrics, especially wattage and heart rate. These real-time data are particularly critical to me, as I had spent time at the Mayo Clinic recently with life-changing medical issues. I have been tracking my power relentlessly, hoping to eke out more than the percent that I am left with. Race start has me more anxious than ever before. Can I even finish? But I remind myself, slow is better than being airlifted out. My PowerTap wattage data are fundamental for pacing since my response to power generation, heart rate, is no longer a reliable indicator for me. Nome Finish: McGrath; 350 miles Fifty riders, runners, and a solo skier hail from 10 countries. We crowd the start line and begin our personal sagas on this 350 mile chunk of Alaska wilderness. It is Sunday February 28 at 2:00 pm. As the gun goes off under overcast skies and a balmy 20 o F, I drift to the back of the pack. I know this is where I need to be, but after winning the Iditarod Trail race many times over the decades, I wish I were firing on all cylinders. Still, participation and goals are important to everyone. Most of the historic sled dog trail is well-packed snow and ridable. Jeff Oatley of Fairbanks, and Peter Bassinger of Anchorage, both previous winners, battle at the front. Jeff just beat Peter at the 130 mile Arrowhead race in Minnesota three weeks ago, and two weeks after the Iditarod Trail Race they will battle in the White Mountains 100, a wilderness race near my home, 350 miles north in Fairbanks. Within five miles, three dog teams pass in the opposite direction. These 12 to 16-strong dog teams pass silently and powerfully as the mushers and dogs put in the training miles just like you and me. I stop and let the bundles of energy pass unrestricted: Trail etiquette. The Iditarod Trail is all about snow: its delicacy and its strength. Race start has a couple of feet of snow, but at Finger Lake, the 130 mile checkpoint, 15-plus feet have fallen. They must dig down to their cabins. This year, temperatures range from the equally rare extremes of +30 o F and -25 o F. Both yield even tougher trails! Typically conditions are zero to +15 o F. Fat bikes await their stokers PowerTap data, Iditarod Trail Race, 348 miles, 45,561 kj, 7 days I say farewell to the trappings of civilization where Canada just won Olympic hockey gold. The course won t cross a road for the next 320 miles. Snow is my constant companion now and soon a couple inches more makes riding even more difficult. The trail meanders in and out of scraggly black spruce, aspen, and white spruce forests, dotted with broad, flat, open-muskeg areas. Muskegs, with their low scrubby vegetation and stunted black spruce are a sure sign of permafrost just below the grounds surface. Here, a black spruce, three inches in diameter may be more than 100 years old. Growing on ice, like smoking, stunts growth. Snow-covered tussocks, moss, lichen, and ponds here, make this entire trail unusable in the summer months. Most of the Iditarod Trail is a mosquito-infested quagmire when not frozen. But this country opens up in the winter, when dog teams, snow machines, and certain athletes traverse the thick snow pack.

2 Riding requires dropping my tire pressure to less than 15 psi (one atmosphere). Still, by mile 25 many of the fat bikes are spinning out too, heading perpendicular to the trail, and generally struggling to both stay on top of the snow and move down the trail. This is such hard work with a loaded bike. I am putting out more watts and at a higher heart rate that I can sustain for what looks like a 12 hour grind to Yentna Station, mile 55, the first checkpoint. This is a slow year. And it is a very slow year for me. But I am happy to be part of this event; I am outside, I am on my bike! Trail conditions improve as I drop down onto the mile-wide Susitna River at mile 28, and make my way up the ½ mile-wide Yentna River. I have befriended Bob Ostrom, and we ride with PrincetonTec Apex headlights ablaze against the large-snowflake-speckled night. We pedal atop 2 feet of snow, which in turn lies on three- or four foot-thick river ice. These huge rivers are NOT flat. Ice beneath the snow cover is buckled, heaved, and thrust up into pressure ridges, and may require an 8 to 12 foot climb or drop. Rarely, a stretch of inky black open water reminds us that our race is very much about careful thinking, planning, pacing, and acute awareness of wilderness hazards. Such dangers are but a nuisance elsewhere, but out here, mistakes can change your life. Snow continues falling. I keep track of my efforts on my PowerTap CPU which reminds me to keep my wattage at a reasonable 150 watts or less. But spikes of 250 and 300 watts inevitably occur on the difficult, and always-changing and challenging trails. Bob and I follow the serpentine Yentna River, checking in with each other, riding, eating, and drinking. We struggle to determine which of the myriad snow machine trails that wind up this massively wide river is most firm for riding. Snow is covering clues that help to tease out what we can ride and what is just a series of wheel plants. Midnight now, and after 10 hours without more than several 3-4 minutes breaks, Bob and I are out of water. Yentna checkpoint is still 2 hours away. Yentna has never taken me more than 8 hours. I ve burned nearly 4,000 calories, put out 1.5 kilowatt hours, and drank nearly 4 liters of water. Bob and I begin eating snow for hydration. The temperature is warm enough that this method easily gets us to Yentna at 2:00 am, 12 hard hours after our start. Yentna Checkpoint, Mile 55; 12 hours Yentna checkpoint, mile 55. Yentna Station is a log cabin/bar and grill, run by Jean and Dan Gabarzack, frequented by snowmachiners, planes on skis or floats, and summer powerboats. The family sleeps upstairs. In a small closet-like room downstairs is a honey bucket. With this utility, at least a trip to the outhouse is not required. The leaders blew through hours ago. I order four 7Ups, hot chocolate and water, and begin re-hydrating. Hanging my clothes to dry, I pay $10 for a bunk to sleep for 4 hours. Biking to Yentna has never taken so long, but there is no such thing as typical on the Iditarod Trail. Every year is different. Always difficult, but always different. Shortly after daylight I hit the Yentna River for 32 river miles to Skwentna. The faint hum of the electricity generator now disappears. I have dry warm clothes and a belly full of eggs, potatoes, sausage, and toast. I chuckle at my pre-race meal. After a couple of hours of soft but ridable trails on the river, I catch Lori Hutcheson, an accomplished ultra runner from Utah. We take a short break, share goodies and trail horrors. We both hope and pray for better riding, but remain upbeat. Pedaling at 5 or 6 mph feels like twice that; up a 7% grade. When do I get to coast? Pedal, drink, eat, search for the best of crisscrossing snow machine trails, and remind myself, entering this race is MY idea. My CPU laconically reminds me of proper pacing in terms of watts and heart rate. The values are embarrassingly low, but I must do the best I can with cards I ve been recently dealt. A Fairbanks cardiologist suggested I join a book club. You know, I don t think so. This is damn hard work, but it s better than reading a book. I catch and pass an Italian rider two miles before Skwentna. I am riding my 29er with WTB 2.55 Weirwolf tires, and he is pushing his fat bike. Bueno. Yentna River: snowy, warm Skwentna Roadhouse checkpoint, mile 86. After 6 hours, Skwentna Roadhouse is mine. I say hello to Bonnie and Steve Childs, who shake their heads in disbelief, you doing this race AGAIN?! Well, kind of. Their wilderness lodge is very fine, and only their friendliness is better. This old, two-story frame lodge with massive woodstove, has running water and a bathroom (the last one for 220 miles). Skwentna has less than 10 residents, spread out over many square miles. I complete my checkpoint bliss: hang clothes, drink warm beverages, eat hearty food, put my legs up, and converse with the owners (being at the back of the pack has its advantages). These people are a different and rare breed of highly self-reliant, Renaissance folks. They can, and must, do it all. Bonnie and Steve keep a lodge going, while sporting a wide smile, have sled dogs, snow machines, and serve bikers, snowmachiners, mushers, riverboat folks and the occasional fly-in group. Daylight is burning but I luxuriate in a soft, warm bunk upstairs and immediately drop into dreamland for 3 hours. Grabbing another meal from Bonnie, I leave her with a big hug and tip for her hospitality. Some walkers, a skier, and a biker or two make themselves at home downstairs. Bob and I sign out at 6:00 pm for the 18 miles to Shell Lake, with Lorie following. Temperature is just below freezing so the trail is ridable but not great. We pedal on the four foot-wide snow machine trail, which is flanked by wall-to-wall small alder trees with lesser 3- to 15-inch diameter white spruce. This is big time moose browse, and last year a bunch of us had a stand off with a huge moose. Moose are often cantankerous, and at over 1,000 pounds and 6 feet at the shoulder, they make the rules. Fortunately no monstrous trail hogs this evening. Breaking out into the open muskeg, vegetation changes due to the underlying permafrost. Like much of the Iditarod Trail, this is a summer wasteland: boggy, open water, foot-high tussocks, 1- to 4-inch diameter, stunted, deformed black spruce, a few willow bushes, and beneath the snow, a ground cover of low bush cranberry, Labrador tea, moss, and lichen. The only tracks I see is maybe 2 inches wide with tiny footprints. It s from a tiny vole. It ventures above the insulating snow in search of food. Rabbit tracks are common,

3 and locally moose tracks pothole the trail. They are hell on a bike or on foot. Further down the trail, wolf tracks and their night time howling become common. It seems terribly ironic that I told Lorie not to worry about wolves, they don t eat people. But within a week of my return to Fairbanks, a person is killed by a pack of wolves on the Alaska Peninsula. Still I consider wolves less of a danger than the more abundant crazy people in any large city. Soon, Bob peals off while I decide to ride, and push up Shell Hills steep grades. We cross a couple snow bridges over open stream water. Such crossings produce a jolt of adrenalin. Falling in open water is always the fear on any Alaska wilderness trek. Even on the north side of the Alaska Range, where much colder conditions persist, open water is found even at well-below 0 F temperatures. Several miles prior to Shell Lake, Lorie says I should just go ahead, so I stand up in a big gear and enjoy the feeling of speed as I dip and rise along moguls of the snow machine trail. Riding along this very good trail, through muskegs and open forests, is technical riding, really. Snow machines and dog teams leave a trail a maximum of 4 feet wide. Hook a wheel on the outside of this, and you auger into 4 or five feet or more of powder. After the soft impact and snow angel, a microsecond later Mr. Loaded Bike inflicts the inevitable punishment for any miscalculation. But scream all you want, no one will hear! Shell Lake cabin (not a checkpoint), mile 104. Arriving at 11 pm, Bob, Lorie and I buy Zoe s homemade chicken soup, with bread, butter and tea. Snow is going to fall soon but the three of us choose to sleep on the floor or a bench rather than set off on the 25 miles to Finger Lake checkpoint. Zoe s small cabin has an expansive view of the frozen Shell Lake and white crystalline hills. The several other cabin owners on this 3-mile-long lake can buy prepared meals, coffee, and alcohol here. Zoe is a tough ol women who chooses the wilderness life. Her hospitality is humbling, and a reminder of how the world used to be for travelers. We all settle down for some absolutely quiet 3 inches of new snow sleep. Bob leaves at 4 am, Lorie at 5 am, and I at 6 am. Taking my time on the Iditarod Trail is something that I have never done. And it s quite nice, actually. Typically it s race, race, race, go, go, go. Now, it s more like, whatever I ll make it down the trail, I ll get pictures, I ll get to talk with the lodge owners. And I ll remember it too. The trail is a great ride for 15 of the 25 miles across the marshy and swampy, stunted-spruce woods to the base of the Alaska Range at Finger Lake checkpoint. Dawn is slow this far north, takes the better part of two hours, but my reward is a mottled crimson-clouded sky. I catch Lorie along the way and we commiserate about the trail The Rocky-Lorie show deteriorating due to near freezing conditions, so we enjoy each others company as we push on to Finger Lake. Riding now feels like trying to pedal through mashed Dawn day two; mile 145 potatoes. Low, heavy clouds swallow the massive Alaska Range mountains, and drop large, heavy flakes in intermittent snow showers. We ride a mile across Finger Lake, past the 10 foot-high pile of Iditarod Trail Dog Race straw, dog food, and Heet (plastic bottles of alcohol used by mushers to cook dog food on the trail). Mushers use alcohol because if it contaminates the dog food it will not kill the dogs. White gas contamination in their food makes dogs very sick, if they survive. In one week this place will be swarming with numerous 14 to 16-strong dog teams; quite a sight. These dogs truly love to pull a sled. Typically, the run/rest cycle is about equal, so they rest longer than the humans in this race. But once fed and rested, as soon as they see their driver, they are up, jumping and howling to get going. These dogs go through more calories than we do. And studies show that they convert food to energy much more efficiently than do we. These are honed athletes, though you wouldn t The real athletes know it by looking at them. What is obvious is that once you see mushers handle their dogs, the mutual strong love and bond is obvious. Finger Lake checkpoint, mile 130. More than 15 feet of snow have buried the main cabin and smaller sleeping cabins. The clock says 1 pm. This will be very tough to not go on, using the daylight. I pray for colder temperatures to set up the snow on the trail or 18 inches of new snow then I can bail out with a clear conscience. Well, almost clear. In 2000 my brother, Steve and I were on a record pace in the foot division when we got 15 inches of new snow. We plowed our sleds through 25 miles before a snow machine passed us and broke trail. Pushing a bike through similarly deep snow, though I have done it, is better left a once in a life time act of stupidity. Finger Lake; mile 130 Puntilla Lake will be a grueling 35 mile climb into the Alaska Range. Lorie and I decide to hang together, get up at 4:00 am, and make the traverse. Besides, our airdropped (10-pound maximum) re-supply bags are here, and opening them is a little akin to Christmas. Deep, heavy snow has nearly collapsed our checkbag- and sleeping tent, a Weatherport wall tent. But, with a drip diesel fuel stove, dry and warm seem good enough. Restocking our bikes and pockets, we head to the lodge, noting that race start was a mere 24 hours ago. It seems like ancient history. Food here is included in our race entry, along with the option of sleeping in the tent. Kirsten and Carl Dixon s lodge offers a commercial two day, two person package for several thousand dollars, so the lodge is not formatted for us biker dudes. The genial cook whips up some excellent chicken/bean burritos, which taste fantastic. He s from Florida, and is pretty much ga-ga over his new job. Social hour over, I head back to our meager hovel, and stake my sleeping space for 6 hours of rest. But I have to pound down some more calories. Collapsed checkpoint

4 I figure I m burning-up half a pound of my body everyday: the Idita-diet. Beyond the 43,000 calories that I eventually burn pedaling the PowerTap (and my butt) 350 miles, I require more calories for warmth, and other minor details, like feeding my brain and such. I m stocked with lots of goodies: GU 2 O, GU, Raw Revolution bars (my favorite solid food, probably because of the only slightly sweet taste and high fat content), chocolate, salty pretzels/nuts/m&m mix, and GU Chomps. Seventy miles lie between me and my last 10 pound re-supply bags in Rohn, on the north slope of the Alaska Range. Sleeping at checkpoints, even with earplugs, is a surreal dream or nightmare. Racers come and go at all hours, and root around, commonly while hacking, wheezing, or snoring. Headlights flash across the small tent, people trip over others, speak various languages, and create a cacophony of chaos that permeates your sleeping(?) brain. Still, it is rest, and easier, but less restful than bivying on the side of the trail. Push from Happy River Just prior to 5:00 am we begin riding the trail for several miles of the 30 mile winter wonderland trail into the Lorie soldiers on heart of the Alaska Range. In many respects this portion of the Iditarod Trail leads also into literal and figurative, heart of darkness. Here the trail grades are steep, the snow may be 20 feet deep, open water is inevitable, the trees are large and healthy white spruce, alders, and cottonwood, and the chances of seeing someone on the trail are near zero. Last year someone went missing for three days in this section. Sliding down the Happy River Steppes, Lorie notes that Happy Steppes Ridin this is the first undeniable fun of the trip. It IS fun. But climbing back UP from the Happy and Skwentna rivers, skirting the open water, and managing traction up the 20 degree slope is an anaerobic trick. Fin Bear Lake is an oasis I have never indulged in. About half way between Finger and Puntilla lakes, Mike and Ingrid s tiny cabin is commonly open for all human powered racers. A cardboard sign stuck in the snow announces, All racers welcome. Wake us up at any hour for hot drinks and food. Usually I m hell bent on keeping a lead. Now, I merely want to get to Puntilla before total darkness. Lorie and I leave our bikes in the middle of the Fin Bear Lake and walk 50 yards to the cabin. Ingrid has hot soup if we want it, but we just go for the hot chocolate. And it tastes great. We would be having moose stew but the sled with the frozen moose meat couldn t make it up the 20 degree slope from the Happy River. They will have to take partial loads to get their supplies to their cabin. Too bad, Lorie is ready to chew on a moose leg. The intense friendliness of trail folks is hard to describe, but such a meaningful treat that I m sorry I have missed it all these years. They repeatedly and adamantly refuse our money for supplies that have cost them dearly. And poor Mike and Ingrid, the porcupines have gnawed their floor joists so that the cabin is listing several degrees. We exchange warm hugs and head up the trail Within 10 miles of Puntilla Lake, marten leg traps are set up adjacent to the trail. Typically they are at the end of an inclined timber where the metal leg trap is inside a mailbox-sized enclosure. Or in some cases they use actual mailboxes! Martens are carnivorous, 3-pound rascals related to mink. They are Fin Bear hospitality cabin enticed into the housing structure by a small chunk of meat, bird wing, or bone with meat. Trap lines may include upwards of fifty sets which are checked by snow machine. Martin skins are tanned and sold in Anchorage or Fairbanks for much needed cash. Gasoline for snow machines and generators is well over $8.00/gallon. Winds with 15 o F temperatures get my attention as the sun sets behind the towering, jagged Alaska Range Mountains that engulf Puntilla Lake. Vegetation is now sub-alpine: stunted spruce, thin, sad willows and only low tundra cover beneath the snow. After 14 ½ hours, we ride on the two mile-long Puntilla Lake. Ski planes have deposited a huge pile of straw and supplies for the dog race. A headlight in the distance turns out to be Bob, whose fat-tire wheel is destroyed from too much trail pounding. He can t repair it and has to scratch after 165 miles. Who knows when the next plane will land here! I feel bad for Bob, he is such a good technical rider, and strong and enthusiastic. But this race is unpredictable, merciless, and cold. Generally one makes their own luck and be innovative, but sometimes bad stuff happens to good people and good equipment. Puntilla Lake checkpoint, mile 165. Approaching the 14 by 20-foot, weather beaten, old log cabin up the hillside from the lake, I anticipate the warmth, hot food, hot drinks and soft bunk that await me. Few are the amenities on the trail, but reveling and coveting these creature comforts becomes part of us all out here. Inside, the wood stove is rippin as always, and I add to the chaos of 4 other racer s clothes hanging above the stove. I grab a can of soup, some hot chocolate, and quickly find a sleeping space. Alessandro Da Lio, the tall, shaven-head Italian is consoling Bob Ostrom about his broken rear wheel, but after 2 1/2 days on the trail, dropping out is a profoundly emotional wall. Alessandro Da Lio consoles Bob about his mort wheel Dan turns the lights out at 11:00 pm as Lorie and I plan to get up at 4:00 am and head over the pass. In the early morning we chow-down another can of soup, down more hot chocolate, and load bikes for what is often the crux move in this race. The barren Alaska Range pass: remote, vaguely-marked, above tree line, wind swept, and just plain intimidating. One would have to be a fool to not have serious anxiety about Rainy Pass. We have nearly 40 miles to Rohn; maybe 12 to 18 hours away. Into the inky night at 15 o F, we pedal across the lake and up the low gradient to the steeper, snowblown alpine trail. For five hours the winds and snow pelt us at mph. I am comforted to know that Lorie has climbed Denali twice. I may be leading the show, but I know she is strong: physically, but more importantly, mentally. Traversing the pass with a bike is risky business, to put it mildly. Lori and I are glad for each others company. We ride and push, but soon push for many Lori in the Heart of Darkness

5 miles. My eyelashes are freeze with ice buildup. My face mask becomes a white armored ice blob. The trail is exceedingly difficult to discern in the darkness and blowing snow. All this uncertainty, wind, cold, and trail-marking tripods only every1/2 mile or more, has me wondering just how bad this idea is in these conditions. Wind-blown alpine does not allow us the luxury of digging a snow cave to escape these punishing conditions, should we have to. Two snowmachiners from Puntilla whine by into the eye of the snow storm. I continue to push, head down, thoughts inward, and mind working overtime to stay optimistic. My CPU is tells me to cut back on all the adrenaline and keep it together. The four walkers, pulling sleds left 2 hours ahead of us, yet we see no hint of their trail. An hour or more later, in the increasing, but muted daylight, the snowmachiners return and stop to offer trail beta. They, can t find the trail, and the Rainy Pass push walkers, a couple of miles ahead, are searching for the trail. The white out conditions are too much for the snowmachiners, so it s back to Puntilla for them. Yikes! I am pushing my bike; these guys have snow machines, and THEY have turned around. I shout to Lorie that we ll keep going because soon we should drop into a stream valley, and maybe out of the wind. We can regroup. Meanwhile the mind-bending, and tenacity-testing continues. We persevere, drop out of the severe wind, find the trail, and forge on to Rainy Pass under snow showers and nuclearwinter light. Survived another test! As we methodically work our way to the pass, I think how sad it is that Lorie does not get to see the surrounding 8,000 foot jagged, icy peaks in their full glory. Parting clouds allow a rare glimpse, but today is about snow, clouds, and brush. The good news is that low snow means no avalanche danger, although snow conditions here are way too deep and unpacked to ride. Open water is common on this drainage so we stop to fill our backpacks. The water is very cold, but very, very sweet. A new sign placed at Rainy Pass allows for our photo op. Horizontal blowing snow Rohn Mile 210 The Bike Nap Drinking water We cross Rainy Pass and descend into Pass Creek and Dalzell Creek. It s a huge hurdle, and has taken 11 hours of hard work in very poor trail conditions. This means maybe another 7 to 9 hours to Rohn. We head down past the spot where a trailbreaker was killed in an avalanche several years ago. It feels eerie going through these extremely steep, snow drifted slopes. After 16 hours or so, we need a break, and stop for the first time today for more than a couple of minutes. We eat some Raw Revolution bars, some quick carbs, drink a bunch, and take a five minute bike nap. Feeling rested (and cold) from our bike nap we begin the 5 miles or so down Dalzell Gorge, across 8 or more natural snow bridges above the open water of Dalzell Creek, and onto the Tatina River. Night time descending across snow and ice bridges is just plain scary. Gorge walls are sheer rock and ice with less and less snow, here in the rain shadow of the Alaska Range. We tip toe across many snow bridges. Each one seems like it might be our last. But they all hold, as the black water roils underneath, seeming to beg for a victim. A small camera can not capture the stark power of the towering walls, the frigid rushing water and the menacing white and translucent miracle of an ice bridge. Finally, the Tatina River. Seven miles from Rohn. Lorie is treated to the treacherous joy of riding the ¼ mile wide, glare ice of the Tat. This 3 to 4 feet thick river- and lake ice is far from level. It has innumerable perturbations, slopes, heaves, and general unevenness. But, wind has blown all the snow into random drifts. And we have a tailwind. Yes! Falling is inevitable. Lorie, despite my tutelage, won the post-olympics crash contest hands down. She promises to post the pictures on her Faceplant page. Rohn checkpoint, mile 210. At 1:00 am, after 20 hours, we drag our asses into the Rohn wall tent. Bob wakes from his sleeping bag under the cover of 70 foot tall spruce trees and greets us. Seven others are lying on the tent s spruce bow-covered sleeping area. Rob gets us a hot chocolate and soup. He rousts an Italian and a New Zealander, asking them to vacate their space of the past 12 hours. New racers are in, we have to make room. We grab our second and final air drop bag, undress and layout our sleeping bags on the spruce bows. Year after year I marvel at how the body adapts to living in the cold. Being in a heated space with many clothes on seems oppressive. Part of this is my substantial wind burn from wind and pelting snow. In the morning we visit the Dog Race cabin, and here I give Jasper, the head checker here, a hearty hug. This makes 11 times that I ve enjoyed Jasper s hospitality. He s the nicest and best cookin Iditarod checker in a wilderness cabin. At the confluence of the South Fork Kuskokwim and Tatina Rivers, this 12x15-foot USBLM cabin is the only structure in Rohn, save the 2-holer outhouse. No one lives in Rohn. After truing my rear wheel, stuffing my bags with food, batteries, heat packs, and other goodies the dynamic duo head northwest 75 miles toward Nikolai. However, today we pedal only the 43 miles to a public use cabin near the Iditarod Trail. An easy day. The 15 o F and light tailwind feels great. Snow is relatively sparse here. Riding is fantastic; best trail out of Rohn ever. The first ½ mile is on Kuskokwim River glare ice. A couple of dives and a couple of movies of the crashes, and we are back on the woodland trail. Wow, is this great riding. Very little Ice riding Aufice: 25 feet thick ice buildup

6 snow, hard packed, and only the tussocks prove technically difficult on a loaded bike. No snow fills the inter-tussock space so these little devils beat the crap out of us. Over the next 40 miles we ride in open tussock-tundra, wooded trails, recent forest fire areas that Tussock riding is brutal Deadly-slick ice, Farwell & AK Lake Range ice are black and still smell of smoke, and open glare-ice lakes and river glaciers. Amazingly, some trail has NO snow. Scenery is spell-binding, so I don t look TOO much. Mountains rise at impossible angles five and six thousand feet above us. Lake ice is locally way too slick to ride at all, so we walk. Looking through 4 feet of ice to the lake bottom is a trip. Frozen, white methane bubbles trapped in the ice, and huge check cracks in the ice create an ominous and mysterious feel. In the dark, we cut off the trail to the USBLM public cabin, and are treated to two packs of wolves baying and barking within less than ½ mile. This is when sprinting faster than your riding partner is a very good thing. Bear Creek BLM public-use cabin, Mile 255. The Kiwi, Jerym Brunton, and Italian, Mario Sterli, are here when we arrive, and have a smoky fire going. Mario is puzzling over the Coleman stove. Jerym is trying to sleep. I gather some of the thin snow cover to melt for water, show Mario how the stove works, how to open the woodstove pipe damper PRIOR to adding wood and how warm water off the woodstove won t hydrate freeze dried meals very well. Food and bed for us. After midnight the wind begins howling and the snow flying; some inside the cabin. Mario and Jerym depart at 2:00 am. Lorie and I are up at 6:00 am, and take off at 8:00 am after cutting wood to replace what we burned, and collect snow for the huge pan on the wood stove. Both tasks are mandatory wilderness-cabin etiquette in the far north. 20 mph wind and recycled snow from the southwest make the 12 o F temperature carry a nasty bite, and the left side of my face takes a lashing. Riding is been great, across frozen muskeg, small lakes and permafrost-stunted black spruce forest. Locally thick, tall stands of aspen grow on well drained ground that has no permafrost. Lorie bags a moose After nearly 9 hours, we drop onto the mighty Kuskokwim River, and soon Nikolai s Russian Orthodox Church dome is in sight. Some residents come out to greet us. Nikolai, mile 295, 5:00 pm. Nick and Olene Petruska s small home is our checkpoint and this is my 10 th visit with the friendly Athabascan Natives in this village of just 75. Darkness and -25 O F on the river tonight is a certainty, so we lounge, eat, and sleep (and eat some more!) until our 4:00 am wake up and 5:00 am departure. Nick s son s run a trapline, and tanned furs line the Arctic Entry: martens, wolf, lynx, and wolverine, all awaiting a trip to market. This is one of their only cash-producing items, where a gallon of milk (if you could get it) would be nearly $ Olene offers us homemade plain donuts fried in brown bear fat. No kidding, and they are very good; with a hint of sweetness to the fat. Lynx, wolve rine, Lorie Walking out to my bike at 5:00 am a wall of bitter air slams me; it s dense, sharp, and piercing. At -20 O F in Nikolai, temperatures are certainly -25 O F on the Kuskokwim. This is frigid riding; everything but my eyes and mouth are well covered. Frostbite would -25 O F: a cold ride take any exposed flesh in a couple of minutes. As we exit Nikolai, the drone of the diesel generator (burning $8/gallon fuel) reminds me of the remoteness. Life in the bush may seem romantic but it is very, very difficult, and tremendously expensive. The 3-foot wide trail is well packed on most of the Kuskokwim River and on the adjacent uplands. We pedal through a labyrinth of swamps, muskegs, stunted black spruce forests, alder, and tamarack. I walk or run several times to try to warm my feet. Eating and drinking at these temperatures is difficult and onerous, but mandatory. The PowerTap CPU is fading out, kind of like my brain right now. Not until 11:00 am does the bloodless sun offer us any warmth at all. And not much! By 3:00 pm temperatures are rising to 5 or 10 O F. River riding is good and I am enjoying the good trails of the final miles into McGrath. It s sunny, clear, crisp, and I can t ask for much more. Up off the Kuskokwim, we are soon on the two mile snow road into town. Lorie and I drop to snow/ice road and mock kiss it. Frozen Kuskokwim River We are giddy with knowing that we made it, and that the pedaling is now a simple effort. Low-pressure in our tires make us bob and bounce as we pedal. This shows just how much work riding on snow-packed trails really is. A noisy, stinky, fast pickup truck passes us; the first in 350 miles. Back to civilization; it feels good and bad. Today was 11 ½ hours, five of them at near -25 O F. Our final leg presented yet another challenge to wrestle with. Soft trail; augered in Testing yourself against 1,000 things thrown in your path is both the appeal and the frustration of this race: dealing with the unpredictable, the unknown, the feared, and the

7 ever-present doubting demons. Lori and I survived them all, though several times in the race, had we been offered a ride from a snowmachiner, saying no would have been very difficult indeed. McGrath checkpoint/finish (Peter & Tracy Schneiderheinze s home)~350 mile, 4:30 pm: 11 ½ hours. Peter and Tracy greet us with open arms, though they have had as many as 10 ravenous racers stay with them at one time during the last couple of days. Peter is furiously cooking for us, the human vacuum cleaners : seems like we suck down whatever is within reach. McGrath is a government-job dominated village of about 350, and most commonly white folks. Here, towns-folk hunt, trap, cut wood for heat, fish, and to some degree or other, live off the land. But the land is harsh. An extremely high cost of living causes many to abandon bush life and relocate to cities. The Iditarod dog race is the biggest show in town, when the population can double. Well, triple if you count the dogs. This Iditarod Trail finish line makes 22 years of racing on the trail for me. After 7 days 2 hrs 30 min on the 350 mile course, I finished mid-pack with a rookie who appreciated my help during this intimidating wilderness race. Any way you cut it, finishing the 350 miles on the Iditarod Trail is a seriously difficult athletic and cerebral undertaking. But on a starkly beautiful course, the rewards are always great. Each year serves up seemingly insurmountable physical, mental, and climatic challenges to test me is no different. These difficulties, and the physical and mental machinations they create, drive the fascination (some would say obsession ) of this mindbending epic. This year s event is unique for me. I spent much more time in the checkpoints, and got to know the people who lead wilderness lives. Lives that are fundamentally different from our own. I got to know an Iditarod rookie, and observe just how difficult one s premier 350 mile ride is, and how it affects a person. I also realize how much I love Alaska, its unforgiving climate, unimaginable expanses, untrammeled remoteness, and unfathomable lessons for us all. I have noted before that I learn more about myself in these several days on the trail than in a year of my day job. The self reliance and satisfaction of traversing this amazing frozen country by human power creates an insidious and infective empowerment. It is one that brings people back to this event again and again. Finally, while on the trail, I think of, and gain strength from, those who have helped me, supported me, and believed in me, as I set off into the unknown. I ride this trail every year because I need to know what s out there, but more importantly what s IN there. Happy trails. Lorie thanking the smooth-road god 350 mile McGrath finish line Kuskokwim River winds around McGrath (picture from airplane) Thanks to my sponsors (last 2 to 9 years): Bianchi, Saris-CycleOps, Sports Medicine Fairbanks, GU Sports, Lake Cycling, Princeton Tec, WTB- Wilderness Trail Bikes, NUUN, Tifosi Optics, Crank Brothers, Raw Revolution, American Classic, Ice Tools, Power Agent. Alaska Iditasport, 8 wins in 22 years, 4-straight 1 st place Iditabikes: 01, 00, 99, 98; Yukon Arctic Ultra 300 mile, Feb., Yukon Territory, Canada: 1 st Place 03; 04