Category: iditarod

OK, it’s time to ‘fess up.

When Rob Lee made an unsuccessful attempt at the West Highland Way Double, it piqued my interest a little. It’s always interesting to read about what people are up to in the world of riding bikes a long way. It’s rare to have such a candid account when the goals are not achieved. And yet, the small, mean, and competitive part of me thought, “Hey, I should give that ride a try!” Making firsts is good ego boost.

Now, I like John “Shaggy” Ross. He’s a good man and always fun to talk to. But, it did grate a bit after Iditarod 2009 when everyone who found out I did it said, “That’s the one Shaggy did!” Not his fault, but you can imagine my thoughts when John also had an incomplete ride on the West Highland Way Double.

So, I have decided to repeat my method for the Tour Divide by doing a UK ride as preparation. For The Divide, I rode The Sarn Helen Trail (the length of Wales) over a couple of days. It was as much a test of gear and food as it was a test of my fitness but it really helped me to go into The Divide with confidence.

On January 15 or thereabouts, I’ll set off from Milngavie (Glasgow, to you and me) bound for Fort William. I will be fully kitted up to deal with deep snow, camping overnight if it comes to it, and generally looking after myself in a Iditarod style. If it turns out to be possible, I’ll turn around at Fort William and ride back to complete the double. I’m highly doubtful that this will be possible. If conditions are bad, I could have to walk large sections of the trail. It will be good preparation for Alaska, and if I make the double that would be just dandy.

PS Thanks to Shaggy for lending me pogies to use on this trip after mine were stolen at the weekend. See… we are friends 🙂

I’ve been making stupid school-boy errors recently.

First, I happily advised someone I was going riding with that Camelbaks are OK below freezing as long as you blow the water back into the bladder to stop the pipe from freezing. I then forgot to do so myself and ended up having mine freeze solid. Doh!

Then, I forget to check my chainring bolts at all for ages and this happens:

[singlepic id=31 w=320 h=240 float=]

With thoughts turning toward Alaska again, I thought it was time to review the mistakes that I shouldn’t make in an unforgiving environment:

Mistakes not to make again on the Iditarod Trail Invitational

• Take plenty of socks! They weigh hardly anything and the frostbite from last time was largely attributable to my wet socks.
• Don’t set off from a checkpoint in wet socks (especially if it’s -30C out there) – you’ll get frostbite.
• Take sensible food i.e. varied and tasty. Last time I took a mix of salty and sweet for eating during the day. I thought that nuts would be good because they pack a lot of calories and will replace salt. I ate some nuts on day 1, the rest were dead weight. I’ve got a sweet tooth during rides, so I should know better and pack for it (at least I got this right on the Divide).
• Don’t get too excited (another one I got right on the Divide)
  • I tore away from the line on day 1 with no real idea of where I was going. John Ross and I got kind of lost. We rejoined the pack only after wasting a load of time and effort.
  • I barely slept before the race and on the first night of the race itself. If you’re going to lie down and do nothing else, you might as well sleep.
• Don’t bother with hydraulic brakes. I really wanted them for UK riding, but should have gone straight to cables on my snow bike. They were more noisy than really draggy in the end, but if it had been colder, I could have been in trouble.
• Don’t rely on post from the UK to Alaska being half-way reasonable. Send it really early, or take it with you.
• When veteran racers are putting on extra clothes before they drop down to ride the frozen river, they really do know better than you.
• Don’t use an old pump. The seals on mine shrank from OK in normal temperatures to completely useless on the Trail. I had to rely on others and had some dodgy moments when the temperature drop brought my tyres down with it.
• Take some energy drink. I know it freezes faster, but it encourages me to drink more (the taste and the knowledge that I need to drink it soon).
• Don’t listen to snow machiners (or snow mobilers, or whatever you call them). Bill told me not to, but I didn’t listen to him. If they’ve got motorised transport, they’ve got a whole different idea of distance than you have (I got this right in the Nokia Coast 2 Coast re: motorbikes).

I’m sure I’ll have a whole load of new mistakes to make this time around 🙂

The checkpoint at Rohn is tiny. Just a wall-tent to hold as many racers as arrive at once. We were lucky enough to coincide with a few guys leaving, so Billy and I could get our sleeping bags down without having to head back outside – others were not always as fortunate.

Getting to the food was a case of stepping over and around many prone bodies. Feeling drunk with exhaustion, it was a hard job to not just fall right on someone. I ate a couple of tins of lentil soup and sat down to get ready for sleep. As I took off my socks, my feet looked horrific. They had been wet all day from snow falling into my boots, so even without the frostbite they would have looked gross. They were unrecognisably white and puffy, like I’d been clopping through the Somne for the past 24 hours. The more worrying part was the stinking and oozing from the frostbite blisters on my toes. There wasn’t much I could do about them, so I just hid them away at the bottom of my bag and went to sleep. I’d get my socks dry on the stove and have another look at the toes when I wasn’t so deliriously tired.

As I “slept”, I heard others come in and out. A bunch of walkers arrived, some of whom couldn’t find anywhere to sleep and had to bivvy outside. That must have been frustrating, but there was nothing to be done about it. After a while one of the walkers who had been able stay in the tent shook me awake, “Your buddy is snoring”. Frankly, I had no idea what to say to this. You’re taking part in a wilderness race, deal with it. What am I supposed to do about it anyway? He went away and I went back to sleep. Billy was snoring pretty loud, but if you couldn’t sleep through that, you weren’t trying hard enough on the trail.

We only took about 3 hours rest and then it was time to asses the toes. They were blistered, but there was no black skin. I wasn’t going to give up because of them, so I just dressed and started to pack up. As soon as they were in my boots, I could ignore my feet and get on with the task in hand. The first job was finding the outhouse. Billy had used the outhouse last time he’d done the race and near-frozen his ass off on the ceramic seat. His complaints had got him kicked out of the cabin, but now, years later, he had been vindicated. A polystyrene seat awaited me… Aaah!

With all the camp stuff done, we headed out to the trail. It was nice and early so the trail was cold and hard. Perfect to get some miles done on the bikes. We dropped air pressure and rolled well, watching the story of previous passage unfold in front of us. The distinctive tracks were there: endomorph tyres on one side and foot-prints on the other. We were riding where others had had to push. Awesome.

The trail climbed as steeply as I was prepared to ride, but I was glad to make steady progress. We crossed more exposed frozen lakes and just seconds after commenting about how much I enjoyed riding this stuff, I was suddenly on my arse and elbow. There is no magic to riding ice out there – you just can’t turn or brake more than the tiniest amount. Having hit the ice, I watched my bike spiral away gently. Prising myself up like Bambi in Neos, I tried to fetch it. My boots had come with studs for grip on ice but I’d taken them out so that I wouldn’t have to worry about damaging people’s wooden floors at checkpoints. Right now, that seemed like a bad idea. Slowly, though, I managed to retrieve my bike and get over to a small patch of snow. From there, I could re-start and try not to make any sudden movements.

The day turned out to be glorious. As the sun came up, it blazed across pristine ice, snow and pine. It lay out the mountains we had just crossed as a beautiful backdrop to our lake crossing. The very particular weather eventually gave us a very particular trail. The snow had melted a little at the surface, refrozen, and cracked again. It was just like riding on North Wales slate. Up to 12 inch plates of ice skidded and clattered underneath our wheels as we hared down singletrack. Suddenly, I was in a white Betws Y Coed cruising along the trail for fun and I even had Billy’s company to enjoy it with. For hours, it could have been any given Sunday.

As we got closer to Bison camp, I knew we were approaching the coldest part of the trail. On this side of the mountains, we got weather from Alaska’s interior. Fortunately, it was quite a warm year and there were only odd occasions when the cold really bit. One such occasion was crossing a huge lake. Even in daylight, I couldn’t see the other side. After 20 metres or so, the wind was so savage that I knew I had to take action. My face was being battered by the wind, my ears deafened by the roar, and I could feel my whole body cooling. Despite being so exposed, I stopped to get out my down jacket. It felt crazy having to go fiddling with my bike to detatch the jacket, but as soon as I had it on I knew I had made the right decision. From deep inside its hood, warmth and quiet descended over me. It was like I’d gone from being in Alaska to watching a video about it from under the duvet. Insulated from the sound and the cold, my bike seemed unreal as I got back on and set off to catch up with Billy.

We to-ed and fro-ed a bit with Eric and Lou again as the miles went by, eventually reaching the Farewell Burn. A major fire had destroyed many of the trees in this area years ago, but Billy didn’t recognise it as so much had grown back since last time he was here. The day was getting long again and our tiredness started to be compounded by tyre problems. Big drops in temperature were causing big drops in tyre pressure and it turned out that my pump leaked air almost as fast as I could pump. Between us, we managed to get enough air in to limp along but the fear of a pinch flat or torn tyre followed us all along the trail. If a tube failed, it would be impossible to re-inflate a new one. If a tyre failed, I’d be walking to McGrath. Tense times, but it was all the sweeter to see Bison Camp up ahead.

Another big gap between instalments. In the unlikely event that anyone is holding their breath – sorry. I’ve been looking for a new job, enjoying the dusty trails and still ploughing around on the Pugsley. My normal bike is just about ready to go again, but there was one more outing for the Pug this weekend. The Dyfi Enduro – short distance for an enduro, but it’s all either up or down and the downs are fearsome. Fortunately, I didn’t have to ride the bit that claimed some of my skin last year as another rider was spread across that bit of trail. I just helped him to his feet and was thankful to get through there unscathed. It’s still my favourite “race” in the UK. You get the most technical course out there, bands, cheerleaders, a gorilla suit, and people riding all sorts from lightweight XC bikes to full on freeride. I had pretty good ride with the silly bike choice removing any pressure I may have put on myself. I tried to flow where I could on the descents, but fully rigid on trail that allows you to get a ton of speed before throwing up a pile of pointy off-camber rocks did force me to take things steady. And then at the end of it Nick Craig wanted a go on my bike. He lived up to his reputation of being about the nicest professional sportsman you could meet, which is always good to see. Some pics of the event here.

Back to Alaska..

At Puntilla, we heard that the lead group had already gone into Rainy Pass but no-one had heard from Bill Merchant for a few days. Bill was supposed to be breaking trail for us, so that was worrying. Fortunately, there wasn’t much need to worry about Bill’s safety – if anyone can look after themself out there, it’s him. Given the lack of trail, the fact that I’d been tortoise/hare-ing with Billy for the whole way up to Puntilla, and that Billy’s a fun guy to hang out with I decided to ride with him through the pass (Billy Koitzsch, not Bill Merchant. Too many Bills).

Billy, Rob, and myself set off into the darkness expecting to push a lot and probably bivvy before Rhone. We rode steadily to begin with – Billy’s dynamo LED casting massive shadows despite our slow progress. Pretty soon, Rob dropped back. I wasn’t too worried about letting him go, expecting another sneaky gear-related move from him later in the day. With relatively ride-able trails, my single gear necessitated that I move ahead of Billy. This was my first view of the tripod trail markers: 8ft high tripods made of large logs with reflectors on them. They gave us a rough path up the valley but it was another case of looking with your feet. This part of the trail had been bedded in so the trick was to search for relatively solid ground and use that. Bunched up together again, Billy and I would occasionally fan out to find something we could ride rather than needlessly hurting ourselves by pushing through deep snow only a few feet from the real trail.

I knew it was going to be pretty much uphill all day and looking out into the mountains, I tried to pick out where Rainy Pass lay. Unfortunately, the twists and turns of the trail made it hard to figure exactly where we were really headed. We whacked through the brush and frequently laughed our way through adversity. As we got closer to the mountains, though, the trail got hard to even push on. We were on a very recent snow machine track and our feet would frequently punch straight through, sinking to the knee. Having set ourselves mentally for this kind of treatment, we didn’t mind. We just kept on plugging and resolved to have a hot lunch on the trail.

Whilst pushing our bikes kept us very warm, as soon as we stopped to get out the stoves, it was time for the serious clothing. In my puff trousers and down jacket, I was pretty toasty. It was a good feeling to be completely comfortable so far from civilisation and in such cold conditions. I had to be quick with fiddly tasks before getting my big gloves back on, but that was all. Our lunch stop was twice interrupted though – once by a former trail breaker (sorry – I forget your name) who was out to rescue Bill, and once by John Ross. John declined the invitation to join us for lunch… could he be racing again? 🙂

From the state of the trail and the information we’d learned from the trail breaker, it was clear we weren’t going to be riding for a while. Billy took his pedals off to stop them from bashing into his legs as he pushed along the narrow trail, but I stubbornly carried on with mine. It would be more than a day before he’d put them back on. The trudge went on and on. We passed Bill’s abandoned snow machine and carried on until we reached a frozen lake. I was looking with my feet again and the trail seemed to veer off to the right. I followed it, and I saw a snow machine approaching. It was Bill, with his rescuer. He told me that the snow was too deep and the light too flat to do much trail breaking. The snow machines just kept sinking and the flat light made it impossible to read the snow. From here there were untold miles before we’d see trail again. But, in the abandoned cabin by the lake Lou Kobin and Eric Warkentin had holed up to wait for the trail breakers.

The cabin had no roof, but Bill had christened it The Rainy Pass Hilton. It may not stop the snow, but the 4 walls did stop most of the wind. Billy and I headed up there to talk to Lou and Eric. We wanted to press on and bivvy in the pass, but after some wavering we decided to stay. We would head out as a group of 4 in the morning. Hanging out with them and Bill for the night seemed much more appealing than a storm-whipped bivvy in the unknown.

During the night Tim and Tom arrived. They are incredible walkers and were eating up the distance as we struggled with the deep snow. Bill must have recognised them – their arrival prompted some classic dry humour, “If you shine that light in my face, I’ll shoot you!” It’s a good job we all know him well enough to get the joke. As morning came, we all filled up with hot water and faffed. Even more snow had fallen and no-one was in a hurry to get out there.

Eventually we did, though and things soon became comically hard. I was at the front to begin with and thought I had taken a bad turn when the snow was knee deep. Leaving the bike for a moment, I tried some other directions: they were waist deep. We tried to guess which of the utterly exhausting directions would be the least gruelling, but it was impossible to tell. Each step would take tens of seconds as it would involve the same procedure: step forwards, sink (sometimes up to your waist), stumble, reach up to you bike (now above your head) and drag it forward a bit, climb out of the hole you’re in, sink again. Just trying to progress at all once you’d sunk was like being in a children’s ball pit. Everything you could reach would collapse under your weight.

We rotated like a peloton. Being at the back of the group was more like walking along a trench and much easier. And through it all, we had chat from biking stories to Napa Valley wine. Surreal, but it kept us going and it was particularly good for me to hear from the veterans that these conditions really were extraordinary. Every directional decision was tough. If we wanted to head for higher ground, it would take an age to get there and might not be any better than our current position. The only sure thing was that if we kept moving through the pass, eventually we’d come out.

As we got higher, the terrain got steeper but rockier. The wind was so strong into our backs that the hair exposed under the back of my hat froze solid. It felt pretty crazy, pretty epic, and pretty good to have this place and moment for ourselves. That was the high point, though. Sooner than we were ready, it was over the top and into more waist-deep slogging. Here, we were zig-zagging down the valley and in places we could see open water from the river. Getting wet, particularly on this section would have been seriously bad news so every crossing was tense. Thick willows forced us to keep doing it though, sometimes edging along a narrow ledge dragging/carrying our massive bikes. One memorable section had us 10 feet above the water on a scree slope with varying depths of snow. Each step could be shallow or deep, it could slip or hold and the way was too narrow for a bike to be anything but a clumsy anchor.

In my mind, I had hoped that we would be out of the pass by nightfall. The hours went by, though, and the sun dipped as we lifted and grunted our way through a maze of willows. And then, we could hear engines. The trail breakers had made it through to us. I was so relieved, I could hardly stand. Lou ran up and hugged the first snow machiner. The trail wouldn’t be packed enough to ride until the night had frozen it, but at least we had something to follow.

So, it was back to sinking in the snow but now only up to our knees and with a straight line to follow. Moving at our own speeds, our little group broke up. Eric and Lou moved off ahead while Billy and I progressed more slowly. Darkness fell and we were still pushing. Hunger and tiredness were beginning to take their toll so I was swearing at everything: the snow, the dark, the stupid bike, and eventually at Billy stopping to put his pedals back on. At that point, it was definitely food time. I was hating my trail mix (yeah, Pete Basinger was right) and Billy was sick of sweet energy food. A quick food-trade had us both in a better mood for what turned out to be a long way to Rohn.

We saw the ghostly traces of the lead group who were still having to make their own trail at this point. Deep furrows through soft snow. I knew the pain involved in that kind of progress and could only marvel at how they’d pushed so far. Then as we finally got close, there was the first exposed ice. The wind had blow parts of the frozen lake clear and it was like entering a different world. The ever-present crunch of snow was gone, along with the accompanying drag. My light was much less effective as the black ice soaked it up, only the cracks showing up bright. Those cracks were re-assuring though, as they highlighted just how much ice there was underneath us. Tiredness, silence, legs used to a day of pushing, a slippery surface, and a heavily weighted front tyre made it a strange, beautiful experience.

Longer and longer we went, my strength dipping and Billy pulling ahead. Until, at last, I heard a whoop from him. We were at Rohn and had cracked the hardest part of the ride.

It’s beautiful and sunny in England at the moment and, due to my lack of other working bikes, I’ve been bulldozering around on the Pug. It was the North Downs yesterday for dusty trails and the constant accompaniment of people’s muttered comments. Usually I’d be able to make out only a single word, “tyres”, in the middle of whatever else they had to say. It’s all good, though. Riding fully rigid (ok, fat tyre’s worth of suspension) and flat pedals is helping me to flow with the trail.

Back to the story…

When I got up at Shell Lake, I notice a couple of changes to my physical conditions. First, my eye had sorted itself out – maybe it just needed some real sleep. Second my toes had come up in big yellow blisters. I knew that these weren’t like normal blisters, but put some Compeed patches on anyway. They probably wouldn’t do any harm and have always helped me with real blisters.

Patched up, it was a quick trip to the freezing outhouse (Puntilla has the best outhouse, but more on that later) before Rob and I set off for Winterlake Lodge. The lady at the bar had given us some directions the night before but all I could remember was that we would end up at some homesteader’s place if we went wrong and it would cost us miles. You can probably see where this is going.

A funny thing about riding with Rob was that I warmed up much quicker than he did. So we set off together, and let our individual paces run their course – me leaving him behind for a few hours, then him catching me later in the day. The terrain was more flat tundra and straight lines but the trail conditions were pretty rideable so I set my mind to “mulling” and watched the relatively fresh bike tracks in front of me. Eventually, the trail split and I followed the tracks to the left.

The riding conditions got worse and I was having to use speed to keep me afloat on the narrow track of a snow-machine ski. It was exhausting and as I saw a “Private Property” sign, I began to wonder if it was all in vain. With tyre tracks still ahead of me, I decided to continue and find out where I’d get to. If I turned round now, I still wouldn’t know which way was correct. When I saw a bike ahead, it seemed like good news until I could make out that it was heading straight towards me. This was the route to the homesteaders and some other racers had been there. So we set off back, a drop in the 350-mile ocean of the whole trail.

I saw Rob again as I backtracked and he was getting warmer but still not on a pace that we’d ride together so I plugged on alone. A few hours later, I came to another branch. This time I was going to make a decision not just unthinkingly follow the tyres. Checking my GPS, one direction was clearly right. As I wandered up the trail a bit (GPS can’t tell which way you’re facing unless you are moving) I saw promising looking tyre-tracks to confirm my decision. Before resuming, I paused for chocolate coffee beans and a wee break. The latter is not a simple thing in bib shorts and bib longs. You have to unhook them from your shoulders and still end up crouched over during the act. I still think it’s worth it for the riding comfort, but it feels silly every time you have to go.

As I faffed, Rob caught me up. The cleat had come loose on his shoes so he couldn’t unclip. We rode together for a bit but eventually his pedal troubles caused him to fall back. I knew it wasn’t far to the checkpoint now and it was a great to joy to see across the last frozen lake up to the Winterlake Lodge. Such a joy, that I stopped to take the photo below (you’ll have to look pretty close to see the buildings). And Rob nearly ran into the back of my. He’d snuck up with his sneaky gears as I was spinning out.

Lunch at Winterlake was amazing. Some kind of black bean plate with fried eggs – so good. And this was the first re-supply drop. I opened up my bag to see what Billy had packed for me. Lots of quaker oats bars, peanut butter ritz crackers, some soups and curries, hand-warmers, and a condom. Nice work Billy.

I wanted to make it to Puntilla that night so the stop at Winterlake was short. Just enough time to make sure Rob had his shoes sorted out and get my head together. I’d seen John Ross again and, I’ll admit it – I wanted to beat the other English singlespeed rider. The next section of trail was even better than coming into Shell Lake. It twisted and flowed, and I twisted and flowed with it. I pumped the bike over little jumps, drifted round corners with both wheels sliding and one foot out. It took the slightest amounts of subtle braking to keep things going but the rewards were like riding the switchbacks at Afan. Fun and grins, and why can’t this last forever? The last part of this section is (I think) known as the steps and got to the point where I was finding the trail steep for the conditions. I wonder at how a dog team can ever cope with this. All too soon it was over, though, and down onto a frozen lake. I saw Cory on his skis – I’d gained 10 minutes back on him pretty quickly which should have been a clue but I couldn’t help asking how he’d enjoyed that last bit. Apparently, it’s tough for skiers.

And then I saw the trail that took us up off the lake… So steep that it would take hands and feet to get up. It was maybe 12 feet up and I know I’m not that strong at anything but riding, so I stripped all my gear off the bike and threw it to the top. Then, bike on back, I climbed up the wobbly steep trail. I reloaded, had a snack and it was straight back to pushing. All the height I’d lost on the fun stuff would have be regained as we were heading for the Alaska Range. The pushing was a case of shoving the bike forwards, putting on the brakes, walking up to the bars, and shoving again. Repeat until the hill is over. I wasn’t going to be catching Cory again for a while.

When the trail levelled out, the views into the mountains were spectacular. The sun shone down and the perfect air was a beautiful place to be. When I caught sight of John Ross off to the side of the trail, I was glad of someone to share it with. Just as I slowed down Rob nearly ran into the back of me. Once again, he’d snuck up on a flat bit of trail. The three of us were just happy and privileged to be out there. John even claimed to have given up on racing for position. The competitive streak in me told me two things… (1) Good, maybe that’s my chance to beat him (2) He’s a racer, he’ll be back on it later.

Regardless, the three of us rode more-or-less together towards Puntilla. There was more of the narrow stuff, but this time John and I were floundering. There seemed to be even less grip and putting a foot down off the trail would result in sinking to knee or even thigh level. My riding was a bit slapstick, but it was still getting me closer.

The final hours into Puntilla were horrible. The twists of the trail were frustrating me again and I was mentally done for the day – walking sections that didn’t need walking just because I was fried. Again, over-reliance on GPS made it worse. I could tell that I was at 90deg from where I wanted to go and the stupid damn trail wasn’t going there. The drive to finish was there, though, and I kept moving however low I felt. As day turned to night, I got closer and closer. When I finally saw a head-torch bobbing around near the checkpoint I was ready to drop through the door. Fortunately, I composed myself at least a little before saying hi to the collection of racers inside…

Wow, it’s been a month now since I set off on my big adventure. Time’s flown for various reasons but here it finally is: the first instalment of my Iditarod story…

Alaska is an amazingly beautiful place – just looking at it from the window of the plane filled me with excitement and anticipation. And, as before, my time there was filled with extraordinary people adding to the experience.

It seems wrong to call the Iditarod Invitational a race. Leading up to the event, it was “The Race” – needing no further qualification. During the adventure, though, thinking of it as a race tended to result in making stupid mistakes. So leave the racing to veteran nutters like Jeff Oatley. I’ll probably keep using the word “race” by accident though 🙂

As I had said in earlier blog posts, the lead-up to the race was far from perfect but it was fantastic to meet some familiar faces at the Speedway Cycles pre-race party. Nerves and jet lag kept me from sleep the night before we started, though, and as I arrived at Knik, I felt numb and a little bit queasy. The sun shone down on us and the other racers seemed to be going through similar thoughts as we stuffed down a last fatty meal. A few tweaks to the bike and I was ready to say good-bye to Emily for a few days. There was, literally, a mountain to climb before I’d see her again.

Time unwound quickly and soon we were riding across the first frozen lake through an inch or two of snow. I tried to stay calm and settle into the ride. The trail helped by quickly becoming firm, swooping, packed snowmachine-singletrack. I chatted to John Ross and the time sped past in the sun. I was feeling overdressed and grateful for a bit of easy mileage.

There is no real set course for the race. There are checkpoints, and there is the Iditarod trail, but we don’t have to follow it. This adds to the adventure but makes the first section from Knik to the Susitna river a confusing place for newbies… so John and I duly got lost. After a certain amount of casting around in knee-deep snow, we eventually made it to the river but south of where we wanted to be. Heading north, I could see other racers coming in along Flathorn Lake and saving miles compared to us. Doh! Thinking like it was a race, I upped the effort and soon the back of my jacket was a frozen sweaty husk. There was still a long was to Yentna Station.

A lot of the following section was very marginal riding. You’d progress a hundred metres, then sink into the snow. Casting around across a wide possibility of trails, I’d eventually settle on one and ride another hundred metres or so before sinking again. In the dim light of my head-torch this process went on and on. At least running into Billy was a nice diversion. He was setting a steady “Nome pace” so I said hi and carried on at my own (too fast) speed.

It was in this first section that I learned not to put too much stock in the GPS. Straight line distance to a checkpoint means nothing on a winding river, it just frustrates a tired body. The frequency of my stops increased the further I went and every time I saw a cabin I hoped it was the checkpoint. As the wind picked up, I stopped to swap my normal hat for the one with the pull-up balaclava bit. This simple task was complicated by only having one source of light – my head-torch – and that source being frozen to the hat. Finally, I swapped hats and was able to carry on. The sweaty first hat remained a frozen lump all the way to McGrath.

I was really struggling to set my mind to the speed that I was moving. Every GPS-led estimate of when I would arrive came and went. I wanted to stop, but that wouldn’t help, so I carried on. I scolded myself for making promises to my body that I couldn’t keep. Promises like, I’ll be there in an hour. Eventually I accepted the one truth: if I keep moving I’ll get there so keep moving. At around 2am I got there.

Yentna Station was the busiest checkpoint as the field had yet to spread out fully. I rolled up, signed in, and tried to stuff down food. My plan was to sleep for 4 hours and get back out there. So I set my soggy socks and shoes in front of the stove and went to try to sleep.

But sleep wasn’t happening. Too much excitement, too many nerves, and my eye was itching, hurting, and watering. As the time came to get up I was glad to be “doing” instead of just lying there. By the time I reached the next checkpoint, I was bound to be so tired I’d sleep like the dead.

Heading downstairs, I found Jill Homer. She was hesitating to put any weight on her feet. Frostbite had got to them after overflow had doused them. I was too spaced out to talk to her properly, but I felt her pain and hoped that she would be able to continue. I gathered up my socks and shoes to find them soaked. They had been lying in a puddle while I’d been lying in bed. “Well, my boots are waterproof anyway so I’ll just go,” I thought. Mistake.

The word was that it was cold outside, but as I loaded up my bike it didn’t seem too severe. Of course, the temperature on the river, in the wind, is a lot colder than up at the checkpoint but that didn’t occur to me. I set off into (if anecdotes be true) -30C heading for Skwentna.

Now I was more attuned to things taking absolutely ages. Not quite zen yet, but I could at least appreciate the sunrise and the cold as I pedalled away. Occasionally my feet felt cold so I walked a bit. My eye was watering a lot and freezing up. But, on the whole, things were good. I was doing it, actually feeling like part of the event. At one point, I got off to walk and it felt like my toenail was being torn up by something. I took off my boots to check it out – the toe of my sock was frozen solid and the nail had been pushing against ice. I crunched it around and decided to ride as it was more comfortable. Mistake.

The rest of the ride to Skwentna was uneventful. Jay and Tracy Petervary overtook me; I chugged along. Eventually I reached what I expected to be the driveway for the checkpoint and turned in. No cabin in sight. In fact, it must have been a mile of extra riding through what would have been pleasant surroundings. Sadly, I was squinting at every tree, thinking it was a cabin in disguise. I still didn’t have all the patience I would need, but eventually the checkpoint did come into view – heading inside I found a bunch of other racers…

It was great to see James Leavesley looking so cheerful and preparing to go even as I had only just arrived. Already, there were stories swapping around from the first day of travel and, even through my excessive tiredness, the glow of other people was as welcoming as the warmth of the stove. Which is not to exclude the warm welcome of Bonnie and her family into their home. They’re lovely people!

It was still only about mid-day so my plan was to warm up, eat, and head on down the trail. As my feet warmed up, though, they started to burn. Taking off my socks, I saw that the flesh of both big toes had turned grey and I couldn’t feel anything as I pressed concerned fingers into them. As other people noticed them, I was advised to massage them a bit and try to warm them up in front of the stove. This turned out to be something I could only do in short bursts as the warming hurt quite badly. Eventually, though, my toes felt a normal temperature (but still numb and grey) and I had eaten enough to relax a little. It was getting awfully tempting to sleep for a while.

After some near-dozing on the sofa I decided to head out and try to get to Shell Lake – halfway to the next real checkpoint, but somewhere we could sleep indoors. Rob May thinks I talked him into riding out with me… I’d say the mere suggestion of having someone heading out now was enough. Either way, we set of into the warm afternoon with dry clothes and full bellies.

The ride to Shell Lake was a revelation. Almost all of the pictures I have seen of the trail (including the ones I took) show a single straight like heading across flat tundra to infinity. In fact, there are long section of fun riding out there and the only explanations I can come up with for the lack of photos are: 1) We’re having too much fun and making too good time to stop (2) If you want to see those fun bits, you’ll have to go do it for yourself and earn them. So, Rob and I swooped along snow-machine singletrack under a golden afternoon sky. It was a breath of fresh air after so much slogging along frozen rivers. I had a chance to get out of the saddle and let the bike flow a little – a strange feeling indeed on such a weighty beast.

We talked about riding, racing, and training for the event and the miles slipped by easily. It almost felt like cheating, but I knew I had to sleep at Shell Lake and catch up on all the missed zzzs since leaving England. Rob was happy with that idea so we rode like a Sunday afternoon saunter until we could see the cabins ahead of us on the lake.

The bar at Shell Lake is a weird place. The kind of place you’d expect to see at the start of a horror movie, it was quiet and very slightly strange. I could just picture some horrible secret in the basement. That didn’t stop me ordering food though. And here is one of the sad parts of my race – my bean soup had bits of sausage in it and I just ate up the lot. I could rationalise it by saying that it had already been cooked and probably would have been wasted anyway if I’d have sent it back. But the truth is that it was expensive, I was hungry, and the only alternative was my own food so I just didn’t care.

Sleep here was the best I’d had in a long while. I don’t recall how long I was out… Maybe 6 hours. But It was perfect and I woke ready to take on the next stage of the adventure…

It’s been ages since Iditarod, and I’m finally back onto bikes and blogging…

The briefest possible story of my experience is that I finished in McGrath after 6 days 22 hours; it was spectacular and difficult; I’d love to do it again.

Some of my photos are on Facebook. Bill Merchant’s video is here. Lou Kobin (one of our group of four that took on Rainy Pass together) has her account on her blog.

I will be writing about the race in more detail over the next few days, but one event from the race is worth mentioning now – as a reason for my absence from bikes and lack of motivation to blog. Like an idiot, I managed to get frostbite on my feet. So the week after I got back from Alaska was spent immobile and in pain. I can ride again now, but I still need to bandage my toes and they still make a mess when I do so. It’s not really something to dwell on – especially since I’m back in action now.