If the most gruelling of sportives no longer pose a challenge, acquaint yourself with the Iditarod Trail – an 18- day ‘ Tour de Alaska’
Across the frozen Alaskan tundra, braving the elements poses a challenge for even the most resilient of athletes. And for the 25 cyclists who set out to complete this year’s 1000-mile Iditarod Trail race without support or shelter, making it to the finish line was no safe bet. Here, RJ Sauer, who stole second place in just under 18 days, reports from the cold front
I TRUDGE THROUGH THE SOFT SNOW…
… pushing my fat bike over what remains of the Iditarod Trail, now largely obscured by wind-driven powder. Under the veil of another long night, a halo of light spills from my headlamp, illuminating tracks left by both stragglers and the Arctic wildlife lurking unseen in the shadows. The light plays tricks on my weary mind, animating every tree into something more ominous. The world is odourless and silent, save for my frozen boots crunching and twisting in the loose, sugary snow.
Little do I know that my Spot tracker – responsible for transmitting my position, and my only connection to the outside world – has recently packed in, the batteries drained by the frigid -40°C temperatures. Those anxiously following my progress online from the comfort of home are left wondering whether I have succumbed to the elements, or perhaps curled up inside my bivvy-cumbodybag, shrouded in ice.
I glare at the horizon through my iceencrusted face mask, willing the sun to re-emerge over the Alaskan backcountry. But dawn is still hours away. As I trudge onward through this wintery no man’s land, too committed to turn back and oblivious as to what lies ahead, I feel the full weight of isolation. But when survival is a matter of will, the choice to push on is no choice at all. The feeling fills me with life. This is what I came here for. Why else does one risk their being willingly, racing 1000 miles along the most remote landscape at the height of winter?
TRUE GRIT
Requiring total self-sufficiency and a deep well of fortitude to make it through more than a fortnight of frozen days and nights, the Iditarod Trail Invitational adventure race has built its reputation on notoriously inhospitable conditions. Its origins lie in a dog-sled race founded in 1973 in honour of mushers who travelled across western Alaska to Nome in the 1920s to deliver serum during a diphtheria outbreak. By the 1980s, mountain bikers were racing on the trail.
The modern iteration is a selfsupported adventure race, attempted
on either customised mountain bike, foot or skis, and broken up into three separate distances of 130, 350 or 1000 miles. The latter race begins in the city of Anchorage on the Gulf of Alaska and ends under the burled arch in Nome. For competitors, the Iditarod is a measure of human willpower like no other.
The reputation of the race is so gruelling that, this year, just 25 out of 83 participants start with the intention of completing the 1000-mile distance. Of this select few, only six will complete the entire journey. In 2012, no one finished at all. Some dropped out due to frostbite; some fell through the thin ice into hidden rivers below, before being rescued near-catatonic; some suffered catastrophic gear malfunctions, and others were simply sick of the suffering.
Every year is relentless, the constant exposure to the elements leaving even the best racers vulnerable to the simplest mistakes. Removing a glove for seconds to fix a flat tyre, or light a stove to boil snow for water, can spell disaster. “We offer [competitors] a true adventure, testing their endurance and survival skills,” says race organiser Kathi Merchant. “Temperatures range from above freezing with rain to lows of -50°C just 24 hours later. With ever- changing conditions, the race is never the same twice. You learn to expect the unexpected.”
INTO THE COLD
I was first introduced to the Iditarod Trail in 2001 as a young filmmaker. Captivated by anecdotal accounts of the race,
“Constant exposure to the elements leaves even the best vulnerable”
I threw myself into the Alaskan wilds with a video camera in hand and a duffle bag of mostly irrelevant gear, hypnotised by the dream of documenting the race and its participants as they marched into icy oblivion. After 25 days of trial by freezing, I achieved my goal and produced the adventure documentary A Thin White Line – an ode to the spirit of the trail and those who are compelled to follow it. More importantly, I had been captivated by the Iditarod Trail itself. I was inspired to return. The next time, however, I would be a competitor.
Perhaps the biggest advantage of having been there and seen it is the trust in training that it instilled in me. I have learned the importance of compartmentalising time and distance, and developed a tried-and-tested knowledge of kit. The lightweight bikes used on the Iditarod Trail are the fastest human-powered transit after a musher and his dog team. The oversized tyres, usually up to four inches wide (hence ‘fat bike’), keep you afloat on soft snow. Meanwhile, the treads are fixed with metal studs to offer additional traction on slippery surfaces such as rivers, lakes and sea-ice. Stuffed into its frame’s
bags are multiple days’ worth of food, cooking equipment and seasonal clothing optimised for constant temperature control. It’s vital to stay dry and avoid wet, shivering nights on the trail, so shedding heavy jackets is important when working up a sweat. There’s no coasting – you’re either pedalling or at a standstill. When it comes to choosing the right bike and supplies, reliability and durability are paramount. Despite the camaraderie between competitors, more often than not you’re left on your own for hundreds of miles at a time, with no one there to help should trouble strike.
Physical preparation is by necessity obsessive. I need to patiently ease my body from one plateau to the next, making sure to avoid injury, sickness and fatigue from overtraining. My aim is to simulate the strain my body will be under during race conditions through a combination of gym workouts – single-arm kettlebell raises, TRX work, cable-pull reverse flies – to open the chest and strengthen the shoulders. I also vary my cardio, including running, snow-shoeing, kayaking and hikes, to offset the repetitive motion of cycling.
Generally, I focus on intensity and power, with running intervals and explosive drills in the saddle, but as the start line looms closer, I ride for longer to get accustomed to the mental challenges of extended time and distance. Often I am burning more than 10,000 calories per day. But then, with race day imminent, it is time to cease all activity and feast, packing on additional weight to compensate for the calorie deficit on the trail. These are moments not just to sleep, rest, recover and heal, but to stare into
“This is a journey, not a race. It’s about who you truly are as a person”
the crystal snow globe and visualise the trials to come; to put my faith in my body and willpower.
HOME STRETCH
As the sun rises on the 17th day, the rubber of my tyres finally meets Tarmac on the paved streets leading to the finish line in Nome. The only screams and whistles come from the crisp winds blowing off the frozen shores of the Bering Sea. There will be no fanfare. The celebration and veneration burst from within.
“It’s been said that we go out on the trail to look for cracks in ourselves,” Merchant tells me afterwards. “Some competitors come back to see if things are different second time around. Others see things in themselves they never want to see again. They never come back.” Frank Janssens, a five-time competitor, is no less profound in his analysis of the ordeal: “This is a journey, not a race. It’s all about who you truly are as a person. You need to access all kinds of feelings constantly; you need to understand them and accept them. All decisions are crucial and can change the entire dynamic of the journey. Only one rule subsists in such an environment, and that one is really personal: to be proactive, not reactive.”
Escaping to the remote frontier of Alaska alone and overcoming the perpetual challenges of a 1000-mile cycling race invokes a deep personal pride and appreciation for the smallest things: the simplicity of survival – to eat, drink, sleep, move. There is something primal and empowering about the journey of the trail that only those who have ridden it can truly understand. And because of this, I know it is a call that will be answered time and time again.