Bicycle Racing in the Alaskan Winter (or The Joy of Finishing Last) "Cowards won't show and the weak will die." "The brave and strong will show and still might die." These mottos adorn bumper stickers describing the Iditabike, a 210-mile mountain bike held in February in Alaska. You might suspect that there is just a bit of macho exageration in these slogans. Last year, I covered the race and interviewed promoters and participants. Certainly it did seem like a challange, but the winning times were only 25? hours or so for the men and 33? hours for the women. When generous sponsors made it possible for me to go do the Iditabike myself this year, I jumped at the chance. I knew I had the endurance, but I was a little worried about the cold. 1989 was the fourth running of the Iditabike, which is modelled after the famous Iditarod Dog Sled Race and uses part of the same trail. Riders are expected to be self-sufficient, carrying all their own food and equipment except for a 20-pound cache of supplies that is air-dropped at the half-way point at Skwentna . Competitors must report to each of nine checkpoints along the route and are required to stop for a mandatory six-hour layover. Most try to layover at Skwentna, where indoor accomodations and hot food are available. Iditabikers must pack survival gear for sudden storms and emergencies, and must post a $50 evacuation deposit that is refunded if they finish or return under their own power. I went to Alaska a few weeks early to get some experience in the snow. It was cold, to be sure, but a practice race which started at 30 below zero was actually a piece of cake, kind of fun. I did learn a valuable lesson. If you dress too warmly, your sweat turns to ice in your clothes, which makes you very cold later. Still, this 24-mile race was over in just over two hours. There is a mandatory pre-race meeting for all Iditabikers on arctic survival. The cold had made a definite impression on me and I listened intently to lectures on frostbite, melting snow to stay hydrated, and how to camp (bivie) in the snow. But, I really planned to get my water at checkstations, sleep indoors at Skwentna, and finish in Anchorage in less than 48 hours. Wrong. The race started on a Saturday morning in a storm which had already dumped record snowfall on the beautifully hard-packed trails. The first mile was most of the bike riding that I or anyone else would do. Hard-working race promoters tried to pack the trail again with snowmobiles, but it was no use, it never got cold enough for the snow to set up and I and my 60 fellow competitors proceeded to do the Iditapush. Local mountain bike guru Charley Kelly would later point out in a public lecture that the Iditabike was originally concieved as something that was barely possible, and this year it just wasn't possible. Sunday at noon, 25 hours into the race, the lead group of 8 men and a woman were only 50 miles along the course at the second checkstation at Big Su. They decided not to continue and staged a friendly mutiny. The race promoters agreed and called off the race at 12:01PM on Sunday. Only 18 racers would get as far as Big Su and I was the last one. I arrived at 1AM on Monday, having hiked 50 miles through the snow in 39 hours pushing my bike. But I've gotten a bit ahead of myself. After the initial mad ride across the ice lake, I settled into walking through the loose snow like everybody else. The snow had somewhat the consistency of sand and slipped under the pressure of your steps. The trail was fequently like a toboggan run, a few feet wide with banks 3-4 feet high. My boots were new and they were big, to allow for lots of socks and good circulation. I could tell I was developing blisters, but I pressed on to the first checkstation at Knik Lake. I patched up my blisters in Kink Tavern, a famous musher hangout. It was late afternoon when I left Knik and far from closing in on the halfway point, I was barely out of town! The next checkpoint at Big Su was 38 miles away through the wilderness, three times as far as I had make it so far. Clearly, my plan was a little out of phase with the Alaskan reality. I teamed up with Jennifer Lazrus- Edman, 29, a family therapist from Anchorage; Patty Brehler, 34, a ball screw miller from Detroit and holder of several women's tandem records; and Paul Brunelle, 24, a kids' ski instructor in Vermont. We would become good friends as we pushed our bikes through the snow and into the Alaska winter night. By 10 p.m. we had run out of water and stopped to melt snow. A steady stream of Idita-pushers caught up with us in the same predicament and we melted snow for them too. Twenty riders accumulated and it was a party-like atmosphere as Herbert Krabel of West Germany "tested" his Skyblazer emergency flares and others danced to a rendition of "Wild Thing". Mike Kloser, '88 & '89 Iditachamp, showed up on a snowmobile. He had dropped out with sore groin muscles. With genuine interest and concern, he offered advice and encouragement. "Have fun out there", he said with a smile, "and if you get tired, don't be afraid to bivie!" Mike is a real champ and he gave us a real boost. We had been stopped for two hours when our gang of four decided to hit the trail again. All the others dropped out. Those heading back gave us food and I picked up a much-needed dry shirt and some mittens from Idita-pals Jenny Magee and Diane Ayers. As night wore on, my feet were hurting pretty bad and I'd frequently roll off the back. When I'd catch up, Jennifer, Patty and I would disolve into giddy laughter. Paul sized up our behaviour and suggested we bivie but we boldly proclaimed that we'd walk all night. It was 3 a.m. when better sense prevailed and we decided to stop. At the pre-race meeting, Brian Horner , who teaches "learn to return" classes, had pointed out that you can't wait until you're desparate to stop. You have to have enough time and energy to melt snow, eat, and take other precautions to ensure your survival. I did my first snow camping "at 20 below in four feet of snow", another Iditabike slogan. We moved quickly because we chilled instantly anytime we stopped. Patty and I fired up a stove and melted snow while jennifer and Paul stomped out a sheltered sleeping area. Just as we talked about feeling like brave pioneers on the wild frontier, a snow machine arrived. Will Rindom, a race official and a member of Alaska Search and Rescue, gave us some advice and patched a few blistered feet before continuing down the trail. In spite of the civilized support, this was a serious outdoor adventure. If you don't think it was serious, just think about going to the bathroom, for instance. The next day was warm and clear and we were proceeding down the trail in good spirits approaching Flathorn Lake. We had just marvelled at the view of McKinley and the Alaskan Range when a small Super Cub buzzed us and then landed in a clearing near the trail. Flinging open the door of the plane, the pilot yelled "It's over. The race was called at 12:01 p.m.". We looked at each other in confusion and disappointment. The pilot told us to strip our bikes, leave them along the trail and prepare for evacuation. After waiting three hours while others flew out one at a time, Iditabike originator Dan Bull came by on a snow- machine and told us we could finish the 15? miles to Big Su if we wished. Jennifer had icy boots and made the wise choice to retire there. Patty, Paul, and I repacked our bikes and pressed on into the sunset. Our second night found us in what we called "the great dismal swamp". The temperatures dropped close to twenty below, there was a brisk wind and there were no trees or shelter of any sort. Moving along was OK, but anytime we stopped, we were instantly chilled. No one complained and everyone was within themselves. The northern light provided eerie entertainment. There was a brief moment of humor as Paul stopped to admire a dead moose. He accidently stepped backward off the trail and instantly sank into the snow, pinned beneath his bike with only his head showing. We knew we had to get out of our dismal swamp. We didn't know if we had the energy to bivie and the exposed, wind-swept terrain was not very inviting. Maybe we were in danger or maybe not, but we were definitely mighty glad when two snow-mobiles came by and told us we were "only" 3 miles from Big Su and that we'd be off the exposed area in a quarter mile. When we got into the trees, Patty and Paul and I danced around hugging each other and then quickly searched our pockets for any remaining food. It was 12:45 a.m. when we arrived at Big Su checkpoint. Everyone was asleep and we made our own celebration by cooking Paul's freeze-dried turkey tetrazinni before we wedged ourselves in among the bodies of the earlier arrivals on the floor of the unheated cabin to sleep. Hiking 50 miles on blistered feet might not seem like a whole lot of fun. But I managed to ignore my feet and I did have fun. It was a great adventure shared with new friends. I wouldn't trade it for anything and I'll be back next year. Hopefully, the trail will be ridable, but if not, "that's Alaska", as they say. Elaine Mariolle won the 1986 RAAM and is co-author of "The Woman Cyclist". She and Patty Brehler tied for 7th woman. Thanks to my sponsors for their encouragement and support: Fisher MountainBikes, REI, Overland Bags, bellwether, Suspension Eyewear, Timberland, Bicycle Parts Pacific, PowerBar, UltraEnergy, UNIPRO, the Kostman Sport Group, and the Bull family.