OK, so it’s not so much the poorly paved (if at all) roads, or the lack of shoulders, or the fact that the shoulders never are swept clean, or the fact that at any moment you could be plastered across the grill of a truck which outnumber cars four to one. No, the difficulty in training to race at a (“lower 48”) competitive level becomes quickly obvious when out jumps the fact that the island I live and train on gets 180 inches of precipitation a year and a hot Summer day is when the temperature reaches 70 degrees. There are no hills longer than a half mile in length, and none taller than 500 feet in elevation; only 24 miles of paved road and only 36 miles of total drivable roadway.
In 2005, the last day I wore just shorts and a jersey was in September, and I didn’t wear shorts alone again until May of 2006. In the summer of 2006 we had 89 days of rain, and winter arrived in August, as it often does. Most every night dips into the 40’s, and the majority of summer days are barely in the 60’s. Which brings the obvious question of why would anyone choose to try to race (and be competitive) in such a harsh climate? The answer, I believe, is the same in Portland, Bend or Kotzebue, Alaska (which has no roads!) We love the sport and we desire the joy and pleasures it gives back to us.
Ketchikan, where I live, is a special place. Rain, yes. Snow, yes. Cycling club? Yes--me. But that‘s OK, because in two miles I’m on a road where it’s not uncommon to have to pause for a bear to wander across the road, or hear loons on a nearby lake. Wilderness--true wilds where you can die on your own if you’re ill-prepared surround us, and we all take a certain pride (and preparation) in that fact. There is novelty, too, in being only one of a few cyclists on the island—and certainly the only one that speeds around in sublimated lycra! I see people over and over throughout a training ride and there is most always a wave or a smile. With the odd cantankerous driver, it’s often that a friend of a friend knows who it is and more often than not the problem is solved just with a bit of education---like “that HUGE HOLE is why I was out in the lane.”
To ride in the summer on Revillagigedo Island—to ride any time in Southeast-- is akin to riding the mid-Wintered sanded roads of the mountainous NW. Grit and grime cling to chains, chain rings, and rim surfaces with equal abandon. Think Larch Mountain in mid-March, which is when I rode it and thought it was great—pouring rain, sleeting at 1,000 feet AND a decent climb, what could be better?
On the island I live on, there is no bike shop—NONE—And while capable on the bike, I’m no modern mechanic, and even simple problems become large dilemmas. Lose a chaining bolt through the deck onto the beach and gone it is forever—need to order one from Seattle. Need cable housing--same thing. Go down to the Trading Company and ask for a 12-25 cassette, or durace derailleur, and you get a stare like you’re speaking Tlingit in Downtown Albany.
And yet we ride. In any weather—in all weather—because when you live someplace that gets 17 feet of rain, you either get out or you don’t. I raced a semi-full season in 2006. Four stage races, a few road races and 
a number of criteriums. One of the beauties of racing as a Master (for me) is that I’m doing it for myself. I won’t ever return to racing full-time, and so a shift in the principles of competition change a bit I think. I like road racing as a Master mostly because when I go off the back on an early long arduous climb, I know that after awhile solo the women will catch me and I’ll have the enjoyment of finishing the race off the back of their main field! Most any company in a race is good company when you’re off the back. Never been off the back you say? Well, you haven’t raced enough, then, I’d say.
When I travel throughout the West in winter (or summer) and see nicely paved back roads that seemingly go on forever, I am envious—to a point. Just the thought of being able to ride a 100 mile LOOP is mind boggling, and the array of daily choices for training rides—or pleasure rides—is endless. BUT, there is traffic, and smog, and really fast speed limits, and some mean people. And having only lived in SE Alaska for six years my memories of such run-ins are still fresh, so let me say I TOTALLY admire and respect those who commute and ride and train in a “climate” that is equally challenging. At this point I’m not so sure I could do it again.
So here I sit, dreaming of sun and dry pavement and long seemingly endless climbs, craving suiting up to head out for a bit of a DRY spin to view budding trees, daffodils, crocus, and greening grass…something that I won’t be privy to at home until late April—if lucky. Just make sure you get out there and ride, no matter the rain or wind. And find something good at the end of it all, even if it’s just to say “Dude, (or Dudette) I just rode in the worst rain of my life…!” Believe me—I speak with experience here—you’ll look back on it and be pleased you were there. Good for the soul, perhaps better for the ego, but priceless for the memory.
Mike Schuler is a professional photographer who also works for an Engineering firm in Ketchikan, Alaska. He raced as a pro from 1985 – 1997, and since then has raced Masters in the summer. Mike also enjoys open water swimming (in 38 degree water!), hiking, climbing, speedskating, and Nordic skiing. He visits the Portland area to skate, train and ride when his schedule allows. Samples of Mike's photography can be seen at www.keyephotos.com.