I should have known better than to use an air fork. Fox’s Float suspension shock seemed so scientifically precise on the outside, and so tastefully detailed -that is before I ripped the logo stickers off. Purchasing the Float fork heavily discounted at second hand sympathy price was a consumer’s dream. Now I am left high and dry in the wilderness without any tide of conciliatory fluff to tread. Alas my revered product broke its seals and decompressed without the slightest provocation on my part. On the second day of biking from Deadhorse I heard a gush of air let loose and a long hissing squeal like complicated expulsion of flatulence or perhaps my tire leaking air. I suspected at any moment I would be forced to throw my bike to the ground in irritation and repair a flat. no no, nothing that simplistic would dampen my enthusiastic greeting of the trail. The air seals broke on the fork. My handle bars were lowered significantly -some four inches or so-, and my posture would be soon bear some considerable pressure on my wrists. After a few days of riding on my ridiculous ‘low rider’ I encountered a numbing sensation in the two outer fingers of each hand. A nerve was being pinched, abused, or damaged, and while in the deep meditative state of riding it has been difficult to not think about losing these valuable assets. I’m a goddamn piano player after all, and six fingers in all will just not cut it for busting out a good waltz.
I’ll try to cut the drama here and focus on more positive things about the trail… like the wild berries. The raspberries and blueberries bushes -often planted by the transportation/ public relation section of the oil companies to garnish propagandist information posts at roadside rest areas for tourists- are bountiful, refreshing, and highly addictive. Also on the good side of the road, pain saving remedies from the bike mechanic Goat. His suggestions for replacing my expensive Thompson stem with modest looking -higher angled- stem has certainly helped. The good people at the UCSC bike coop -and ultimately Kyle from the T.P.- have helped in offering me replacement forks. I am full of gratitude.
I have enjoyed very much walking into tourist trap truck-stop rip off cafes after sleeping on cardboard beds strewn about mosquito infested marsh, and not caring that I smell like a goat -no offense to Goat. Fond memories spread their warm arms over me as I recall the Yukon River restaurant; sitting drinking coffee and spreading dozens of tiny ‘land o’lake’ butter packets and strawberry jam tabs on my rye toast and topping off with a good helping of honey from the communal decanter. A teenage girl sitting at a table across from me gags and buries her nose deep into an ice cream bowl after viewing my condiment heavy sandwich. Calorie loading has become an art form. One must evade certain honorable distractions like worrying about conflict between Lebanon and Israel, how not to be caught swiping the communal honey pot, and to be careful not to drink too much coffee -the steady road to dehydration- in order to keep the body loaded with adequate fuel.
The day we departed Yukon river we unknowingly drove headlong into a steady set of steep hills. I remember darting ahead of the others like a madman that day -I really have no language to explain my actions sometimes. about twelve miles into the great hilly climb session, I was halted from going further by a big armed woman of short stature whose lively character and crude gestures could describe those of a pirate. She bellowed that she alone made decisions and that she would not allow me or any other biker to pass through a construction zone. The zone, she asserted, was twelve miles long -really it was five. as I gazed longingly at those steep torturous hills before me and then with loathing at my captor I fell into a submissive sort of depression. That was until a trucker from behind booed the construction lady’s tyranny and told me to take off while she was in her unawares. Indeed, at that moment she was staring disdainfully at some crows that were gawking and playing around the dangerous pits of rubble -they had been blasting the sides of the road with dynamite to widen and make the precious highway a more comfortable ride for those brazen teamsters- and she shouted as if to perpetuate the rumble of combustion “who feeds these birds; they should all be shot”. A trucker explained that he sometimes offers a crumb of bread to them. The announcement set off the feisty temper of the construction workerly who shook her fist and declared him part of the problem. At that distraction I was pushing off and starting down the hill bypassing the good lady’s authority. but she yelled at me and said, “Oh no you’re not! There’s heavy machinery down that way. we’re putting your bike in that back of the pilot car, and that’ll be here in a few minutes”. Goat and Jacob arrived, and they tried their powers of persuasion to no avail. We were helped by some musculars loading our heavy loads into the flatbed pilot car. Our driver chatted with the other construction workers over the two-way radio. She told us we’d be the talk of the town… sure enough we hear some guy babble “twelve miles between here and Terra Del fuego ain’t’ gonna hurt’em” -I insist it was only five. Before she let us off on the other side of the hill she apologized for the inconvenience to eh… whoever.. certainly it seemed that all the workers were on break anyways. In this way we were cheated out of those precious five miles. Who knows how many more equipment failures, wildlife encounters, personal revelations would surface by now had we took the time to cycle that treacherous terrain. I for one will struggle to the bitter end next time, and not just for the sake of argument.
Leaving town was exceedingly hectic. Due to my lack of chronological sense and some miscommunications, most of the equipment l ordered for the trip (including my frame) arrived the day of departure. Thanks to the skill and care on the part of our local UPS driver everything did arrive, even though packages were shipped to 4 different addresses and no one was there to sign at any of them. FEDEX on the other hand, made things as difficult as possible, and their customer service was unhelpful to boot. I ended up begging a ride to Watsonville (from our good friend Alissa) early on the 11th (d-day) to pick up my frame - leaving about 4 hours to paint, assemble, disassemble, and pack my bike (as well as the rest of my gear which was arriving throught the day). Somehow (with the help of my Jenny friend) everything was in boxes by 2:00 when Moranis arrived to drive me to the airport. My flights were uneventful and the layovers long. In Fairbanks l got to contend with carpet shampooing rather than vacuums (lucky me). Throughout the 5 flights and airports no one ever questioned my lack of foot wear! (though the woman at the Deadhorse airport told me that l was the first person ever to fly in without shoes). l missed out on the stuffed animals in Fairbanks, but was rewarded with beautiful views of the ice sheets arround Barrow and glaciers in the southeast.
After arrival in Deadhorse l built my bike and waited all day for the evening flight to come in, erroneously thinking Jacob and Sean were on it. When they weren’t, l toured the industrial waste of a modern day boom town - all corregated steel and abandoned machinery. I happened upon a “fun run” in which no one seemed to be running but a sizeable portion (all young male) of the population was participating. Then l settled down under the midnight sun next to the town generator for the night. The next morning Jacob and Sean arrived, and having comandeered the majority of space in the airport, built our bikes, and wandered arround like a herd of turtles, we found the right road out of town (with only one road it was harder than one might think).
We had a quick toast to our quixotic quest and started riding, even though it was 8 or so in the evening (who could tell in the light drizzle and 24 hour sun). That night, as most to follow, we camped on an access road to the pipeline, the industrial worm which was to be our constant companion for the next 500 miles, camping on roads being necessary to avoid sinking into the marshy muck of summer-time tundra.
It’s a bizzare and Martian landscape, flat and bepuddled as far as the eye can see, then rising up quickly into impressive mountain ranges which test out strength and endurance. We have been averaging about 50 miles a day, though we are not really sure, because our bike computers are set in kilometers, and the pipeline mile posts seem designed to dupe the bears, counting in Alice in Wonderland fashion. Our rests are long and our mealtimes slow as we are all feeling the personalized aches and pains of adjusting to our new life purpose. Despite, or more likely because of, Sean’s grueling pace, his Achilles tendon aches, and his hands go numb. Jacob’s wrists and knees are the thorn in his side, the leftovers of various injuries and surgeries. My knees alternated sore spots daily, but all in all, we are feeling great and quickly adjusting to the pace and lifestyle.
Riding daily through such beautiful, unusual, and untouched country is an indescribable treat, and my body and mind quickly enter a zone, where bike riding is comfortable, automatic, and the mind is free to wander and look arround. In general the road is quite pleasant, and the truckers and their oversize loads break the revery much less frequently than one might imagine (this road having been created exclusively for them). They are in general quite courteous, pulling over and slowing down, so as to keep from showering us with rocks.
We are now happily and comfortably on holiday in Fairbanks, hoping to resume our journey on Saturday.
Perspectives of Jacob:
After meeting up with Sean in Seattle, we flew to Fairbanks arriving with weery red eyes at the bright Alaskan hour of about 3 AM. It was our first exposure to the sun masquerading as the moon. We observed the wild beasts frozen in time behind their glass containers. Grizzly bears, polar bears, wolves, and what seemed the most fearsome of all; the Alaskan Brown bear (arguably the largest carnivore). We passed out on the floor while waiting for our next flight as vacuums zoomed inches around us.
We took the time to check out the local paper to discover that a wolf had attacked a school teacher visiting the arctic circle along the Haul Road we would be travelling. The article was filled with your trypical advice about holding your ground when a wolf/bear approaches you. I took a moment to stand in front of the Alaskan Brown Bear frozen on it’s hindquarters with it’s powerful claws ready to attack and wielding a vicious smile. It seemed almost humurous to sit there and watch this 9 foot bear growling at you. Running seemed like a good idea to me. Fortunately, I had purchased some bear repellent in hopes that it might give me those extra ounces of courage to remain standing.
Arriving in an airport named Deadhorse, offered less than a reassuring ring as we stepped out into the wind swept airstrip. I was nervous that my bike would have been damaged en route. It was the longest I’ve been without my bike in a long time, and was eager to be re-acquainted with my good two-wheeled friend and travelling companion.
Goat was waiting there with his bike all rigged up and ready to go. After exploding our boxes and it’s contents across the entire baggage claim area, we began assembling these machines that are supposed to carry us around 20,000 miles. Multiple oil-workers asked us questions with an overtone that implied explicitly that we must be crazy. Considering our near future, it was difficult to argue.
We learned that the Arctic Ocean was protected by the oil companies and that if we wanted to go within any distance of it, we would either have to sail a boat there or pay for a tour, escorted by a security guard armed with armed with information designed to alter your previous conceived notions that the oil pipeline was bad for the environment. The former was a ridiculous notion, and the latter still cost 35 dollars, almost a week’s worth of food. So we began our journey.
We explored Prudhoe Bay enough to discover that we did not want to be there and after a bit of pathetic navigational challenges, we found ourselves on the Dalton Highway bound for Fairbanks. Encouraged by the sign that said that our next services were 240 miles away we began moving. Thought to ourselves that the mosquitoes sure aren’t that bad and fortunately the rain is light and sporadic.
Hunger took us as we began wasting away those precious calories riding through the wind and set down to make some food when we discovered that Goat did not bring a valuable piece of the stove. We quickly learned why the natives used oil for a fuel, because the arctic tundra sure didn’t have any wood to burn. Fortunately, the river carried some sticks down and with the help of a little unleaded fuel we were able to get the fire started. Not to mention the lower half of my shirt and shorts. 
The ride was rather flat and we were doing our best to adjust to the rigors of riding a rig weighing above 125 pounds. Beat at the end of the day, we were nervous about the 5,000 foot Antigun Pass into the Brooks Range. It seemed that the closer we got, the longer our rests became. We adjusted quickly to the endless sunshine which allowed us to ride at our leisure and more importantly rest at our leisure, which at times occupied a good 17 hours before we found ourselves back on the bikes.
The mosquitoes found us quickly on our trip, and were remarkably large. They could penetrate most anything I wore and I had flashbacks of the movie Jumanji where giant mosquitoes could puncture car roofs. I quickly became accustomed to wearing my mosquito netting at night. By the morning time, they would alll congregate at the top of our tent, and I could only help but believe that every single one of those mosquitoes was resting because they had a satisfying meal.
I have a journal that I attempt to write in every night, but find that I’m generally too tired to offer anything useful. And as I browse through it, I also realize that the handwriting is so poor what has been written needs to be translated. One of the most exciting things about this trip so far is the general sense of adventure the flows in and out of our endless days. There are huge passes that people warn us about, challenges like starting a fire in the wet arctic to be able to eat, or being cautious of the wildlife that presents itself as a real danger. So far every day has offered new and exciting challenges and obstacles. The Dalton Road has proven to afford infinite variations of quality as if the road itself had an identity criss. From thick mud, slopping up our drive train (giving up my shifters to ghosts who never seem to agree with my choice of gear ratios, to smooth dry pavement, or sharp bumpy rocks and hills that seem to ascend into the sky.
The Antigun Pass was our first real test, (a 5,000 foot pass). Upon approaching it, you begin to see the contours of the moutain, which host the road that couldn’t possibly be used for trucker’s, etc. Unfortunately, we quickly discovered that was in fact the road we needed to pass. After about an hour we were at the top, quickly enjoying our accomplishment and view as we became eager to descend from the windy cold summit we were on.
Descending the pass was our first taste of the blessings of downhill, an exhilerating rush after the painful, slow ordeal of ascending miles of uphill. We stopped to view the hilarious tourist trap claiming to be the furthest Northern Spruce on the Alaskan Pipeline. Always eager for a photo-op, we stopped to enjoy the splendors of the tourist attraction. The tree had been chopped down, and somehow through the magic of duct tape, they were able to fix it with a generous application surrounding the trunk’s wound. A priceless moment captured on the digital camera we were pretending to know how to use.
Soon after, Mike came up on an old Schwinn bike he was mighty proud of toting a BOB (Beast of Burden) trailer. An animated character who quickly managed to elevate our moods which had been sluggish after the exhausting rainy day. He had great travel stories and exposed a piece of the bike touring community that we were, by default, a part of. He handed us stickers that had his website on there, www.mikelikebike.com. Which was a trip, because I had been to that website when I was planning our adventure.
Shortly after seeing mike, a BMW GS1200 motorcycle stopped and an eccentric longhair named Randy got off. From what we gathered, he was a self-employed computer programmer who was taking an extra long vacation, leaving behind his wife, kids and all responsibilities. He was full of life and stories of his bar-room belligerence en route.
Found ourselves in the town of Coldfoot, the first place offering well needed services, since our “planning” had necessarily been inadequate to prepare for the amount of food three hunger cyclists could consume. After getting a trucker’s special of biscuits and gravy, eggs, pancakes, coffee and some grocery rations to extend our culinary comforts we were on our way.
After a long day of riding up hills that seemed to match the Antigun Pass; we were looking forward to camping at the nearby Arctic Circle. Something about the imaginary line seemed to be worth our time. As we were slowly rising in elevation along another hill, promising to expose a new horizon and the site of our home; a truck had slowed to tell us that they just reported seeing the wolf a mere 100 yds from the arctic circle. Great, we could camp on this steep hillside or keep going past the campground.
With no sightings of the wolf, we began the final leg of our day. Only to quickly see that if we wanted to sleep in peace that night, we were going to have to climb up a hill of unnatural proportions. I had joked about the Antigun Pass having a sign that pointed straigh up and lead you to a hill that did precisely the same. But this was Beaver’s Slide, and like a roller coaster, or water slide, at the top, you can not see the bottom or the grade. It just dips down instantly. Approximately 3-4 miles long, with the last 2 miles becoming a steady 9% grade of rocky dirt road. To all of you in Santa Cruz, it was about as steep as Miramar Rd. but a good 2 miles longer. We zig-zagged to taper the grade, and after a grueling hour + we were at the top. Pictures offered a pathetic portrayal of the road. In a delirious punch-drunk type of state, we managed to make a fire (only with the help of petro-chemicals would this have been possible) cook our food and pass out.
Miraculously, my legs still seemed to function the next day and I had been able to keep a good pace. Saw a Reindeer (Caribou) in the purple hills, passed finger rock (40 foot rock sticking out of the earth like a finger) and hillsides of fireweeds that covered the earth in a crimson red as if to extend the reflection of the fire that had preceeded it.
I was riding at about 30-35 kilometers/an hour (yes, kilometers. I have not been able to figure out my bike computer and so it remains to show me distance/speed in kilometers). I had looked back to see a trucker I wanted to leave room for on the road and kept my pace. I veered to the right of the road and checked on the trucker which was still a good distance away and as I was turning back around I thought I saw an animal. Potentially, a hallucination cooked up from exhaustion and twilight, I turned back around to see that there was really a wolf chasing after me. After muttering some frightful profanities, I stood up and picked up the pace. I knew in my mind that running was the last thing that you are supposed to do. I quickly let that ridiculous notion evaporate from my mind as I pictured the wolf in full stride, as if I was watching a nature show capturing the slow-motion chase and kill of some predator on the plains of Africa.
It was clear to me that the wolf was going to catch me, and I began fumbling for the bear repellent in my handlebar bag, riding as hard as I could, all the while so as to buy some time. I always imagined being able to act with a little more precision in times of dire need, but found myself struggling to operate the bike at the speed and handling the spray. Eventually, I managed to get it out, but saw that the wolf was now within 10-15 feet and I haven’t taken off the safety. I imagined if I stopped, the wolf would complete the chase with a flying leap to grab my throat. I finished taking off the safety and saw the trucker driving behind me swerve and hit the wolf, and quickly pulling to the left to avoid hitting a very appreciative me. I waved a thankful wave, a couple of them as if I was honoring this trucker who seemed to step in as my guardian angel. He did not slow down a bit, just kept on going.
I veered back around to see that the wolf was hardly lifeless. Breathing hard and wimpering in pain. Its eyeball had departed its socket exposing a small strand of flesh keeping it intact. There was a large wound on its head dripping blood, thickened as if it were magma flowing from a volcano slowed by time. In an attempt to end this beast’s suffering I tried to smash it’s skull with a rock, but was amazed by its resillience. It had been hit by a speeding trucker and a huge rock and was more than alive. It seemed safely subdued and so I grabbed it by the scruff of it’s neck and began the difficult process of slicing its throat. By then, my comrades had appeared in dismay of the scene. To see me holding a bloody knife with a dying wolf at my feet did not readily resonate with their current paradigm of our trip (nor did it connect with mine). After more than a comfortable share of cutting, the wolf was ending its stay in this world.
Thoroughly freaked out, we began riding again. I observed the roadside with a bit more interest and pedaled at a considerably quicker adrenaline induced pace. There was also some comfort in the belief that the wolf that had haunted our dreams and those of tourists on the Dalton was no longer in service.
After endless sunset vistas and a plethora of horizons we have found ourselves in Fairbanks, enjoying the comforts of food that does not originate as a dried powder. We have been living like kings in the generous and hospitable hands of Sue and George Rainier (Our good friend Conor’s parents).
Rumor has it that Goat managed to get all his gear together and make his flight. I know that he wasn’t even able to get his frame until this morning. Just a few hours before he got on a plane in San Francisco.
It has proven extremely difficult fitting everything into boxes. The Xtracycle and bike do not fit well in such close quarters. As if it were a Rubik’s Cube, after rearranging the bike pieces enough, it managed to fit.
Unfortunately, I decided to weigh my luggage and discovered the depressing reality that I will have at least 50 pounds of food/gear, on top of a bike that will weigh about the same.It is now 2 AM and I’m pretending to be able to finish preparing for this trip.
I am hoping Sean is able to get everything together smoothly. I look forward to flying from Seattle to Fairbanks with him.
An odd arrangements of flights we have. After Sean and I arrive in Fairbanks, I fly down to Anchorage and he flies up to Barrow, and then all three of us will hopefully converge in Prudhoe Bay.
Wish us luck and look for future updates.
