WM100: Arctic Endurance

WM100: Arctic Endurance from Jeremiah Lafleur on Vimeo.

J.R. Lafleur's documentary on the White Mountains 100 Bike/Foot/Ski race in Interior Alaska, an event that both of us, and many other people in and around Fairbanks, Alaska, hold very near & dear to our hearts.

J.R. grew up in Fairbanks and is a long-time bike racer and my fellow co-owner of Far North Fatbikes, and I have done the course three times - once solo & self-supported, once racing the WM100 on my fatbike, and another time on fatbikes with my good friend, Brett Parks. I also volunteered for the race it's inaugural year, in 2010, so I have been involved with it, in some fashion, all three years of it's existence.

The White Mountains 100 is unarguably the best organized race in the state of Alaska, as you can probably well see from the video.

J.R. & I filmed the 2012 race using his Sony XA-10 video camera & Nikon D3100, via snowmachine.
I'm very happy with the results and his ability to put it all together in such a captivating story.

Check out his other work on his Vimeo page and follow my progress this March as I race on my fatbike.

I'm In... Again

Well, I got in. This time, a little more than 23 hours before the start of the race, like in 2011.

The White Mountains 100 is a bike/foot/ski race held in Interior Alaska in winter... well, late March, when the hospitable temperatures and sunlight have returned to the northern hemisphere, more or less to stay 'til fall.

I've done the route three times on my fatbike and twice on snowmachine.

2010 - Volunteered for the race, patrolling the course on snowmachine, looking for racers in need of assistance. The next week, having just purchased a new 29er with Snow Cat wheels, I went out and rode the course solo in 29 hrs.

2011 - 23 hrs before the race start, I got in, as someone had dropped out. I hadn't ridden 100 miles total, all winter, before the race. I finished 23rd, in 16 hrs 15 min, on my single-speed Pugsley.

2012 - Brett Parks & I rode the 100 mile route in two days as an overnight camping trip. Bitter cold and horrifically dry, abrasive snow. JR & I then filmed the race via a snowmachine and he made a documentary, which airs this winter at a film festival.

2013 - The first year in which I can actually train before doing the route/race. I'm happy to be in again. AND, I have gears now!

I'm excited. Now, I have a legit reason to ride bikes as much as possible. I needed a goal like this to get in tip-top shape.
Hopefully, you won't have to look far down the list to see my name in March.

Gearing Up For A Change

I had an epiphany and learned something pivotal this past weekend... It's not about what you can't do, it's about what you CAN.
How can a 36 mile winter fatbike ride be more difficult than a 100 mile winter fatbike ride? Soft snow and one gear.

When I had my 29er with Snow Cats, I challenged anyone to show me a place they could ride a fatbike and I couldn't ride my bike. For a long time, I could hang with anyone, anywhere. That was until we went and rode a dry creek bed in the Alaska Range. 29ers can do cobble with a lot of effort... but fatbikes can do it with ease.

So, I bought a fatbike and built it as a single-speed.

Of course, I challenged anyone to show me a place they could ride with gears that I couldn't ride with my single-speed. I dominated hills, topping out first, always. I powered through rough terrain with dripping testosterone. I raced the White Mountains 100 and finished in just over 16 hours, beating A LOT of other bikers.

Once again, I could hang with anyone, anywhere. But, again, that was until I rode with Kevin Breitenbach on Saturday, who's fresh off his first place ride in the Arrowhead 135 and second place finish in the Susitna 100. Last year, on the White Mountains 100, he took second place, finishing in 10 hrs 15 mins.

So, big question is, could I hang with Kevin in the White Mountains?

Nope.

Soft trail conditions slowed us both down, but it also brought down one more thing...
The gearing he pedaled in. I was not so fortunate to be able to downshift, which meant I was cranking hard while he putt-putted along, spinning in low gear. It was the first time I realized I needed gears.

By the time we got 20 miles into our 36 mile ride, it was starting to impact my riding ability, right when the trail got worse. I was in too high of a gear ratio to be able to spin freely and keep my balance, riding slow on the poor trail, which meant riding a straight line was really difficult. Second time I realized I needed gears.

When we hit uphills, Kevin downshifted and I cranked harder, exhausting myself in the soft snow. Then, I'd get off and push... and here's the biggest thing I learned: Until then, everyone I had ever biked with, I could keep up with going uphill if I was pushing and they were riding. But Kevin is strong, obviously. He pulled away and I had no chance of keeping up. Third time I learned I needed gears.

Because I could keep up pushing while others rode the uphills, I had always thought I was giving myself a break from biking, using fresh walking muscles to go up the steeper sections. This may be true in the middle pack of riders, but not up front.

Towards the end of the ride, my muscles were spent from 30 miles of cranking hard and pushing a bike uphill in soft snow. I told Kevin, with five miles left, that I'd meet him at the trailhead because I was going to push the final uphill sections, knowing he'd ride them all. Fourth time I realized I needed gears.

When I got back to the trailhead, he had been there about 25 minutes. He gained that amount of time in the final 5 miles, since we separated, all because he could downshift and ride uphill. He told me I needed gears. That was the cherry on top of it all, to hear him say that I did. He also said if I had gears and raced, I'd place in the top 5 finishers every time, after seeing what I WAS able to ride on my single-speed and reflecting back on my 16 hour finish in the WM100.

It was satisfying to hear that I was capable of that, but also saddening to know that I was stupidly being stubborn and riding single-speed simply because I liked it, not because it was a good idea. Gears for winter riding and racing are a good idea. Less time out on trail, less energy spent so less is needed in food calories, less sleep deprivation, etc. Single-speed is for summer trips, where simplicity and durability are more important, not speed and ability to ride everything encountered.

Quite the change for me. I actually will need to learn how to ride a geared bike again. Strange.
Don't worry, I'm keeping the single-speed Pugs. That will never go away. But I can't put gears on a horizontal drop-out bike, so in my sights is an aluminum Fatback, because they ride so beautifully and I have to keep it Alaskan.

Anyone want to sponsor me, so I can keep up and race with Kevin?

The Out-of-Shape 100: An Annual Fatbike Ride

What seems even more routine than doing the 100 mile loop in the White Mountains National Recreation Area every year on my fatbike, is how I somehow always do it 'off-the-couch.' Maybe because I know I can?

In 2010, I had just gotten my 29er with Snow Cats and thought it would be a good idea to do a 100 mile winter bike trip in the backcountry. I had no experience doing this sort of a trip on a bike, especially in winter. It went fine, I had a lot of fun, learned many things, and came back feeling strong and accomplished... and lucky with the nice conditions I had.

In 2011, I broke down and bought a fatbike in February. Then in March, I got into the White Mountains 100 race 23 hours before the start. I had not planned on doing the race, outside of signing up for the wait list a week before, when the race director told me I'd probably get in if I did. First time doing any sort of racing and I hadn't even put on 100 cumulative miles on any of my bikes prior to the race. I finished 23rd, in 16 hrs 15 mins with my single-speed Pugsley. I was exhausted, but I did it and I didn't kill myself doing it.

This year, we all survived the month-and-a-half cold snap of doing nothing other than simply surviving (read: not biking). I hadn't ridden since early December (see the winter extreme cold weather trend?) and Brett had never been on his bike for more than two hours at one time, having just gotten it earlier this winter. I knew we'd be fine, though... right?

Having done the 100 mile route twice already, I've learned snow biking is the perfect time to swallow your pride and admit you're mortal. Yes, get off and push the bike up the hills, using fresh walking legs. It's easier than trying to ride the steep and mushy if you're not in phenomenal shape.

We had a great plan to meet up with three friends at the cabin 62 miles into the 100 mile loop and spend the night. They'd be there before us, so a warm cabin was our motivation to push on... literally.

Riding was pretty good, albeit slightly slow due to the cold, granulated snow. We did 35 miles in 5 hours, which is alright for loaded bikes, then rested for a bit, and went over 3300 foot Cache Mountain Divide in the dark, pushing up a lot of it. Once on the other side, it was a long descent to the cabin, including almost two miles of overflow ice with ankle deep slush in places.

We rolled in to the cabin at 9 pm, under the glow of the aurora, and were welcomed by our three friends with hot water and a warm cabin. It was a great way to end a 62 mile day of winter biking, hanging out with friends, watching the aurora, and sleeping in a warm cabin in the middle of everywhere.

John Shook had a wonderful idea to heat up some brandy on the wood stove for Brett & I, but Ed Plumb grabbed the pot, in the poorly lit cabin, dumped the 'contents' in the water pot, and headed outside to get more snow for melting. John raced to the door and yelled, 'STOP!,' but it was too late. Brandy water it was for Brett & I to fill our bottles with for the next day. It was like having a little dose of ibuprofen with every drink. Pretty sweet way to ease aching muscles.

The next morning, we left the cabin with the temp at 5 below and rode into the bottom of the Beaver Creek drainage, where the cold settled in. The 20 below temps nipped at our noses and fingers as we pedaled through the open spruce forest.

With the dropping temperatures came drier and more granulated (read: slower) snow. It was a struggle to pedal flat ground, much less any sort of uphill gradient. After pushing up many small grades, including the 600 foot, mile long Wickersham Wall, we only had a handful of miles left as the sun began to dip towards the horizon.


We reached the trailhead and got to drive back to Fairbanks in the light. What a treat to not be out in the dark again. I'm glad I went with Brett, this time, as it was really fun to bike the route with another person. Also very cool to meet up with our friends at the cabin, which made for a nice night on trail.
Another loop on the 100 mile route in the White Mountains complete. Maybe next time I'll be in better shape.
Maybe next time, I'll do it self-supported in a day...

 

I should do a post in February

Well, I didn't die. The month-and-a-half long cold snap down to -57F at my cabin didn't kill me because I barely did anything outside the whole time. It almost killed me, though... mentally. I got 50 below in Fairbanks for my birthday and even colder where I live. Thanks, Mother Nature. I really appreciated it. Yeah.
Since it warmed up, I've battled to regain the desire to go outside and experience this thing they call 'fun.' I almost forgot what it was.

Skiing seemed like a reasonable idea during the cold snap and a few friends finally convinced me to go outside. It was worth it.

Then the outdoors editor for the local paper called me and asked some questions about fatbikes. I was featured in the story.

I put out Far North Fatbikes' third edition of our newsletter, The Fat & Happy.

Then, I got to head out into the great white world of Yukon-Charley Rivers National Preserve to co-manage the hospitality stop (photos) at Slaven's Roadhouse for the Yukon Quest International Sled Dog Race. The aurora gave me a nice goodbye the night before I left and then welcomed me the night I arrived at the historic roadhouse.

When I got back, my buddy Brett & I headed out into the White Mountains with our fatbikes and did the 100 mile loop in two days. It was a coarse reminder of how far 100 miles is and how out of shape we were from the cold snap.
The only thing I have to say, don't wear a backpack while biking. It kills ventilation.

My buddy, Jack, came into Anchorage from Nome, so J.R. & I went down to see him and ride fatbikes.
J.R. put together a video of the trip.

Our bud, Colby designed a sweet new logo for Far North Fatbikes.

I'm working on a trip report of the White Mountains biking trip, but decided I should probably do a post in February.
More to come soon, after I catch up on sleep and do a short bike trip this weekend... just a 40 mile day ride, no big deal :)

They're right about the Whites

In Interior Alaska, it's common knowledge that you don't really travel INTO the White Mountains National Recreation Area on foot, when there isn't snow covering the ground. Sure, there's a few hiking trails leading in a ways, but almost no one ever steps foot off of them, due to the tussocks, wet ground, thick brush, old burn areas, etc. It's really a winter rec area.
Well, I've had this 'great' idea of connecting the three major peaks of the White Mountains (map) - Cache, Lime, & Prindle - on a hiking trip... in summer. It would involve crossing Beaver Creek and hiking about 20 miles through the previously mentioned hell to get to the higher (& drier) ground. Follow the ridgelines east, then drop down from Prindle to Nome Creek Road, off the Steese Highway. About 75 miles, so since it's off-trail and has some bad hiking conditions, let's figure 5 days. That's 15 miles per day, which should be do-able, even with bad tussocks or brush, carrying a light load.
We managed to get the 20 miles in the first day, even with a noon start time, after shuttling the vehicles. However, day two, with steep ridgelines, long unstable rock slopes, and horrendously thick brush growing on some of the same unstable rock, kept us to only 11 miles before we had a circular conversation regarding whether or not we should continue, based on how 'good' the hiking was compared to the first day, but how slow we actually traveled over it. Considering even steeper terrain to come, knowing the Rocky Mountain (Lime Peak) region was potentially too rough/rocky to travel over (meaning we'd have to hike in the valleys, i.e., brush), and, since day two was so slow, realizing we would have to cover more miles per day over rougher terrain for the next three days, the decision was obvious to make a turn south and head back to the car the next day.
We woke up with our pride, over 25 miles from the trailhead where the car was parked, overlooking the wooded, brushy creek valley below. We'd follow the creek to the winter trail, take that to a cabin for a break, then haul butt over the terrain we had already covered the first day (and back across Beaver Creek), on our way to the car. Fortunately, I've pretty much been on this exact route three times in the past two winters, while biking the White Mountains 100 route. It was really cool to see it all in the summer and know where I was the whole time.
Yeah, I'll admit, the hiking was truly terrible in some sections for miles on end, by nearly everyone's standards. But, if you can suck it up and walk the uneven, wet ground to the high country, the hiking is pretty darn good up there if you can stay above the brush. It's a circular process of convincing yourself you're hardcore, both to do trips like this and by experiencing these (what some would call) uncomfortable conditions.
Overall, there are probably better places to go on long hiking trips in the summer, but I had really been wanting to see that country in summer, after having such incredible experiences out there in winter.
They're right about the Whites, but will I go back to try and complete the route? You betcha.

Side Note:
Regarding the rock & 'almost Aron Ralston-ed' incident from the video
While hiking one particularly unstable boulder slope, I thought, 'Gee, I should turn around and get a picture of Brett walking through that.'
As I was about to turn, I heard him yell, 'Ah!'
With, 'Are you ok?' on the tip of my tongue, he screamed, 'Dude, hurry, get the F--- over here!' The big boulder that moved when he stepped on it had just slid on the rock below, trapping and pinching his entire lower leg up against an even larger boulder. I scrambled the thirty-plus feet over to him as he threw off his pack, with bottles, etc, flying out into the surrounding boulders.
He was trapped, with no way of freeing himself.
I pushed, pulled, and lifted the boulder every way I could get a purchase on it. Nothing. Not even a release in pressure. It was big and I was starting to think I wouldn't be able to move it. There had to be a way.
I have a strong ability to tell my body to do something that I think is beyond it's capabilities and, somehow, be able to do it well. I knew I had to tap into that. My hands searched for a place to lift on the rock, hopefully, near his leg. Being blocky, there wasn't much to grab.
Then, I found a knob and placed both hands on it, stacked like a rock climber's, and pushed my left knee up against them, heaving upward with my entire body and every drop of adrenaline I had left.
'You got it! Keep going,' Brett yelled. I gave it all I had. With one last, desperate, screaming push, I watched Brett, out of the corner of my eye, throw his body forward, ripping his leg from the grasp of the two behemoths.
He said I never really moved the rock, but merely released the pressure of a couple hundred pounds of earth squeezing his bones. Sitting down, he removed the torn shoe and assessed his foot. After an initial broken bone scare, he realized one or two bones were probably just bruised (we think). In a few minutes, we were moving again, but seemingly 'hitting the emergency brake,' as Brett later said, every time we walked over the big rocks.

Mount McKinley: A Summit Unbagged

'On March 11, 2011, two inexperienced Fairbanksans set off to walk from their car to the summit of Mount McKinley. Packed light to travel fast & far, the team snowshoed to 17 Camp at the base of the West Ridge, where they battled overflow & high winds. A depleted Nalgene-bottled oxygen supply and unconsolidated sugar-snow conditions forced the team to retreat without the glory of the summit.'

Brett Parks & I are just now going public with an attempt at the summit of Mount McKinley without a permit, flight in to the glacier, climbing registration, talking with rangers, etc.
I have to say our plan has possibly never before been attempted in winter: to snowshoe from the road to the summit & back in three days, sleeping at 17 Camp both nights. While we weren't able to make the summit due to the snow conditions, we did sleep at 17 Camp and had an awesome time, learning a lot in the process.

Here are the photos...

 

 

 

 









Did we fool you?!?!
We attempted the 4,000 ft Mount McKinley off the Steese Highway, northeast of Fairbanks!
Hence, the reason Alaskans call the real one Denali.  HA!!!