Outdoors/Adventure

Cyclists, never underestimate spring breakup in Southcentral Alaska

I lay my head down on my handlebars. I left my phone on speaker next to my ear as it dialed. My husband picked up.

"Hi," he said (in his late afternoon "I'm trying to finish up work, please make it quick" tone).

"Hi," I said (in my "I'm enduring something and there's really no solution but I want to complain about it" voice). "I'm on my bike and I don't know if I'll ever make it. It's bad out here. Real bad."

Looking up the short hill ahead of me, crusted with soupy layers of ice and slush, I thought back to the morning. I'd told the repair shop that I'd be there this afternoon. It seemed like such a good plan. Truck's in the shop, and I love riding my bike for utility. I did it all the time when I lived in the city. Here in Palmer, there are fewer opportunities to ride as a means of getting from Point A to Point B. So, I was excited to take the 10-mile spin out from my place along the bike path to downtown. I'd get some exercise, and I'd get outside.

I'd underestimated breakup.

"Well, you could turn around and we could pick it up tomorrow," he offered.

"Nooo," I lamented. "I'm here. I'm already doing this. It just might take me forever."

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"OK. Well. Good luck, then."

"Ugggggh. OK." I hung up. I shoved my phone back in my pocket, lifted my leg onto the pedal, and started spinning my wheels up the hill. There's no purchase when the slosh gets rutted and deep enough. I stood up and shoved my legs down each rotation, forcing the bike forward. By the time I was at the top, I was panting. I paused and beheld my fate.

The next mile of trail was an enormous shallow puddle careening out along the Old Glenn Highway. I sighed loudly and dramatically, and cycled slowly through the water, which reflected the bright blue March sky and clouds perfectly. I tried to focus on that.

I found myself looking forward to the puddly parts of the trail, because that meant there weren't icy ruts for my tires to create. Sure, the steady splashing noise as my tires rotated through 6 inches of water wasn't pleasant. But it beat skidding.

When something is unpleasant or feels impossibly long, it helps me to break it down into parts. I started noticing when I ticked off an entire mile. I'd celebrate with a faint smile. I wondered how it looked to all the cars speeding by on the highway. "There goes one of those strange fat tire cyclists, with her strange idea about fun," they might think, or, "Is she lost? Doesn't she know it's basically breakup and that trail is in disgusting shape? Why is she smiling?!"

One section of trail was simply not rideable. The snow was still too deep, even for my big tires. So I hopped on the Old Glenn for about a minute, until I decided that was a bad idea. The shoulder's not really a thing there, and especially this time of year there's not much margin for error.

I stood on the side of the road with each passing car dragging a vacuum of air behind it as it sped past me, threatening to pull me along in its wake. It took five minutes until there was no traffic in either direction, and when it was clear, I went running with my bike back across the highway. The trail, sloshy though it was, was a welcome sight.

Lucky me, as I neared Palmer the trail was completely clear and dry. I started to feel triumphant. I started to enjoy myself as I neared the shop.

That's the thing about big ideas that turn out to be only half-fun. What I remember most about the bike ride is the bright March sun. I remember I felt determination, which sometimes looks a lot like breaking down something unpleasant into small parts and getting them over with bit by bit. Then, I remember the satisfaction of rolling right up to the shop, leaning my bike against the glass, and walking in.

Of course, it helped that I got to throw my bike in the back of the truck, drive home, and call it a day. Even if I ended up enjoying it more than I thought I would, it was still a slog — and a preview of the real breakup yet to come.

Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays in Southcentral Alaska.

Alli Harvey

Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays in Southcentral Alaska.

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