Becoming Frozen

by Jill Homer

  We rode in silence for several miles. I didn’t bring it up again, but continue to stew in the upsetting realization that Geoff thought he needed to read my public blog to understand my heart. My blog didn’t really say much of anything. I wrote about biking almost exclusively, mentioned weather frequently, mused about quirky Alaska culture occasionally, and only a few times hinted at frustrations with my work. I almost never wrote anything about Geoff, unless it was a report on some outdoor activity we shared, such as this ride. Is this all I revealed to him — the same parts of me I revealed to everybody else? I had let myself believe we’d never been closer, and in many aspects this was true — we were living together, and mutually working toward our individually determined ideal lives. But I continued to clasp onto the fear that self-actualization would eventually drive us apart. It seemed our passions were already diverging, and our partnership might not survive this bridge we built hastily, then reinforced with shaky connections. This was the same issue I worried about when I was still resolved to stay in Idaho. It was only a matter of time. One day I’d prove too domestic for Geoff, he’d be too flighty for me, and that would be the end.

  I reminded myself that it was useless to fret about the future, and vowed to try to be more open with Geoff about my thoughts. Usually I felt the most willing to expose myself during an outdoor adventure. Fresh air and endorphins pumping through my system opened up a floodgate of emotions that I was bursting to share. Paradoxically, this was always when my communication skills were at their worst. Happy chemicals would inundate my brain, rendering me incapable of forming sentences more complex than “this is awesome, isn’t it?” I’d say these words and Geoff would agree enthusiastically. Amid this swirl of emotion, I believed we had shared something intensely meaningful. But outside the limitations of my own perspective, I could never be sure. Maybe Geoff’s frontal lobe was similarly inundated, and we were simply two animals getting high on our own pleasure sensors. But our humanity prompted us to reach through the deluge embrace one another, forging a connection that would sustain us during the dry spells of our lives.

  We rode Skyline Ridge Road to the far end of the snowmobile trail that would take us up and over Crossman Ridge, where it would then loop back to the main road past the reservoir. We opted to ride the known conditions of the plowed road first, and saved the surprises for later, past a point where returning the way we came would be more inconvenient than just enduring whatever lay ahead. This was by design, because I expected the trail to be soft and hoped Geoff would stick it out anyway. I was right about the trail. If fact, no one had traveled over the ridge since four inches of heavy powder fell overnight. Both of our bikes knifed through the new snow to the platform of the trail base below. We were able to ride, but only barely. New snow created a wall of resistance that reduced our speed to something just above a trudge. I ended up being the first to suggest just turning around, but Geoff wanted to ride it out, reasoning that perhaps one of the Crossman Ridge residents drove out the other end of the trail.

  He was wrong about that, and we struggled together for the better part of four miles. I mashed pedals until my quad muscles felt like they were about to burst through my skin. My bike swerved wildly on rolling descents. A couple of times the front wheel disappeared into deeper drifts, causing the bike to stop cold as my body hurtled forward, which resulted in slamming my crotch into the bike’s stem. (Happily for Geoff I was the only one to make stem contact. He tended to crash at higher speeds and launched Superman-style over the handlebars.) It was exhausting work, and those four miles consumed ninety minutes of our purportedly “lazy” Sunday afternoon. All the while, smoke streamed out of the occasional cabin stove pipe, the sun drifted low on the horizon, and nothing else in the quiet neighborhood moved.

  “So much for a mellow ride,” I said to Geoff as he crawled out of another snow drift, where he had landed several feet from his overturned bike. “I suspected the trail might be soft, but you never know how bad it’s really going to be.”

  “You know, I have a lot more appreciation for what you did last weekend,” he replied. “This is way harder than running, and you did this for a hundred miles.”

  “The Susitna 100 wasn’t all like this. Some of it was, though.” Quietly, I brimmed with pride. Geoff was clearly the better athlete in this relationship, but he respected my ability to tough something out. Maybe we could reconcile our passions as well. Because while Alaska had set my adventurous side free in many ways, it also sharpened an understanding of the points where Geoff and I might always diverge. I cherished outdoor experiences, but also required the balance of civilization and routine. And I craved opportunities to confront my fears, but I couldn’t throw all caution to the wind, either.

  Geoff remounted his bicycle and I followed his serpentine track up a hill, trying to hold his line through the trench left by his tires. A stiff breeze blew, whisking puffs of snow that resembled silver ghosts in the afternoon light. As ground blizzards swirled around Geoff, he wrestled with his bike in a comical kind of dance, rocking side to side as the white landscape pulled all around him. I felt a surge of love that I could scarcely describe, and would never try. Our connection always felt strongest in these quiet moments, with all of the unsaid, unnecessary words scattered in the wind.

  _____

  Work Too Hard

  March 30, 2006

  Squinting against radial gusts of wind, I waver at the intersection. Which way to go — left or right? One way is West Hill, the short way, the traffic-clogged highway spewing mud and melted snow. The other is East Hill, the long hill, the beast, the lung-searing climb that chews up my studs. The wind goes both directions. I go east.

  The hill sets in fast, pulling hard at legs that sat unmoving, atrophied, dead weights for nearly eight hours prior. Wind grit builds up on my teeth and I clamp my mouth shut, squint downward, watch the odometer. 5.8 mph ... 5.9 ... I’m already sick of being out here. It’s gray with little flecks of snow blowing around. And around and around. Wind hits from new directions. I tilt again. Studs grind into the pavement. I stand. 6.4 mph .... 6.7.

  How high does your heart rate have to go to find that place where frustrating thoughts dissipate? I ask myself this question but don’t really think about the alternative. 6.8 mph ... 7.0. I round another switchback. More wind. More snow. I think about April in the desert. I think about winter in Alaska. 7.2 mph ... 7.4.

  Mouth wide open, I swallow bits of musty grit and road goo. I no longer have a choice. The tunnel closes in. First pavement. Then tires, patches of rubber tread, handlebars. Then only the odometer, encircled in blackness. 7.6 mph. 7.7 ... The iPod speaks to me in gasps and whimpers ... 7.8 mph ... 7.9. Involuntary thoughts tear through. Thoughts that long for anything but the present, long for old times, the days of after-school jobs and riding the banana seat Huffy to work, greeting the dead morning hours with the time-worn smells of flour and bleach, of baking bagels at Einstein’s with Sam.

  Sam and I were equals in our dead-end job. We worked the 4 a.m. shift on Saturday mornings, baking bagels for the blurry-eyed people who no longer cared. We were brothers in arms, hiding in the walk-in refrigerator, eating frozen cookie dough, recounting our adventures in snowboarding and caving and skipping out of classes. We both went on to become cyclists. He became a racing roadie. I became a cycle tourist. I quit the bagel shop and went to college. He stayed and worked his way up to general manager. He made many thousands in savings. I made many camping trips to southern Utah. Now he manages a large hotel in Argentina. I pull in migrant worker wages at a small-town rag in rural Alaska.

  The world seems black and white at 8 mph.

  Tinted by choices.

  *****

  A quietness would wash over me at unexpected moments — during a pause at a traffic light, or while shoving a shopping cart across the gravel-strewn ice of the Safeway parking lot. A cold breeze would sting my face, I’d gaze upward at the yellow li
ght of a street lamp, and I’d remember the moon, and the bronze glow of a distant city, and a place that was far away from any I had known. A place far away from the world most people knew.

  Amid this quietness, I would wonder whether I’d ever entirely return to the known world. The Susitna 100 was a new galaxy, and my explorations there prompted a paradigm shift that I couldn’t quite reconcile upon touchdown in my regular life. A sense of separation had occurred. The other shoppers wrestling their carts across the parking lot, my co-workers, even Geoff — no one else seemed to have ventured to the same outer edge. No one else acknowledged the maelstrom that raged just beyond our veneer of convention, the infinite chaos and encompassing void. We were just going about nanoscale routines, purchasing milk and eggs, eyes glazed over with boredom, when all around us, the whole universe was on fire. How could people not see this? How could they not even notice the sprawling darkness beyond the street lights?

  The things I thought I knew were drifting away into an ever-expanding big picture. There was no going back. I frequently caught myself in daydreams, fixated on stars or the distant mountain skylines, lost in wonder at what it must be like out there. I immersed myself in imaginary adventures — scenarios involving my tiny figure atop an expansive ice field, or pedaling along an ice-coated beach as waves crashed on rocks. These daydreams had expanded beyond the realm of wishful thinking to something more encompassing. I’d jolt “awake” to my computer desk with some half-finished ad displayed on the screen, and smile sadly. Not because my fantasies weren’t real, but because they had become so vivid and dominant that they were taking over my ability to live in the moment. How would I ever reconcile the desires that made me feel alive, with the tasks that helped me stay alive?

  I couldn’t deny that the requirements of income, bills, and day-to-day chores were increasingly a source of frustration rather than satisfaction. Even pedaling to and from work — a chore I enjoyed — couldn’t compete with the adventures in my imagination. When I was finally outside, breathing cold air and feeling warm blood surging through my veins, my routine commute never failed to be invigorating. I reminded myself of this. But unless I could find the time for new explorations, or longer distances, everyday cycling no longer held as strong of a grip on my interest as it had just a few months earlier.

  Entrenched routine allowed me to go on autopilot in the morning. I hardly had to think to ride my bike to work. I simply grabbed fleece layers and rain pants to throw on over my khaki pants, cotton T-shirts, and sweaters. The arrival of March brought enough direct sunlight to warm the office, but outside temperatures still hovered well below freezing. Still, spring was undoubtedly on its way. The sun now stayed up past seven in the evening, offering plenty of time to take the long way home with a comfortable buffer of twilight.

  One Thursday evening, I left downtown Homer pedaling in the wrong direction so I could climb East End Road and ride Crossman Ridge trails home. I wore the same number of layers I’d descended into town with during the frigid morning, and within a mile I was overheated and drenched in sweat. Although I stopped midway up the hill to strip outer layers, the damage had been done. My cotton pants and T-shirt were soaked, and even the brief pause to stuff the shell and fleece jackets in my backpack resulted in a shivering chill.

  “No matter. I just need to ride harder,” I thought.

  It seemed a good day to go hard, with the afternoon sunlight glittering on Kachemak Bay, and a cold breeze wafting at my back. My head ached from a tedious day of database entry in the Tribune’s classified ads files, and cortisol levels were high. I might not have huge mountains or new galaxies to explore every day, but I certainly had adventure within reach. This was still Alaska, and it was still winter. I ratcheted into a high gear and leaned into the handlebars, inhaling ice and exhaling fire.

  March brought warm days yielding to freezing nights, which had the effect of solidifying the snowpack. The Crossman Ridge trail was packed with a slick layer of ice, as solid as pavement. I sprinted up and down the rolling crest of the ridge as the wind cooled the sweat on my skin. My hands tingled, and the needling sensation spread to my arms. Soon I felt the familiar numbness of cold salami fingers, but I didn’t want to break my momentum just to put on mittens. I could do that at the bottom of the ridge.

  The sun slipped below the horizon, and the woods fell into shadow. Wet khaki pants clung to my skin, and the single fleece jacket I pulled on at the base of Crossman Ridge felt like an ice wrap. The final descent brought a tear-inducing blast of cold. By the time I finally reached the reservoir, my whole body was rigid. After I peeled my dead fingers away from the handlebars, my arms continued to hang limply at my side. Even as I tried to lift them, the muscles seemed unresponsive to the imperatives of my brain. As I turned to remove my backpack, my shoulders stiffened and my whole body moved as though I were deep under water. Meanwhile, thoughts raced. “I am not just cold, I am really cold. I am in trouble.”

  Just as I finally worked the backpack to the ground and began to maneuver my seemingly disconnected hands toward the zipper, my body erupted in shivering. The initial onset was so violent that I lost motor control and had to sit down in the snow to avoid toppling over. Trying to open my backpack seemed futile in this state. Instead, I stood back up, lifted the backpack onto a shoulder between convulsions, pushed my palms against the bike’s handlebars, and started running.

  Initially, I loped on wooden legs. Eventually my core released some heat into my leg muscles, loosening the joints and sparing some warmth for my arms. With shivering somewhat abated, I stopped again, and pried open the backpack zipper with my teeth. With a jilted, slow-motion kind of frenzy, I pulled on all of my fleece jackets, shells, and mittens. I was three miles from home, engaged in a race for survival that felt more real and more urgent than anything I had experienced on the Iditarod Trail.

  With layers applied, I mounted my bike and began the infuriatingly slow process of working heat back into my sluggish muscles. All of my extremities felt like frozen meat, and the painful tingling had extended to my torso and butt. My mind, which was convinced it was freezing to death, screamed to ride harder, but my body was slow to respond. My veins seemed to be filled with icy sludge. I continued to shiver and convulse. My teeth chattered so wildly that I accidentally bit my tongue, and yet in cruel irony my legs would barely move.

  After a half-mile of “warm-up,” I finally achieved enough motor function to add some power to the laughably slow spinning. With increased power came the relief of increase heat. My hands and feet were still numb, and the rest of my body was far from comfortable, but at least I achieved the necessary momentum to propel myself home. Once inside the cabin, I peeled off wet layers of clothing and stumbled stiff and naked into the shower. The plumbing tapped into a private well, then pumped it into our house at such low pressure that it was often difficult to coax more than a trickle through our single shower upstairs. The well water was steeped in sulfur that left an unpleasant smell, and other minerals clogged up the fixtures. Our diesel-powered water heater was also a relic and would often only provide five to ten minutes of near-boiling water before running completely cold.

  Still, I cherished these showers. They were often my favorite part of the day. Given my brush with hypothermia, I expected my most sublime hot shower yet. Perhaps I should have known better. I expected similar ecstasy from my post-race shower after the Susitna 100, which I took at Craig’s house. That shower provided real water pressure and a modern heater that didn’t scald and then chill. Yet the experience proved to be the opposite of heaven — burning raw and chafed skin, beating tender muscles that throbbed with pain at the slightest pressure, and pulling my tangled hair out in clumps.

  This post-hypothermia shower was even more insidious. My fingers and toes felt as though I was dousing them in water that was actually boiling. The sudden temperature swing opened up all of my nerve endings in tingling so intense that I became nauseated. I s
lumped against the side of the shower stall and slid onto my butt when I could no longer endure the agony of standing. The shower continued to douse my body with fire water until it was beaten into submission. Electric shocks subsided, and I was left feeling thoroughly numb.

  Even a hundred miles of Iditarod Trail hadn’t quite prepared me for this brush with danger. It was an important lesson. Hypothermia lurks where you least expect it. It would be another two days before the numbness in my fingers and toes subsided, and I felt recovered enough to ride my bike to work again.

  *****

  On the first of April, Geoff and I finally got around to trying real winter camping — the tent and fire pit variety. Daylight now extended past 9 p.m., so after I returned from work, we drove out to the Caribou Lake Trailhead with all of our gear — his in a sled and mine in a pack. Geoff cut a trail with his skis and I slogged behind in snowshoes. Because we were using this “backcountry” mode of transportation, he wanted to avoid snowmobile trails. Instead, we paralleled the main route to the lake, with the easier path just beyond sight. Wind-driven snow pelted our faces and I had to squint to see his silhouetted figure a hundred feet ahead.

  We wallowed for four miles in the blizzard and then set up our tent in a thin stand of spruce trees. Geoff had recently purchased a used mountaineering tent from a friend. Desire to use this tent at least once before spring thaw was the main catalyst for this weekend’s trip. I had mostly reached acceptance that it wasn’t spring yet, but resented being coerced into another survival trip when flowers were already blooming in other places I had recently lived.