Photo by Tom Evans

Every winter I get a few folks asking if I’m heading back to Alaska for the Iditasport race on the Iditarod trail.  

That’s an easy “no”, especially after reading about this year’s race.

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the race, at least once it was over, it’s just that it’s an amazing tough, enduring race that really could be life threatening if ones luck ever ran out in the remote Alaskan bush.

And I was very fortunate to have a good race on my last attempt when a professional video documentary was made. Popping the DVD in the player is an easy way to relive the misery — or just reading Mike Curiak’s blog.

However, I still have hopes for running the Susitna 100,  a shorter 100-mile race where the odds are much better for being rescued should things get ugly.

Related Posts

• Mike Curiak: On his Own to Nome
• 2001 Iditasport Extreme 350: Pushing it to the Limit
• 1999 Iditasport 100

Compared with most races and rides, the Iditarod is about as unsupported as you get. You can stop in cabins along the way and purchase a meal. Further along the trail you can stop in small villages and buy food. Mike’s won’t be doing that. He’s on his own and carrying everything he needs.

Just surviving on what you have is amazing. I just can’t imagine the willpower to ride past some of those cabins where they’ll gladly serve some hot tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Spending a day slogging through snow, eating just Clif bars and trail mix certainly makes you appreciate a basic hot meal.

The above photo is from Eric Parsons. Eric’s company, Epic Designs made Mike’s storage and handlebar mitts. His stuff looks absolutely bombproof and very well-designed. And I know Mike sets the bar pretty high for his gear. If the stuff didn’t work, it wouldn’t be on his bike.

Related Posts

• Iditasport: Bike Racing on the Iditarod
• 2001 Iditasport Extreme 350: Pushing it to the Limit
• 1999 Iditasport 100

But my 20 mile pedaling pilgrimage ends at a disappointing sign — “Closed at Dusk.” I had assumed it never closed because you never know when you might need a miracle. Oh well. I was at least on the Grotto grounds and hopefully that that was good enough for a partial miracle.

As it is every year, getting to the startling line in Anchorage is half the battle. This year is no different. After checking in my gear-laden bike box, I’m stuck spending a half-hour waiting for airport parking. The shuttle drops me off at the airport curb three minutes before my flight and I’ve pretty much given up on catching it. Nonetheless, I briskly jog to my remote gate and I’m surprised to find my plane’s still there. I toss the attendants my boarding pass and run down the Jetway. With the airplane door half-closed, another attendant turns, stiff-arms me, and tells me I can’t board. Fortunately the nearby flight crew overrides his veto and I squeeze onto the plane. I was hoping I hadn’t spent my half-miracle already.

Saturday
At the start in Knik, the weather couldn’t be better: blue skies, sunny, little wind, and a temperature not too far below freezing. With little hesitation, the starter counts down the seconds and 125 racers hit the trail.

I know it’s a long race, but I can’t help taking the holeshot and leading the pack through the picture-snapping spectators. These are the only spectators we’ll see in the entire race so why not make the most of it?

I eventually return to a reasonable pace, ride with some friends, and make decent time on some wonderfully fun snow-packed trail. The trail has a few miles of loose sugary snow, which forces us to push the bikes, but it’s not enough to get concerned. Today’s an easy 30-mile day with a forced overnight camp stop.

This race has many unique features and one is you don’t have to follow the trail. If you know a faster way, you take it. It leads to interesting situations. At one point, a racer crosses the marked trail heading off in another direction. Further down, two Brits merge onto the trail and ask “Are we near the front or the back?” As I learned later, some local riders took 12 miles of paved roads to beat everyone to the campsite on the frozen shores of Flathorn Lake.

I finally arrive just after dusk joining the other racers huddled around a couple weak fires, warming toes, drying clothes, and eating. Eventually the lure of the warm fire fades. We remove our sleeping gear and climb up the steep, snowy banks of the lake to rest for the night.

Sunday
We awake in the morning to a strong wind, which gusts through the trees, sounding more like surf crashing on a beach. A storm is moving in. I frantically repack my camping gear as the race restarts at 8 AM in the order in which we came in. Unfortunately there is no water available so I start melting snow.

After a late start, I’m on my way, pushing my 40-pound bike through knee deep snow, well traveled by those who started before me. Fortunately the trail conditions change as they always do. I release some air from my tires and was more-or-less riding.

The winds increase as we work our way through the aptly named Dismal Swamp and onto the frozen Susitna and Yentna Rivers. As is typical when riding on marginal snow, half your brain concentrates on moving forward while the other half scans the trail for the best conditions. Sometimes it’s an advantage following others. You can study other racer’s tire and foot tracks to determine what parts of the trail might be most ride-able. It also helps to be light, so you won’t sink so deep in the snow.

The conditions continue to deteriorate and four of us have resigned to pushing our bikes together. The next checkpoint should be close. “It’s just around the bend,” says a local snowmobiler, but high-speed, gas-powered sleds distort their sense of proximity. At our pace, we’re lucky to cover 2 miles every hour.

At mile 60, the Yenta Station checkpoint is a welcomed sight. We park our bikes in the surrounding snowdrifts and head inside the cabin. The cabin is built around a large stove that is diligently working away, drying the wet clothing that hangs around it. As more racers trickle in, I order a bowl of tomato soup and grilled cheese. Then I order another, following my eat-what-you-can-when-you-can strategy. It’s quite comfortable sitting around the table, eating, and talking with others. It’s not what you’d expect in a race, but the conditions have made everyone a reluctant racer.

Realizing the weather is only going to get worse, we pull on our gear and resume our push up the Yentna.

It’s thirty miles to the next checkpoint and the snow is falling heavier now. The trail is becoming more difficult to follow as darkness falls. Our group is five strong. We push our bikes in a walking pace line, each person taking a turn breaking trail at the front.

At midnight we push past Dave from British Columbia, who’s bedding down alongside the trail. Dave is wearing a $999 oversized down-insulated body suit that substitutes for a sleeping bag. He tells us we’re crazy but we push on.

Moving further along, lights start coming toward us. It’s one of the runners. The trail we’re on is a dead end. We need to be on the other side of the wide river. We back track and search with our powerful headlamps, hoping to see trail reflectors that mark the proper path. We don’t risk making our own trail due to the impossibly deep snow and the chance of falling into open-water.

As we’d learn the next day, Mike Curiak from Colorado was at the front of the race when he inadvertently stepped into chest-deep water. During this time, he sprained his ankle, which led to his early withdrawal from the race.

For our weary group, it’s now 3 AM and I’ve had enough. The snowfall and wind has managed to hide much of the trail and we’re barely crawling along. Russ, an Ohio State student and I quickly unpack our gear and sleep along the trail, while the others trudge onward.

Monday
It’s the early side of 7 AM and I have to get up, get moving, and get warm. I purposely pack my gear and start pushing my bike with Russ in tow. Soon the sun begins to rise, as does my body temperature. We pause to remove our extra insulation and continue pushing to the next checkpoint some 15 miles ahead. It’s going to be a long day.

In the late afternoon, we push our bikes into the Skwentna checkpoint, a relatively large roadhouse located 90-miles from the start. After two orders of grilled cheese, I crawl into my sleeping bag and nap as nearby racers watch “Happy Gilmore” on the VCR. Surprisingly, the rest of our pace line from the previous night stumbles in. They only went a mile further than Russ and I before sleeping on the porch of a nearby river cabin.

I finally wake up and convince Russ we should continue on. The rumor is another storm is moving in. With the temperatures hovering above the freezing mark, it could likely rain. If we push ahead to the higher elevations, it’ll only snow, which is more manageable.

About a mile from the roadhouse, Russ and I discover something that leaves us giddy. We can actually ride our bikes. We make good time over across the river and flats. We push up through the Shell Hills and eventually on to Shell Lake. The only thing slowing me down is my pedals, which are now big blocks of ice. I pull out my knife and chip away as best I can.

At mile 105, the Shell Lake Lodge Checkpoint is an earthy, softly lit log structure with a nice bar and kitchen. I eat another order of grilled cheese and half a plate of spaghetti. Russ decides to rest awhile at these fine accommodations while I chose to continue up the trail in hopes of beating the snowstorm.

As I’ve come to learn, you rarely beat the snowstorms in Alaska and they often beat you. I rode and pushed until 4 AM through the heavy snow before camping under a large fir. It’s often difficult to know when to continue on and when to stop. After singing too many verses of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” out loud while trying to stay awake, my choice was evident.

Tuesday
Following only a few hours of sleep, I get up and get moving. The snow is still falling and the trail is worse than ever. I methodically drink my water, eat my trail mix, and push solo for the next fifteen miles.

The Winter Lake Lodge checkpoint sits high on the frozen banks of Finger Lake. The beautiful lodge and out buildings are trapped under 18 feet of snowfall and are connected by a walking path which sits just below the roofline. The trick of getting into the buildings is to grab the roof and carefully walk down the steps carved into the snow.

I park my bike and stumble inside to find a bunch of racers sitting around a table waiting for food. Perfect timing. According to the promoter, we’d get a “gourmet” meal at every checkpoint and for once this might be accurate. The chef is world class, one of Alaska’s best. She serves fresh vegetables including some of the best asparagus I’ve ever had. As is typical, I order a second plateful. Desert is a scrumptious slice of pecan pie.

After eating, one of the lodge owners lets me use their radiotelephone to call my Mom in Florida. When she answers, I quickly tell her I’m okay and preemptively add “Mom, please don’t say anything embarrassing. I’m on a speaker phone with a lodge full of people.” She was quite excited that I was doing well, perhaps as high as 11th place at one point. I just reminded her that I had 220 miles to go.

As the storm continues outside, the reports are the trail to the next checkpoint is not conducive to foot travel, much less biking. Only three racers have left the lodge so far, including Rocky the lead cyclist and venerable race favorite from Fairbanks. Everyone else is waiting for the night’s cooler temperatures to firm up the trail surface, not to mention the excellent salmon dinner with another slice of pecan pie.

I buy a bag of cookies and three cans of Coke before hitting the trail at around 9 PM with some familiar faces. I’m traveling with the same three friends from the night before: Pat from Tennessee, Mike from Minnesota, and Eric from California. Together we push our loaded bikes past the lodge and back on the Iditarod trail.

It’s a still clear night with a crescent moon on a starry background. This section of trail is punctuated with steep climbs and descents through the tall trees. Some of the descents are unbelievably steep and are properly marked with the official Iditarod “Watch your ass” signs. A couple descents are so steep that you can’t see the entire trail in front of you until you start down the slope. With our brakes iced up, we resort to the Fred Flintstone braking method: one foot on a pedal and the other digging into the snow.

For every good descent, there are probably two good ascents, with the most famous just after we cross the Happy River. They’re called the Steps and for good reason. My method for getting up them is to push the bike forward a couple feet, lock both brakes, and then dig my toes into the trail to catch up. It’s painfully slow but they’re aren’t many options.

Once past the Steps, we start looking for the rumored cabin to crash for the night. It’s close to 4 AM and the four of us have had enough. Not finding the cabin, we resort to sleeping alongside the trail once again.

It’s a miserable night. My damp down sleeping bag isn’t working all that well and I can feel the cold snowy ground beneath me. With my boots still on to prevent them from freezing, I intermittently wiggle my toes to keep the blood flowing. After a few hours, I’ve had enough. It’s 10F out and I need to start moving. The others are still waking as I tell them my plan to walk slowly down the trail to warm up, letting them catch up easily.

Wednesday
The headwind is howling as the trail crosses yet another large lake. The sun is rising but I’m still cold. Pat rides past me and says, “C’mon, let’s ride” but I tell him I’m not ready. Within a half-mile, I’m off the lake and my internal furnace finally kicks in. I take off my extra insulation, put some extra air in my tires and start riding. The trail is perfect, mostly downhill, and contagiously fun as it winds through the mountainous valleys under pristine blue skies.

At mile 165, the Rainy Pass Lodge sits in a expansive valley about 15 miles east of the mountain pass. The gourmet meal here is a pot of beef stew sitting on a wood stove.

Pat’s here, along with many others who passed us during the night, including a team of British and Italian cyclists.

I quickly find my drop bag, empty it on the floor, and devour a can of Pringles. Pat’s drop bag never made it and he has no food. Luckily I’ve over-packed and give him 4,000 calories of Kar’s trail mix. Kar’s is one of my sponsors and they’ve provided plenty of trail mix and peanuts, which is keeping my engine properly fueled. I have trail mix in a water bottle attached to my handlebars. I can easily pour a mouthful while riding or walking without having to stop. It works great.

Not long after arriving, Pat wants to leave. He wants to get over the mountain pass before dusk and we’re told it’s all ride-able.

The temperatures will definitely be colder once over the pass, so I pull on extra clothes from my drop bag. I start with Patagonia’s lightweight capilene tights followed by bike shorts, wind proof briefs, and heavy windproof bike tights. I debate out loud whether the briefs are overkill until Rob from Fairbanks asks if I value that region in less general terms.

On top I’m wearing an open-mesh vest, a lightweight capilene top, and a light jacket. I carry my extra-warm Patagonia R1 pullover and wind shell just in case. I also have a Puffball insulated pullover to use when I stop, sleep, or when it’s just real cold.

Pat leads us out of the cabin. Behind him is Pierre from Minnesota with me being the slow caboose. All ride-able? Not ride-able! It was a gradual climb to the pass at 3,160 feet. There are no trees and the headwind is a steady 30-MPH. The trail varies from a solid, wind-swept crust to knee-deep drifts, and when you break through the crust, you go waist-deep. It isn’t fun. Pat and Pierre are moving well, but I’m slowing down and losing the battle to stay warm. A lone snowmobiler stops to check on me and I ask if there are any trees in these parts to block the wind. “Not for 10 or 14 more miles.” Perhaps sensing my bad situation he mentions a safety cabin a mile or so up the trail.

Cresting another hill, I see the cabin and it looks very inviting. As I head uphill, my situation continues downhill, and after a brief bout with Tourette’s Syndrome, my survival instinct makes the call. It is time to head a quarter-mile off trail to the cabin.

The snow is knee deep and I stop pushing my bike halfway there, put my head down and trudge onwards. The cabin has a stove and is stocked with wood. I get a nice fire going, warm my toes, and quickly down 2,000 calories of trail mix.

In about an hour, I have a new attitude. I hike back to the bike, turn it around, and continue up the pass just as dusk as settles in.

I feel great physically, but my head is still tired from the general lack of sleep. However, things are looking up. Sometime after 11 PM I push past Pierre who is sleeping along the trail. He said he’s doing fine, so I continue. Within an hour I pass the British team sleeping in their tent. An hour later, I push past Greg Blackwell bivied just west of the pass. Strangely enough, most of the people I’ve passed in this race have been asleep.

The downside of the pass isn’t ride-able but at least the wind has stopped. I run my bike wildly down the open Dalzell Valley, eventually riding when the trail narrows between the trees. After quite a few miles the valley becomes a gorge divided in two by a swift flowing river. The trail continues to drop quickly, traversing the river on occasion over slick and creaky ice bridges.

I really want to get to the next checkpoint. Sleeping outside has definitely lost its allure. I try locating my position on my USGS maps but to no avail. It is 4 AM once again, I’m drunk with exhaustion, and not making very good progress. I decide a quick bivy might set me straight.

Thursday
I awake after only two hours. I’m still wearing my water pack and it’s starting to leak on me. It’s time to start moving again. I continue down the gorge, crossing a couple barely frozen creeks, and jumping over a half-broke ice bridge.

The Rohn Roadhouse at mile 210 is the most modest of the checkpoints. If it weren’t for the Iditarod events, Rohn would have a population of zero year-round. It’s a small cabin with a generous wood stove. Jasper is the self-proclaimed “Mayor” of Rohn, though he lives in Anchorage most of the time. Sadly enough, no one told Jasper the Iditasport crew was on the trail. He gives us what leftover food he can find, along with plenty of water and well wishes.

When I ask Jasper where the outhouse is he says he’ll show me because he has to use it, too. He is quite proud of the fact that it is one of the few “twofers” on the Iditarod trail, besides he’d just set it up with fresh Styrofoam seats. I am clearly uncomfortable with the thought of sharing such a private moment with the Mayor. Much to my relief, this is a divided twofer.

Back at the cabin, Pat is continuing on to Nikolai while I sleep for a few hours. Eventually arriving are the two Brits, Pierre, Greg, and another runner, Bill from Anchorage. Bill started this race on his bike, but while blasting down some hills he rode off into deep snow to avoid some skiers camping on the trail. Unfortunately, this crash broke the front fork of Bill’s bike. With 250 miles remaining, he decided to finish the race on foot.

Now up from my nap, it is time to head out. The two Brits have the same idea as we leave Rohn together.

It doesn’t look much like winter here. The trail follows the river on a mix of glare ice, gravel, and old, crusty snow. The occasional trail marker is propped up with rocks. Eventually the trail leaves the river and heads through the trees. The trail is more frozen dirt than snow. Large roots, logs, steep hills, and hummocks (large clumps of grass) dot the route. At 6 to 8 MPH, this is relatively fast and definitely fun. It feels great to ride again as I put a bunch of time on the Brits. The only slow downs are the roughly frozen rivers and the perfectly smooth lakes. Every fall on the ice is so frustrating. It’s a fitful exercise in balance trying to get you and bike upright again.

On one lake, the ice was a little too fresh. I didn’t realize it until I had few options. My cautious footsteps turned to a full-speed dash towards shore as I started breaking through the ice and into a half-foot of cold water. Back on my bike I slowly felt the water soak through my oversized shoes and double layer of socks. I put some chemical heaters in my shoes and hoped for the best.

It’s snowing lightly once again, and after a few more stream and lake crossings, I’m at the Farewell burn, site of the Alaska’s largest forest fire back in 1978 (1.5 million acres.) The Iditarod trail cuts straight across this slowly recovering land for the next 40 miles. The diminutive trees provide little shelter from the wind, which blows the snow to reveal the grasses. The exposed grass supports the wild bison herds that roam this area, whose hoof prints occasionally mark the trail.

But there’s little wind this year and I’m flying through the burn, eventually passing the lead group of three runners. They are an eclectic group: a postal worker, a lawyer, and Roberto the tall Italian dairy farmer and cheese maker. While Roberto is only walking 350 miles, the others are going to three-times further to Nome in a planned 24 days.

Shortly after passing the runners, I hear the drone of snowmobiles. It’s the trail support and camera crew. They ride up ahead to get some action shots, but after days of watching us crawl by, they can’t help but misjudge my newfound speed. I see them stop ahead of me and get out their cameras, but I blow past them before they’re even close to being ready. Once again the drone resumes behind me, they pass and zoom ahead. And once again I see them quickly unpack their video and still cameras, but they’re too late again. This time, however, I stop on a hill just in front of them and yell:

“I’m assuming you’d like me to wait here until you’re ready!”
“Uh, yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“No problem, tell me when you’re ready.”

With the media needs taken care of, it’s time to knock down some serious mileage. The sun has dropped off the horizon and the temperatures are dipping through the teens.

At this point, I seem to be holding off the British pair and there are only two racers in front of me: Rocky and Pat. Their tire tracks confirm my position.

Though the trail conditions are starting to soften, I can still ride. However, one of the tire tracks in front of me is weaving considerably more than expected. Suddenly the tire tracks straighten, matched with boot prints off to the left. After walking for days behind Pat, I can tell you every detail of his boot print and these are not his. Rocky must be faltering. I suspected this might happen when Jasper said Rocky had left Rohn with only a Zip-Loc bag of powdered mashed potatoes, rice, and water.

Two miles from the checkpoint and I spot what looks like a large banana bouncing down the trail in front of me. The banana turns its head and shines its lamp at me. It’s not a hallucination. It’s Rocky in his bright yellow custom-designed down sleeping bag with leg holes for walking. He’s all over the trail so I stop, start walking my bike and say “Hey there!” No response. “How’s it going?” Nothing.

I’ve had enough conversations with my self during the past few days, so I pass the banana and head into the native village of Nikolai two miles down the trail. Just outside of town, I meet Fred on a snowmobile. He tells me to follow the markers into town and I’ll find the checkpoint. In the meantime he was going to check on Rocky.

I follow the markers but once into town, they are everywhere and in every direction. Some lead to the village garage, while others are used to mark construction sites or stake young trees. Many line the main street with big letters. It was 4 AM and I am thoroughly confused and riding in circles until Fred returns to show me the way.

The checkpoint is at Gramp’s house, a modest dwelling just outside of town. Pat has already left for the final checkpoint, but Gramp’s whole family has stayed up all night waiting for me. They pull a healthy plate of spaghetti from the microwave, sit me at the table, and offer me fresh bread and brownies. I thank them for being so gracious to open their house to someone who hasn’t showered in six days.

Back on the trail Fred gives Rocky a soda, which provides him enough energy to ride into the checkpoint. With the host family and camera crew sitting around, he wonders if he might have pneumonia before abruptly stopping in mid-sentence to stare at me and ask, “Did you pass me?”

Answering in the affirmative, he begins a mumbled tirade on the ethics of passing others in distress. I was in disbelief, said “whatever”, finished my meal and begin my well-deserved nap on the couch under the steady gaze of the mounted buffalo head.

Friday
The British arrive at 6 AM looking well frosted and disheveled. I take solace in the fact that they haven’t rested for the past 110 miles — there’s no need for me to hurry off this comfy couch.

But an hour later, I’m up and back to the table eating bread with sinful amounts of butter and fruit spread. The temperature is -10F outside. I pack my gear as the British lightly snore while spread out and sleeping on the living room floor.

It doesn’t seem too cold then again I’m fully layered in clothes. When I hit the Kuskokwim River, the temperature drops another 5F degrees as the sun starts to rise low on the horizon

It’s 50 miles to the finish and most of that is flat on this madly snaking river. Now and then the trail cuts the bigger river oxbows. It’s dull riding alone on this stretch and the miles don’t pass quickly enough. In a moment of desperation I start singing out loud once again, but this wasn’t going to get me to the finish line. Two complete renditions of Burt Bacharach’s “This Guy’s in Love with you” equals only a half-mile.

The trail is well traveled by snowmobilers, most of who stop to talk, or at minimum give you the thumbs up. On one such stop, the guy asks how I am, tells me I’m 11 miles from the finish, and Rocky’s not too far back.

“Huh? How far? A mile?”
The kid on the back of the sled says “Not too far.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve got to get moving.”

I switch on my full-hustle mode, but the warm sun is making the trail soft. Compounding that are the snowmobiles with Paddle Tracks, which churn the snow into a sugary consistency. But the fear of being passed is in me and I am riding possessed, not wanting to give up second place. Despite not seeing a soul behind me, I keep up the hot pace all the way into the finishing town of McGrath. Thinking I’m lost, I ride a couple miles on the back streets before seeing an Iditasport banner alongside a house.

As I turn into the yard, Claudia tells me I’ve finished and ushers me inside for food. Pat’s just inside the door, showered and talking away on the phone explaining the finer points of his first place finish. What’s extra impressive is Pat won on a singlespeed bike. He couldn’t shift down when the conditions worsened or shift up when they improved. Then again, gears don’t add up to much when you’re stuck pushing a bike for 150 miles.

I eat, shower, nurse a Budweiser, and fall asleep in a real bed. In the morning, I stumble into the kitchen and begin eating everything I can. The coffee is still warm. The finishing list shows the British team of Alan and Andy almost five hours behind me in third and fourth spots, while Pierre is fifth. I eat rather continuously for the next couple hours, send postcards to friends, pack for the hour flight back to Anchorage, and think about the $2,800 purse for second place.

The outside thermometer reads -22F as the twin-engine prop plane lifts off the snow-covered runway. I can’t help but sit back, relax, and smile. What a week! As I follow the Kuskokwin River underneath, I certainly do not envy those racers still heading to McGrath. And with Denali peaking through the thin clouds off in the distance, I have a hunch I somehow ended up with a full miracle.

Todd Scott is a multi-sport racer from Royal Oak, Michigan and is sponsored by:

Related Posts

• Mike Curiak: On his Own to Nome
• 1999 Iditasport 100
• Iditasport 1998

It’s a week before the 1999 Iditasport 100-mile race in Alaska and I’m surfing the Anchorage weather web sites. “Worse cold snap in 10 years!” Even the old-timers are having a hard time remembering such cold weather. A day later and I’m calling to confirm my motel reservation near the race start. “It’s only 45 today. It’s been 55 for the two weeks.” There’s no need say “below zero.” Welcome to a brutal Alaskan winter courtesy of La Nina.

The next day finds me stuck in airplanes, flying from Detroit to Seattle to Anchorage. Somewhere the lines of communication have broken down and the airlines don’t have a veggie meal with my name on it. I’m ravenous which neatly coincides with the book I’m reading, Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. It’s the true story of a young man from the East Coast who tried living off the wild Alaskan land and died of starvation four months later.

Once in Anchorage, I meet up with my local friend, Dean. I met Dean by taking advantage of the Iditasport “stay-with-another-racer-for-a-hundred-bucks” program. We found my bike and duffel bag, scurried to the pick up my reserved rental car. The woman at the desk said, “I hope you’re not here to pick up a car.” My car is AWOL.

The next day, just two days before the race start, the weather finally started warming. The mercury finally found the motivation to top 0 degrees Fahrenheit as I built my bike.

My bike was practically the same as the previous year with only a couple changes. First, I installed a super cool looking, extra-wide rack from Old Man Mountain Products. The extra 1.25″ width made my sleeping bag somewhat more stable. Second, I added a big frame bag that ran the length of my top-tube. One side had a small, long pocket where I kept my pump and tools. The other side was the “enormo-pocket.” This is where I kept 8 Clifshots, my NiteRider metal-hydride light battery, and a GRABBER 20-hour chemical warmer. The warmer kept both the Clifshots and battery from freezing.

And like my bike, my clothing was practically the same. I was sporting a new Wind-Stopper balaclava, which was awesome. My torso had a thin capilene layer, a poly-pro turtleneck, and a nylon jacket. I stuffed a few Balance bars in my one jacket pocket and wind-block glove covers and my asthma inhaler in the other.

Dean lives only a block from one of the Anchorage bike trails. My plan was to ride the trail and a few roads on my way to the airport to pick up my car. But after a couple minutes into my plan, I reach an impassable trail obstacle: a moose. He’s standing on the trail staring at me. As I’ve read in survival books, I started talking to him like a dog. I told him how cold I was getting and begged him to let me pass. He finally relinquished the right-of-way, moving slowly before stopping to dine on a small tree about 15 feet off the trail. I was on my way once again.

Later that night was the gear check and pre-race banquet at the classy downtown theatre. Everyone had to prove they had a minimum of 15 pounds of survival gear including a -20F sleeping bag, sleeping pad, bivy sack, stove, fuel, lights, 3,000 food calories and $150 cash in case you need to be evacuated. If you passed this test you were free to partake in the very tasty food spread. With our tummies full, the promoter began the pre-race meeting warning everyone of hypothermia and getting lost.

Unfortunately the meeting was cut short as the theatre fire alarms sounded, drowning out the promoters words, and forcing the crowd to reluctantly stroll outside into the bitter cold. The banquet was officially over when the fire department arrived.

It was now Friday and I was driving to my motel a little more than an hour north of Anchorage. I checked in then checked out the start of the course. The start is at the Big Lake Lodge situated at the end of Big Lake Lodge Road. When Big Lake freezes (up to 10 feet thick), the locals plow a road across the lake. The first 9 miles of the course is on this flat, icy road. I biked a few miles from where the road ends and the trail starts. Fortunately it didn’t feel too cold with the temperatures in the low teens and no wind.

Race day came early. I piled my bike and gear into my truck and headed to the race about an hour before the 9 AM mass start. The faithful Big Lake Lodge thermometer read 0 Fahrenheit, a few degrees warmer than last year’s race. I stuffed my chemical warmers in my handlebar covers and in my boots and was ready for the start.

There were 104 racers this year. Most chose to bike the 100-mile course while the remainder strapped on cross-country skis or running shoes. As in past years, the packed and frozen trail across snow and ice favored the bikers and caused serious hurt for those who chose to snowshoe. Only two individuals wore the big shoes this year, one of who was sponsored by a snowshoe manufacturer and had limited options.

So, as the countdown ended, once again the bikers jammed their pedals to move to the front of the pack. Minnesota’s Mike Madden set a blistering 19-MPH pace across the ice road. Neatly tucked behind him and taking full advantage of the aerodynamics was Rocky Reifenstuhl from Fairbanks, the previous year’s winner. I was trying my best to hang with this group but my legs did not feel their best. What a difference a year makes. I felt great at the ’98 race.

As I struggled to stay in the pack, a rider pulled up next to me riding rather effortlessly. It was Dale Plant, a sales rep. for Kona bikes. He saw my cutesy bike license plate with the “TODD” and wanted to introduce himself since he had read my race saga from last year. I couldn’t talk. It was only a couple miles into the race and I was feeling super crummy. This was not a good year.

Rounding out our small 5-person group was Corey Borolien from Yellowknife, Northwest Territories. We had exchanged email and he had also read my race story. He too was riding rather effortlessly. I thought to myself I really should stop riding these stories, or at least make them sound so incredibly scary that no one else dare give them a try.

As our group made the sharp turn onto the trail, Mike, Rocky, and Dale slowly pulled away and Corey dropped behind. I went to take another hit of water from my new Camelbak Zoid hydration pack but the water tube had frozen. I was doing my best this year drinking and blowing the water out of the tube, but I had overfilled it and the water creep back into the tube and froze solid. I snaked the tube under my layer of clothes, hoping the warm of my body would convince the ice to melt. It didn’t. If I had only filled it halfway and with warm water…

Another 15 miles rolled by before I pulled into the first rest stop and dunked the tube in hot water. It was not my only calamity as my jacket zipper decided to unzip on its own. I struggled with it but without any luck. I jokingly offered my $150 evacuation fee to the first person that could solve this madness, and like magic, a race volunteer restored my zip. I was back on the trail but many racers had passed me during my rest stop shenanigans.

The trail was really starting to get chewed up the further I was from the lead bikers. I didn’t realize how good I had it last year when only two other riders had left their tire marks on the trail in front of me. With nine sets of tracks, many parts of the course could no longer be ridden. Pushing 50 pounds of bike and gear through a loose half-foot of snow is not fun no matter how lovely the surroundings.

I passed Corey as he stopped somewhere along the trail in the woods. His bike was pointing in the opposite direction of the course. I jokingly asked if he was heading back.

• It’s good that bears are hibernating during this race. It was explained to me that black bears will only kill you; brown bears will kill then eat you; and polar bears will hunt you

I finally reached the second rest stop after riding and pushing for 45 miles. I checked in and out and continued along the trail that was only getting looser. I saw one other racer through the trees now and then, but basically I was racing out on my own.

The miles came very slowly as I alternated between riding and walking. I swung my leg over my bike more times that day than I had ever done before and I could tell you exactly which muscles it required. Eventually the trail flattened and I could maintain a fairly steady 7-MPH pace. I kept looking back for Corey but I didn’t see him. I was thinking that if anyone was going to catch me on that wicked section, it would probably be a skier. Sure enough, last year’s top skier, Dave Norona glided past me. The trail conditions, while bad for cycling, were great for skiing. Now, Dave’s a nice guy but my biker pride was not going to let me get beat by a skier. I passed him as he took his time at the next rest stop.

The temperature had risen throughout the day to a comfortable 10 degrees Fahrenheit. It was now dusk and when the trail dropped steeply onto the Yentna River, the temperatures instantly dropped a good 10 or 15 degrees. The large number of snowmobiles on this section of the trail ensured a firmly packed snow, which was quite a relief in spite of the colder temperatures. My hand and feet were staying warm. I had replaced the two chemical warmers in my boots with four fresh ones at the previous stop. I was not interested in having my feet freeze like last year.

Speaking of last year, I had finished third despite a slew of rookie mistakes. I said I had to return to rid myself of the “shoulda, woulda, coulda’s.” Well, as I meandered along the course I was grumbling to myself “I shoulda stayed home, I woulda saved money, I coulda be resting on the couch.” It was costing me well over a grand to hurt real bad on a barren, frozen river. It didn’t make much sense.

Much of the Iditasport racecourse is on the Iditarod dog sled trail. There were more dog sleds on the trail this year as they were racing at the same time as us. The dogs and mushers are as friendly as they are determined. I swear one team came straight at me. They didn’t give an inch and I had to pull to the side of the trail and let them pass. The musher smiled and said, “I just taught them how to play ‘chicken.’”

I continued along the course and continued to pass dog sleds. One sled caught my attention: it didn’t have a musher. The dogs were just contently pulling an empty sled along the Iditarod. Perhaps a half-mile later I saw their musher slowly walking. She asked if I’d seen her dogs and I acknowledged I had and that they were simply cruising along the trail.

It was getting dark now so I turned on my light. The course backtracks on itself from here to the finish. I was pedaling through a section of the course called the Dismal Swamp. It was an apt name. In a stupor that can only come from riding for nine continuous hours, I wondered why the word ‘dismal’ wasn’t used more often in these parts. The river was pretty dismal, as was the trail before it. I didn’t find it fair that this frozen swamp was singled out.

Eventually, I reached the next rest stop, home of the beloved zipper-fixers. I took on water and the hosts offered me food. I swear they had a big candy dish full of Tylenol capsules but I was wrong. They had some most excellent corn bread and I promptly shoved some in my mouth. That was a bad move. When you race in very cold temperatures for long periods of time, your saliva glands shutdown. It felt like I had a sponge in my mouth. The hosts asked me questions and I was reduced to shaking my head.

Checking out, I ran back to my bike and slogged onward. It was dark now and everyone had switched on their lights. I scanned the trail ahead of me and behind but there were no racers to be seen. The lack of visible competition along with the length of this race makes it really tough to be motivated. I was also starting to notice my asthma kicking in causing a slight shortness of breath. I reached for my inhaler medication only to find an open and empty pocket. It really didn’t matter much as the heaviness in my legs was determining my pace and not my lungs.

• At mile 97.5 a reckless snowmobiler ran down Pierre Ostor and busted his rear wheel. Alaska State Troopers are searching for the driver.

And as the miles clicked past, the fire of the final rest stop came into view. My friends Jeff and Alison were volunteering, manning the fire, melting snow for drinking water, and keeping the two tents warm. I stopped and tried not to act too delirious. I briefly looked at the rider log and noticed that the next guy in front of me had quite a lead. All I could do now was maintain my position in tenth place.

I was back on the trail and getting within about 10 miles of the finish. I kept looking back for any signs of competition sneaking behind me and I saw a faintly bobbing light. “Darn.” This means I had to pick up the pace or fall back into eleventh. Worse yet, it could be a skier. I really cranked the next mile, pushing reasonably big gears and suffering. I was working hard keeping my head clear on the descents to avoid any last minute crashes. Finally I was back on the icy road and heading across the lakes. I kept looking back and there was no bobbing light.

The last stretch across the road is terribly dull and takes an eternity to complete. I really missed Mr. Madden pulling me across these lakes like at the start of the race. With two miles to go, my battery was drained and my light shut down. I hadn’t planned on riding this much in the dark and my spare battery was in the truck. I stopped and decided to move my red LED light to the front for some minor illumination but it was missing, another contribution to the trail.

With only a sliver of a moon, it was rather tough riding on the safe part of the ice road. In the middle, the road was Zamboni-slick. Towards the edges, the ice gave way to snow, a thin covering a first with a snow bank at the outside. Without lights, I found the secret was to listen to the sound of your tires. When it got to quiet I figured I was riding on ice; too crunchy and I was heading for a snow bank. Somewhere in the middle it was just right.

I could see the lights of the Big Lake Lodge now and as I glanced back I saw the feared bobbing light within 100 feet. It was Corey and he was moving. I jumped it up a few gears and gave it everything I had and crossed the finish line a minute in front. As it turns, without my lights, he never knew I was there. Certainly I was disappointed with my results given my expectations, but I can’t complain too much. I finished a grueling race.

Will I return for the year 2000 race? Who knows.

Related Posts

• Mike Curiak: On his Own to Nome
• 2001 Iditasport Extreme 350: Pushing it to the Limit
• Iditasport 1998

It all started in 1994 when I registered our team of five for the 24 Hours of Canaan relay race in West Virginia. Up until this race, I had been mountain biking for three years and racing for two. I figured I could handle anything the Michigan trails could throw at me.

If I were the know-it-all teen, the Canaan course would be the experienced mother. She spanked me pretty hard on race day. Her trails were ten times more technical than anything I’d ridden before. I was left bruised and humbled.

My bad tendency arose again early in 1996 when I registered for the Leadville 100 mountain bike race in Colorado. I’d never ridden in the Rockies and the course profile was intimidating with over 10,000 feet of climbing at 9,000 to 12,600 feet above sea level. (For local reference, one lap of Pontiac Lake has less than 500 feet of climbing.)

I finished the race extremely dehydrated and debilitated.

At the start of 1998 I thought I’d try something new. I’d read about the Iditasport 100-mile race in Alaska. VeloNews calls it “the most famous race in endurance mountain biking.” Before you know it, my bad tendency was dropping the registration in the mail.

I had friends join me at Canaan and Leadville, however they weren’t interested in riding in Alaska in the dead of winter. They said if I survived and brought back all my fingers and toes, they might consider it in ’99. I guess they’d watched too many TV docu-dramas about the Mount Everest disasters. I was alone on this one.

But how bad could it be? I know they canceled it one year when the temperatures got stuck at 50F below, but that was an arctic anomaly. The race was a little more than an hour from Anchorage, whose temperatures were similar to Gaylord, Michigan at least according to the web information.

Around this time I started trading email with some of the race veterans. I was asking about what kind of survival gear I should bring. One answer was “whatever you think you’ll need to survive at 30F below for 24 hours.” “My house has worked well in the past” I quipped. The voice of reason was suggesting I stay home. Instead I went to the local bookstore and read up on winter camping and survival.

In January I received my race packet, a half-inch document describing everything about the course and winter survival. There were warnings about dealing with moose on the trail and river overflows (water on top of the ice.) It outlined the 15 pounds of required survival gear including a -20F sleeping bag, mattress pad, bivy (or tent), stove, and 3,000 calories of food. This 15 pounds became a critical part of the race. All of the participants had to get their gear weighed at the race check in. Also, the top three finishers in each class were subjected to a post-race gear check and weigh in. This new procedure was due in part to allegations that previous winners were dumping their unneeded gear along the trail before the finish.

As the manual says, “What’s the point in shaving weight? No Iditasport winner has ever been invited to the White House or signed a million-dollar endorsement contract.”

Speaking of weight, I was losing body fat, which is important. This race favors lighter riders who stay on top of the snow. The tires under heavier riders sink a little lower and make riding more difficult and slow.

My weight loss was mostly due to steady training. My plan was to continue riding over 100 miles a week from the summer of ’97 through January. At that point I started ramping up my mileage an extra 25 miles each week. When February hit, I cut back my mileage to around 100 a week or less and gave my body a chance to recover.

Putting in so many miles during Michigan winters can be miserable. Fortunately I invested in some items that made it more tolerable.

Cold hands and feet can end a ride real quick. For the hands I bought a pair of handlebar mitts handcrafted by my friend’s mom. They’re similar to “Pogies.” This is the best $35 investment I made in 1997. What Camelbaks are to summer riding, these are to winter riding.

Like many others, I have cold-sensitive feet. Some Alaskans on the web suggested buying some Thinsulate-lined L.L. Bean Snow Sneakers ($50) and adding SPD cleats using a Syntace SPD-to-Look converter plate ($18). I finally got all the parts slapped together and found the result very satisfying. The only problem is the Snow Sneakers allow a little wind through the front toe box. To solve that I bought some XL Sidetrak toe covers that barely fit but seemed to work. (For more information on making your own, check out http://www.freewheel.com/mvw/shoes.html.)

For socks, I was using a synthetic base layer, typically Pearl Izumi Foundation socks. Over that I threw on an Ultimax XC skiing sock which is extra thick on the bottom and around the toes where my feet get cold first. Then I spent another $7 and replaced the Snow Sneaker liners with some new liners which were “tested and proven at 70 degrees below zero.” And of course my Snow Sneakers were a size larger than normal, which gave me plenty of room for these added socks and liners.

On my head I was wearing a balaclava, sometimes adding a headband for nasty weather. My helmet was fitted with a wind blocking cover. My torso was covered in one or two synthetic layers with a windbreaker. My legs were covered in tights of various thicknesses. And of course, I wear my windproof briefs on bad days.

Most of this is fairly standard clothing. One excellent source for more information on winter clothing and riding in general is http://www.icebike.com.

So February 11th rolls around and my plane awaits me. The flight is complements of Northwest’s Frequent Flyer program, but not for my bike. I have to pay $50 for the airline to handle my bike, which was safely tucked in cardboard box. For $50 you’d think some specially trained luggage professional would be called in. He’d personally load your box on the plane and make sure it didn’t get banged about. Instead I arrived in Anchorage where some rough baggage guy said “Is dat your box? I think some things fell out of it.” Sure enough, three tool-stuffed socks came around the baggage conveyor much to the delight of my fellow passengers. “Look, there’s someone’s socks!”

The flight to Alaska was about 8 air hours with a brief layover in Minneapolis. My weeklong roommate, Dean, greeted me in Anchorage. Dean is a displaced Cleveland boy enjoying his dream making a living in Alaska. The Iditasport folks have a housing program where 100 bucks buys a week’s lodging with a local race competitor. In my case, that was Dean. Fortunately for the both of us, it was a good match.

Dean was super gracious. We tooled around town in his truck saving me the need to rent a car. I had my own room in his igloo, which happened to be that of the 1997 U.S. Biathlon National Champion. Unfortunately a near tragic para-gliding accident left him in rehab and instead of Nagano. I was hoping the room’s positive karma would give me an Olympic race performance and not a trip to the hospital.

On my first full day in Anchorage, I built up my bike and went for a ride on a couple of the awesome trails in town. Near the end of my exploring two bad things happened: (1) I kind of got lost and (2) I asked a newspaper reporter for directions. I didn’t realize the second dilemma until I read the Anchorage Daily News the next day. I was slammed. If anything positive could be said it was that I was more motivated than ever for redemption.

Later that day I had arranged for a massage from someone Dean knew named Gina. Gina not only gave me a great, relaxing massage, but also refused any payment. I was very thankful and added her to my sponsor list.

Friday was a lay around kind of day. Dean and I spun ten miles, picked up some last minute supplies, including cashew nut butter. On race morning I spread this on some Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts. It tasted great. That was the last time I was nice to my body that day.

Dean and I arrived plenty early for the race. I wanted extra time to get prepared before the race start. Well, it was -3F outside and warm in the truck. We sat there doing math trying to figure the absolute latest time we’d have to leave the truck to start getting ready. That was mistake number one. The last few minutes before the start were bedlam. I forgot my asthma medicine, which I need for cold weather. I forgot extra chemical warmers for my hands and feet. I forgot to blow the water out of my Camelbak tube.

I did manage to chew about a dozen chocolate-covered coffee beans at the start as the promoter read the list of participants. Each person had to state their method of human-powered transportation: bike, snowshoe, foot, or ski. As the countdown reached zero, forty bikers zipped out to a fast start along with 6 snowshoers, 29 runners, and 29 skiers. I remember having to make a little move to get around a skier. You have to be nice to those guys because they have long weapons in each hand.

The first 9 miles is on plowed ice roads that connect a series of lakes. A pack of cyclists formed and we rode somewhat moderately until we hit the snow. Some young guy went off the front. I chased him down and we got a decent gap on the group. It was then that I realized my insulated Camelbak tube was froze solid and there was another 16 miles until the first rest stop. As much as I wanted to hammer, without water I’d end up drier than moose jerky. Finishing was more important so I backed off. Soon Rocky Reifenstuhl passed me and I was alone in third.

By now I was dying of thirst so I stopped and drank directly from the Camelbak bung. It was filled with watered down Gatorade. As you can imagine, it was a clumsy situation and a spilled my mix all over myself, which quickly froze, resembling excessive nasal discharges. During this debacle a group of about 6 riders passed me. I quickly remounted, gave chase, and passed them all to return to third place, or so I thought.

I pulled into the first aid station and was surprised to find I was in first. The two leaders were off course so they sent out a snow machine to find them. (Alaskans don’t use the term snowmobile and I don’t know why.) In the meantime I pulled apart my Camelbak and was pouring scalding hot water on the tube. After a few minutes it was de-iced and I got back on the bike.

Soon after I left the rest stop, I realized I was getting soaking wet. I looked down to see my Camelbak tube spraying my legs. I guess I did a poor job refitting the bite valve on the tube and it took a tumble in the snow. Luckily the sun was shining brightly in the beautiful blue sky and I found the valve quickly.

After some more solitary riding the trail wound across a small open area. A bush plane had recently landed and was about to cross my path. Though it’s not specified in the IMBA rules of the trail, I decided to yield the trail and avoid getting chopped by the blurred prop.

While that was happening on one side of the trail, a video camera man dove in front of me. I gave a thumbs up and I may have said “Hi Mom.” I don’t remember. It was a weird mid-race situation.

The trail for the next few miles was simply awesome. The climbing was not too difficult, perhaps similar to what Island Lake throws at you, but of course it was covered in snow. Fortunately here and through out the course, the snow machines left the snow well packed. They also left large snow berms. The downhill sections were like a bobsled course. They were so fun that I forgot about the added weight of my survival gear. I was floating on my doublewide SnowCat rims wrapped in fat Ritchey 2.35 Z-Max tires. It was a blast. And the weather was getting warmer. The sun had brought the temperatures above zero and into the high twenties.

Before I knew it I was at the second rest stop. It surprised me that I was becoming very hungry. I was using the same race diet that worked well at the Leadville 100 race, but my body was telling me it wasn’t working. But I was very fortunate some entrepreneurial kids were selling cookies at this stop. I gave them $10 for a $2 bag of cookies since I didn’t want to wait around for them hunt down their mom for change. They were ecstatic. “Wow, ten dollars!” Before heading back to my bike I noticed they had brownies as well so I grabbed one. One kid said “That’s fifty cents” while the older sibling said “It’s okay, he gave us ten dollars.”

It was a most excellent brownie.

I returned to my bike and refilled my Camelbak with “warm water.” A few minutes down the trail and it felt like someone was pressing a hot iron on my back. I started playing posture games to reduce the heat. I tried arching my back. I reached around and pushed the Camelbak to the side of my back and when that side was fried, I’d shift it to the other side. This section of the trail is the furthest from any civilization and fewer snow machines cruise these parts so the snow is less packed. Between me dealing with the inferno on my back and the sketchy trail, I fell. I fell quite a bit, and when I landed on my back in the snow, it felt good. I remember staying on the ground a little more than I needed to. Finally, I pulled off the Camelbak and put it on the outside of my windbreaker. My back was now a little more insulated from the heat and the darned thing should cool faster so I could perhaps drink some of it.

The loose trail continued. The bike fishtailed left and right. So many times you’d come to a complete stop, regain your balance, and restart. I’d say to myself, “I must have ridden another half mile.” My computer said “Wrong, that was barely one-tenth.” This is when the voices in my head started. I slogged along for nearly 2 hours riding only about 10 miles. I saw one person. The only sign of civilization was the snow machine track slowly moving under my wheels.

During the pre-race preparations, Dean asked me if I was going to listen to a radio headset. Huh? “This is a race!” I thought. I don’t have time to listen to a stinkin’ radio. Now I know how important it is. Songs, advertisements and DJ chatter help keep your conscious mind occupied while your legs grind away through these more desolate sections.

Nonetheless, there were others using this trail: big ol’moose. These beasts are so large that theoretically one could easily bike limbo under them. Thankfully I never saw any during the race. However, the trail was spotted with moose tracks, holes about 6 inches wide and a foot deep. It hurt when you rode over them, just like Michigan potholes.

Eventually the trail dumps on to the Yentna River. When the rivers around here freeze, they become the winter superhighways for the local residents. Understand that there are no roads in this wilderness. Snow machines, ATV’s, dog sleds and bush planes are the only way to get around, unless of course you enjoy struggling on a bike.

The third stop is called Hartley Beach. It’s nicknamed hardly-a-beach for there is no sand nor any bikini-clad women. Upon my arrival, the rest stop volunteers watched me execute a perfect header as my front wheel dove into deep, loose snow. I was one of the few wearing a helmet and I was thankful.

I refilled my Camelbak adding a “shot” of super concentrated Gatorade. At six times its normal concentration, Gatorade almost glows. The volunteers inquired as to what it was. In my best spy voice I said “eet’s camel wee wee.”

With 45 miles to go, the trail continued down the river. I was still dehydrated so I was concentrating real hard, watching my bike computer, and drinking every two minutes. I was concentrating so hard on rehydrating that I made the mistake of following some dog sled race markers. I couldn’t help but think about that newspaper article. I could see the next day’s headlines already: “Michigan boy gets lost again!” Ugh!

I finally stopped and got out my map. Sure enough I was on the wrong side of this frozen river. I couldn’t simply ride to the other side. With the snow not being packed, I’d be portaging my bike through a half-mile of waist deep snow. So, I continued on the wrong side of the river until I found a single snow machine path that angled across the river. As long as I rode exactly in the ski track, I could make decent progress to the other side.

I persevered and made it to the other side, following the correct trail markers up the riverbank. The trail now retraces itself. As I’m heading back to the start/finish, I’m passing runners heading the other direction. Those runners are a fairly optimistic bunch despite their slower progress. They also have to carry 15 pounds of survival gear which they all pull behind them in small plastic child sleds. No thanks, I’d rather be at mile 70 than mile 30.

The fourth rest stop is the same as the first. I’m still in third and the video camera man asks me for an interview. I reminded him that this is a race and “some guy’s right on my butt.” But he’s real polite and insistent, so I consent. I’ve heard Eskimos have a large number of words for snow. Now I’m sure they have an equally large number of words for loneliness. I wish I had that thought at the time and could have spoken eloquently about it. Instead I think I said, “it’s so lonely out there” and gave a few grunts in response to his questioning.

At the end of the brief interview I ran up the steep, slippery ramp to the rest stop lodge and took on water. The host here was incredible. She was cooking jambalaya and much more. It smelled great but that wasn’t on my race menu. A few runners were sitting at a table eating and talking. One guy said, “You look pretty good.” I told him I didn’t know how to take that. We all laughed as he clarified himself saying I looked the freshest compared to first and second place. As the laugher faded I gave them a short coaching. “Hey, this is a race. What are you guys doing? Playing cards? Get out there!”

The Alaskan sun slowly dropped below the surrounding mountains and the air began to cool. The trail was very hard-packed and the last rest stop arrived very quickly. Dean’s friends were manning this stop so I chatted a bit. They gave me some kind, motivating words and I started the final 12 miles.

I turned on my 15 watt NiteRider. I had kept its Ni-Cad battery warm by making a neoprene bootie and stuffing it with four chemical toe warmers. This helped keep the battery from loosing much charge and from freezing.

Perhaps the coolest moment of the race occurred at this time. Much of the Iditasport race is on the infamous Iditarod trail so the dog sled teams were out practicing for this year’s race in March. At one point a couple teams passed me going the opposite direction. The impassioned dogs glanced my way as they charged their sled up the hill. Their eyes reflected my light, the musher tipped his head, and they were quietly away.

It was awfully dark now. The moon had not yet risen and the temperatures were falling fast. My hands and feet were starting to get chilled. My chemical warmers had long since expired and I was regretting not having extras. I was making fists and wiggling my toes to trying to get warm blood to return to my extremities.

My mind was starting to go as well. I looked back a few times and didn’t see anyone on my tail, so I’d stop. I stopped on the ice road and thought it would be funny to urinate on the road and write D-E-A-N. This was my first bathroom stop in 11 hours but I knew I was in trouble after writing the “D”. I didn’t have enough “ink” in me so I shortened my plans and wrote Dean’s initials. It was all in vain. He never saw them.

Finally, the Big Lake Lodge came into view. I found the energy to shift to the big ring and rose from the saddle. The clock said 11 hours and 12 minutes at the finish. My cameraman friend was there and wanted more. I told him I lost my cookies. He said, “Oh, you threw up?” I told him no, I had actually lost the cookies I bought from the kids. It was a bummer. I was so hungry.

I walked in the lodge and got confirmation on my third place finish, 54 minutes behind a victorious Rocky. I was the first rookie and first non-Alaskan, which made me happy.

I passed the mandatory gear check and ordered a cheese omelet. I choked that down and ordered a grilled cheese with fries. I called my parents to let them know I survived. My only ailment was a light tingling sensation in the tip of my right pinkie and left big toe. Someone called it frost nip and told me it’ll probably go away after a few months. We’ll see.

Poor Dean was a little over halfway done. He was toughing it out in the worse conditions yet. While the thermometer read -2F outside the lodge, reports on the course were of -10F temperatures. There was no wind, which made things worse, allowing the colder air to settle on the rivers and lakes. It was dark, too, and much easier to wander off course. From the Lodge, the race promoter was frantically sending out snow machine search teams to find the wayward racers.

Dean finished the next morning and I celebrated by eating another cheese omelet. We packed up and headed back to Anchorage.

While we were slumming around the condo, other racers continued to drift across the wilderness. The last finisher took over 39 hours on snowshoes, well under the 50 hours cutoff.

At the awards banquet, we chowed some excellent food, and no, they weren’t serving whale blubber. Everyone who finishes the race gets a commemorative Native Alaskan ulu knife. The promoter reminded the out-of-towners that if you try carrying this past airline security, you would lose your precious award.

I donated another $50 to Northwest to bring the bike and me back to Michigan. When I finally got home, I sent an email to that Anchorage Daily News reporter. I let him know I didn’t get terribly lost and finished pretty well. I’m sure he’s sleeping better now.

I learned quite a bit about the race and myself. Friends have asked me which is tougher, Leadville or Iditasport. Well, they’re obviously different. There’s definitely more pain and intensity at Leadville due to the climbing, but there’s also more people and support. Iditasport had practically no spectators to cheer you. Mentally, Iditasport is tougher. And this race challenges you to balance racing with survival.

Will I do this race again? Yes, at least once more. I need to have a mistake-free performance so I can toss these “should-a, could-a, would-a’s” out of my head. Will I be graduating to the Iditasport Extreme 350-mile race? Ah, probably not. That might be a little too tough.

Related Posts

• Mike Curiak: On his Own to Nome
• 2001 Iditasport Extreme 350: Pushing it to the Limit
• 1999 Iditasport 100