The Bike Race

I tried to think of something clever for a title, but there is nothing clever about it—it's a bike race.

Now what on earth propelled me to enter a bike race? I had never participated in any race before, as competition (especially the physical variety) has never interested me. My experience on bikes up to that point had been limited to one-gear. Growing up on the flat plains of Northern Illinois, if I rode five miles on a flat ribbon of road through a cornfield, I thought I was doing good. I didn't even have any fuzzy warm memories of bike riding, as most memories are of the "Blood-Mobile" sort (the "Blood-Mobile” being the bike of my childhood, earning its name from the amount of accidents I suffered while riding it). So I ask again-what on earth propelled me to enter a bike race?

Perhaps it was the location. The Kluane-Chilkat International Bike Relay (KCIBR) begins in Haines Junction in the Yukon, crosses over into British Columbia, and then Alaska, ending in Haines. All together, the race is comprised of 8 legs that total 148 miles. Some (insane) people complete the whole thing on their own, but normally teams of 8 race, one rider per leg. When divided up, each leg averages about 20 miles. That doesn't sound so bad, does it? I used to ride 20 miles all the time on an exercise bike. Piece of cake.

I've always loved that stretch from Haines Junction to Haines, particularly the part near the pass. There's something moon-like about its isolation, as well as the otherworldliness of its pure white peaks. To think of experiencing that stretch on a bike, to be in touch with the air, the sky, the land, was to experience this landscape in a whole other way. I also liked the fact that the race was international, starting in Canada and finishing in America. The whole thing sounded impressive.

The idea began budding in my mind, but like most things, I figured it would evaporate. When visiting Chris's relatives up in Whitehorse, we went all out for breakfast, and over organic muesli, I brought up the idea of the race. How fitting did that sound—an international race with a team made up of an American, some Canadians, and a rogue Brit? The idea is what sounded cool. Being Canadian, they politely considered it and said we'd keep in touch.

When we drove back to Haines, we made a note of the contours of the land. Lots of ups and downs, as well as some serious hills. This was certainly no ride through a cornfield. This was serious stuff. Still, I figured plans would dissolve, as many plans do that require organization and energy.

The conversation with Chris's relatives happened in February. As the months passed and the snow began to melt, a team of eight somehow came together. Originally it had been Chris' cousins Sara and Bethan, and Sara's husband Phil. We needed three more riders. Phil wrangled up a few Canadian riders, and Chris recruited one from work. So we had our team. Phil registered for the race. I had suggested the name "Holy Rollers" but due to a typo on the form, we were registered as "Holly Rollers." Money was put down, and all of a sudden this thing became very real. That meant I had to get my butt in gear and buy a bike.

Silvestra

Chris had already bought a bike from Sockeye Cycle (their logo is a salmon riding a bike, which is quite clever when you think about it). I had given him crap over the price, as I've always been more a dumpster-diving, garage sale-perusing, sort of consumer. I never thought I'd waltz into Sockeye Cycle and pedal out on a $900 bike, but there you go—Sarah finally got herself a real bike. A sleek, silver beauty with more gears than I knew what to do with. I named her Silvestra.

And then the training began. I decided to take the sixth leg of the race, a relatively easy leg that starts at Chilkat Pass and gradually descends to the Canadian border. That sounds lovely, and in fact looks good on the race course diagram, but there was one serious hill in there that was no joke. Here's the description for Leg 6, copied from the official race site:

"For riders who like descents, this ride is for them. This route drops riders 200 vertical metres down from Haines summit to the beginning of a steep 100 vertical metre climb past the 3 Guardsmen. Along the way, the Klehini Valley begins on the right and affords some spectacular glacier views. This is followed by a glorious 600 vertical metres drop to Checkpoint 6. The route takes riders down a long and winding downhill as it descends rapidly from an alpine climate into the coastal rainforests. The ride ends with a nice sprint climb up to Checkpoint 6 at the top of the hill on a road corner."

So there you go. Major descent: check. Spectacular views: check. A long and winding downhill section: check. But what was that part about the steep climb past the 3 Guardsmen?

I remember driving this on our way back from Whitehorse, when I said to Chris, "This is a complete bitch of a hill." So this was my hill to conquer, the hill that haunted my dreams for months, the reason why I puffed and sweated up the many hills around Haines.

It didn't bode well for me that I struggled up the hills of the Fort, where Sockeye Cycle was located. I had never experienced something so close to a heart attack before, where I thought my heart would explode on the spot just from the sheer exertion of defying gravity. And this was just trying out the bike, to make sure gears, etc. were in working order.

With Chris living in Juneau and visiting on the weekend, we'd make the most of our time together, training for the race. Chris handled the hills with grace, or something close to grace. At least he didn't cuss his way up the hills the way I did. At times he even helped me, offering encouragement or a physical hand on my back to propel me forward. The worst hill was Cemetery Hill, Haines' own version of a "complete bitch of a hill." Seen as how I had to encounter this hill every time I left home, as it lay between our house and town, if I wanted to bike to town or work, I had to face this hill.

It was always a victory for me to tackle a hill without getting off and walking my bike. Sure, I felt like I was dying, but there was a sense of accomplishment in it. But even when I reached the top of Cemetery Hill, I had to remind myself that it was only a third the size of the hill on Leg 6. That means I had to climb three consecutive Cemetery Hills on the race.

Why did I sign up for this race again?

The Race

June 21st, Summer Solstice. We packed our bikes into the back of Buck and drove the race route in reverse. It was the first time we had seen this stretch in summer. Other than snow at the pass, we observed a completely different landscape, green and lush. We saw a brown bear clambering through brush beyond the pass, as well as a black bear who was ushering her cubs into the trees as we drove by. I wondered if bears would be an issue on the race, as bears have a trigger instinct, much like how a dog will take off after a moving object. We had bigger worries than bears though. The hills, the distances, the sheer enormity of it all.

Cyclists from all over gathered in the small town of Haines Juction. Luckily we had secured rooms in Kluane Park Inn, a bare bones hotel with mattresses like cement, but luxurious in comparison to camping. We met up with Chris' relatives, which was a quick reunion, and we set in for an early night.

Race day, and nerves aplenty. Besides a blue race shirt, I wore a rainbow tutu and turquoise legwarmers. Why, you ask? Why not, is what I say. If I was going to struggle in this race, I'd do it in style. Chris's cousin Bethan was stylin' as well with a wreath of holly in her hair, representing the "Holly Rollers."

We congregated at the start line to see Sara off. And then our day of drive-and-wait began.

At the first checkpoint, we watched as the solo cyclists flew by. They must have been superhuman, the way they whizzed by in a group like starlings in flight. Chris paced, his leg being the next. None of us were prepared to see Sara passing through the checkpoint so soon. Because she had gotten a flat tire, a van had taken her to the checkpoint. Though she was smiling, I know how disappointed she must have been to miss out on crossing the checkpoint on her own.

I was in charge of supporting Chris on his leg. He had opted for one of the more difficult stretches—24.6 miles with lots of ups and downs. My support consisted of sitting at a pull-out, reading a book, waiting for him to pass. Then I'd drive past him and shout words of encouragement. He looked exhausted each time I saw him, but for over two hours he didn't stop riding. The scenery on his leg was gorgeous, with the water from Dezadeash Lake sparkling in the sun.

Summer in the Yukon is glorious and green, bursting with life. To stand alongside the road and wait for our teammates to pass was a pleasant experience. But as nice as it was to stand in the sun and look over those green stretches of wilderness, my stomach churned with nerves. A part of me wished I had taken an earlier leg, just so I could relax and enjoy the rest of the day.

My nerves kicked into overdrive when we came to checkpoint 5, at the summit. The optimal weather had turned to gray skies and sleet. I had never ridden in such conditions, and this time I wasn't worrying about the giant hill to climb, rather I was worrying about all the descents on icy roads. I watched with anxiety as cyclists passed through the checkpoint. I was supposed to be ready to go, as soon as the relay stick was handed over. Chris and I waited at the checkpoint for an eternity, watching the weather grow worse. It helped that I knew some of the volunteers from Haines at the checkpoint. None of them seemed concerned about the weather, and nobody was backing out. I knew I'd look like an absolute sissy if I forewent my leg. Besides disqualifying us, I'd never live it down. So when I finally saw the face of my teammate, I shakily took the stick, and to the cheers of my supporters, I took off.

I felt like a penguin at a leopard party, clearly out of my league as cyclists whizzed past me. Though I was freaking out, I pedaled as fast as I could go, even on the descents where my wrists seemed too weak to support me. And then there it was ahead of me—the big bitch of a hill.

Before the race, I told Chris not to stop on hills on my leg to encourage me. I needed all my concentration on the hills, and he would distract me or cause me to break down. So what did he do? He stopped on that bloody hill, near the top. "You're almost there!" he was shouting while I huffed and puffed away.

It had always been my strategy on hills to look at the road directly ahead of me and focus on pumping my legs, and listening to my breath, or the "fuck, fuck, fuck" coming out of my mouth in pulses. To have to look up at Chris, and break my concentration, I realized that I was dying. "I don't think I can do it!" I called out to him, very near tears. I had just passed by a parked car when I called this out, so it was a nice surprise when I heard cheers behind me, with someone calling out, "You can do it!"

I had to smile at this burst of encouragement from a car full of strangers. I knew at that point that I couldn't get off my bike and walk, not after that. So I conquered that hill and almost cried with relief when I reached the top.

The sleet and hail tapered off as I cycled along, and I began to enjoy the scenery. The treeless area around the Three Guardsmen Mountain is some of the most fantastic scenery on earth. I had always wanted to experience the rawness of this wilderness on my own. For long stretches, it was just me; I was alone in this magnificent scenery, listening to my breath, feeling that cold air on my face and the blood pumping through my veins, feeling more alive than ever.

Ah—so this is why I signed up for the race.

I turned a corner, and the mountains fell away. Ahead of me was a long, gradual descent towards the U.S/Canadian border. I tried to give it my all on this last stretch. Normally, I enjoy descents, taking my time to coast downhill, but this was a race and I was treating it as such. But even as I pedaled hard, cyclists passed me with longer legs and sleeker physiques. They would give me an encouraging word as they passed though, which was very sweet of them. "You're doing great!" I really enjoyed this aspect of the race, how everyone bonded together in sportsmanship. It's amazing what a word of encouragement can do during times where you feel alone.

The checkpoint was at the top of a hill, which seemed like a dirty trick to me, but I completed my leg of the race, all 16.7 miles of it, in just over an hour. I had ridden the whole thing without stopping, which was a personal achievement to me. I didn't rock it, but I did it, and for a girl who used to ride through cornfields with just a one-speed bike, that says a lot.

Relieved that my leg was now over, I handed the relay stick over to Bethan. She was to ride past the border and into Alaska. It might have seemed wrong, but because she was passing by Mile 33 Roadhouse, a group of us decided to sit outside and cheer her on from there. This meant beers on the porch, watching the racers cruise past. It was almost like a taunt, like "Hey, you're sweating and straining, but we're enjoying cold beers," but we were celebrating as well.

What a different world Haines was in comparison to the starkness of the summit, where it was gray and bitter cold. Haines was lush and sunny and full of friendly faces. It was a wonderful ending to our day as we arrived at the finish line. Because we had spent so much time celebrating at Mile 33, we had missed the moment our team had crossed the finish line. But there was a cookout going on, and then a party at the Dalton City, the set of White Fang. A bluegrass band was playing (what else?) and the good hipster people of Haines, as well as cyclists, were dancing. I sat in the blush of a summer evening, watching the scene, basking in the incredibleness of it all.