Although it's billed as a race and treated as such by at least half of the people that show-and-go, I just got back from touring this great trail in Northern MN and thought I'd share the tale and a few pics.
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Neither the hare nor the wolf saw me in their flight across the trail.
The hare had the enviable advantages of speed, lightness, and agility working for her, and seemed to be using them to maximum advantage as she cut left beneath a red pine, took two quick strides through untracked snow, then stretched a long leap across a dead snag before hitting the hard-surfaced trail. Two quick bounds and the little gal cleared the bank on the far side, landing a solid six feet out into the fluff before bounding again and again into the thick pines yonder.
The wolf had the advantage of hunger on her side, and that seemed to be more than adequate as motivation. She worked *much* harder than the hare, traveling ~half the distance with every bound, but sheer determination kept narrowing the gap between the two. When I lost sight of them the mottled gray and black canine was less than 6 meters behind.
And then all was silent again.
Come to think of it, that's *mostly* what I've heard out here on the Arrowhead Trail: silence. Sounds of (often labored) breathing, an occasional shift of gears, and the groan of fresh snow under fat tires have all morphed into a collective indiscernible white noise. Every few hours a snowmachine rider has ripped past but their screaming, whining intrusion generally lasts less than 45 seconds from the first hints of approach until the racket recedes into the piney distance. Then, again, it's back to silence, albeit one laden heavily with two-stroke exhaust. Smells like youth.
Although the early miles of this event held more of a circus-like atmosphere with riders, skiers, and walkers all vying for position and firm trail as we sorted out our individual rhythms, once we'd completed the ~10 mile long out-and-back traffic had dissolved to nothing. The circus soon existed only in each individual head: Unless you'd pre-planned to traverse the trail with someone else you were suddenly and gloriously alone.
Fine by me. Although I hadn't truly planned to be here, it made sense to make use of the Arrowhead as another in a seemingly endless series of "dress rehearsals" or "shakedowns" for a quickly approaching epic Alaskan adventure. Nearly every local ride at home in Colorado is used to test or shake out some crucial piece of gear, but familiar territory and predictable climatic conditions can remove much of the anxiety attached to equipment failure or poor decision making. The only way to objectively test and evaluate gear or self is to get outside of one's comfort zone completely. A new trail, new event, and new people here in Northern Minnesota ensured that I had an ideal testing ground.
A chat at the pre-race meeting with Arrowhead course record holder Dave Pramann yielded his insight that the course conditions were shaping up to be very, very fast. How fast? Although Dave didn't think that he'd be the one doing it, he
was confident that his sub-16 hour course record would be broken. That thought had ballooned in my head as I'd packed the bike, so much so that I'd loaded double the food and fuel I thought I'd need. Knowing that I had zero chance of breaking the record and even less desire to push myself that hard, my thought process in carrying double rations was simple: If I finish in less than a day I'll just turn around and ride back to the start, effectively doubling my shakedown time.
I'd rolled out of bed at 5, eaten, dressed and loaded the bike by 6, threw all extraneous gear into the rental car, locked it, and was spinning down the highway toward the start line by 6:15. Three+ inches of new snow had fallen through the night, yielding a soft, silent spin down the shoulder of the highway. Little traffic, a quartering tailwind, and a crisp minus 17*f made for a comfortable warmup before arriving at the trailhead 58 minutes later. A chipper volunteer with a clipboard recorded my start time then I rolled out onto the trail.
Several others had started already, their progress plotted by a thin red line of LED blinkies stretching through the woods to the west. I passed a few of them as they fiddled with gear, pissed out the last of their pre-race anxiety, or simply adjusted layers.
Heading straight into the teeth of the wind for those first 10 miles meant that little conversation was shared: Most simply buried faces into layers and ticked off some distance.
Darkness slowly faded into wan twilight, then the sun crept hesitantly over the horizon and cast long shadows out ahead of us.
The first two cyclists to pass me did so with such speed and relative ease that I instinctively looked down to check for a flat tire, broken chain, or dragging anchor. They were
hauling. Pramann sat on Charlie Farrow's wheel, the three of us exchanging friendly comments as they motored past. I caught but a teeny snapshot into the mind of each in that split second, with Farrow seeming relaxed and within himself while Pramann looked a bit on the rivet. Minutes later they hit the turnaround, reversed direction, and were motoring back toward me. If any
one word could describe these two it had to be
determined. These were men on a mission.
And then they were gone.
I executed a slightly less motivated turnaround and then rolled east back into oncoming traffic. A feature unique to this race, the initial 10-mile out-and back meant that every participant on course got to see every other racer, face to face, at some point. Combine pre-race anxiety with the chill in the air and the freshness of the breeze on our noses, and I don't think it a stretch to say that eastbound racers could catch more than a glimpse into the very souls of those westbound. Nothing was hidden in those early miles.
What I saw were scads of motivated bikers, followed by a few that weren't so sure about either where they were, what they were doing here, or both. Then came an assortment of skiers and runners with various levels of confidence and preparedness worn on their sleeves. Some, like Pierre Ostor, had their gear and gait so finely tuned that I had to stop and take note:
I don't run much but it's easy to spot an efficient and confident runner at some distance, and always a pleasure to do so.
Toward the back of the pack came a few racers that were either stopped and fiddling with gear, or furiously scribbling mental notes to do so with vigor before the start of next year's event:
With some 20 miles ticked off I passed back through the start line and out into new-to-me country. Last nights snow laid almost 4 inches thick atop a concrete hard base. That firm base meant that any tire pressure would work: I'd left the hotel with ~20psi front and rear (pavement pressure!) and would have no need to adjust it throughout the entire ride. But the fresh fluff atop that firm base gave me serious doubts about a record ride happening for anyone ahead.
Those out in front were working very, very hard to punch a trail through the fluff. I doubted they could hold their pace while working that hard for another ~110+ miles. But then I didn't know these people, nor this trail nor landscape, and most importantly I had my own self to worry about. Lacking any on-course information about how things stood at the sharp end of the race, I let my attention wander to the immediate surroundings.
Three hours in and still not quite warmed up, I dismounted to push up a short incline in the trail. As I swung my right leg over the bike to resume pedaling, I caught motion in my peripheral and looked back to see a rider approaching. He introduced himself as "Lance" but I'll likely always remember him as
'the guy with the party in his mouth'. Every time he opened it out poured more noise: Revving race car engines, whistles, hoots, grunts, and non-sequiturs from another time and place. All in all, enthusiasm and energy oozed out of Lance, and then he too was gone.
Thinking back a few hours to when the early leaders had motored by, then comparing their relative paces in my head, I could only surmise that Lance was going to catch up quick and then, to paraphrase Paul Sherwen,
"The effervescent young American won't wait--he'll go straight over the top and punch out into the wind on his own!".
Back in my own little bubble I enjoyed the unfolding scenery and stopped for snapshots as often as the fancy struck.
Early afternoon I still hadn't found my groove and thought maybe lunch could change that. I parked the bike in a sunny, sheltered-from-wind spot, then unpacked and fired up the stove. Within ~20 minutes I'd turned a quantity of trailside drift into ounces of near-boiling water, which I then used to rehydrate a baggie of sausage stroganoff. I tucked the baggie against my belly while waiting for it to fester, then wandered about snapping random pics in the immediate vicinity. A few riders toodled by as I lunched, among them was Terry Brannick.
Terry rolled nonchalantly up and spent a few minutes shooting the breeze. We talked (of course) about gear choices for snow riding, Alaska, trail conditions today, and compared notes on our
Epic gear. Terry seemed relaxed and in no hurry whatsoever, eventually continuing on his way as I commenced to eating. Based on our few minutes of interaction I guessed that Terry and I would leapfrog each other along the course, neither in any hurry to get anywhere, each just kind of taking it all in.
Imagine my surprise when, over 25 hours later, I learned that Terry had won the race!
Lunch finished, I repacked the bike and moseyed ahead. The landscape seemed to be slowly morphing from lowland scrub and swampland to rolling hills with drier, sandier soils. I'm no forester but the proliferation of vast groves of enormous white pines seemed to point to this conclusion. Clear skies had been replaced by some scud and then light snow falling. Rounding a corner I caught up to Dennis Grelk, never quite making contact but tailing him at a distance for the better part of an hour.
If any
one picture can capture the essence of the Arrowhead I experienced, it is the one above of Dennis. When I gaze upon it I see a human gliding silently and gracefully through the forest with alluring light, sinuous trail and a subtle sense of mystery all compelling him forward.
Low rolling hills were the MO of the next few hours, the trail descending off of one, often across a wood-bridged seasonal creek, then climbing another. I found these derelict structures irresistible in that they usually provided a window into the doings of the local fauna. Tracks of rabbit, fox, wolf, marten, deer, grouse and bunting were almost always in evidence along these micro-drainages.
As afternoon wore into evening the hills seemed to get longer and steeper, or maybe it was my failing energy levels?
Uncertain on which to blame but clearly unable to stay on top of a gear for long, I resolved to up the energy levels with another dose of real food. Near the top of a steep pusher I found a flattish spot off-trail, perfect for kicking back and watching the sunset while brewing up another hoosh. The jet-like roar of my stove made conversation difficult with the three riders that appeared over the next 20 minutes, each off and pushing up the same hill that had caused me to question my energy levels.
All three were plenty friendly and interesting to talk to, but each also seemed much more focused on what lay ahead than anything I had to offer, so before the last salmon light faded from the western sky I found myself dining solo on a chicken & cheese pasta dish.
The remaining 8 miles to Elephant Lake were memorable only in their refusal to follow a straight line: The trail wound, ducked and dove relentlessly before finally exhaling us out onto the arrow-straight trail across the lake and into our halfway checkpoint. I leaned the bike and stepped inside, greeted by many familiar faces and an intense, discomforting heat. I'd been borderline too-warm all day and felt near to a swoon inside the closeness of the checkpoint cabin. Having just eaten and refilled my water containers with melted snow a few miles previous, I needed nothing from the cabin so I quickly excused myself and continued up the trail.
...to be continued...
