by Frosty Wooldridge
As a special note, I lived and worked at McMurdo Station in Antarctica for a summer season ‘on the ice’. I brought my bicycle where I pedaled and camped in subfreezing temperatures. This rare episode stands as one of the greatest moments of my bicycle touring career spanning six continents. I have pedaled along the Arctic Ocean in Norway 600 miles north of the Arctic Circle all the way to Antarctica:
In the morning, a whiteout howled across McMurdo Station, Antarctica with 100 mile per hour winds and minus 60-degree temperatures. I had been confined to my barracks for two days as a 'Condition One' storm worked its way over the icepack before me.
By late evening, a high pressure center turned the weather placid with a warming trend taking the temperature to a ‘balmy’ minus 20-degree temperature that kept most people inside. A report crackled over the base radio that several emperor penguins waddled toward the open sea near the ice runway. Not wanting to miss a chance to see those majestic birds, I bundled into my cold weather gear--insulated boots, heavy mittens, three Thermax layers, fleece, three hats, face protection, along with ski goggles--and headed out the door to ride my bicycle over the ice runway.
Yes, we enjoyed bicycles at the scientific station. I yearned to see those birds no matter what the cold! I jumped on my bike looking like an over-stuffed bear with all my cold weather gear on. My breath vaporized as I rode toward the ice-covered ocean. My lungs burned with each inhalation of polar cold. About a mile around the cove, the setting sun glinted off the roof of
the great British polar explorer, Robert Falcon Scott's Discovery Hut. He had died 95 years ago on his last attempt to reach the South Pole. The Hut stood on the point of McMurdo Sound since 1902. It gave mute testimony to the courage those men displayed in their polar adventures. Antarctic makes for a cold, miserable place. Upon reaching the South Pole in second place behind the Roald Admundsen, the crafty dog sledder explorer from Norway, Scott cried out, “Oh God, this is an awful place.”
I rode along a path that led toward the ice pack in the sound. From there, a plowed road headed eight miles out to the makeshift runway for the air port out in the middle of McMurdo Sound. That’s right, 10 foot thick ice supported the weight of massive C-140 Starlifters with four jet engines.
I rode along carefully on the packed snow on the smooth ice. Pack-ice lined both sides of the road. Describing pack-ice takes more than words! It’s jumbled-broken ice chards being heaved and smashed into multiple shapes-triangles, domes, squares, tubulars, and wedges--like an Erector Set gone crazy. However, near the shore, a reasonably smooth, thin veneer of snow remained after the blizzard.
Above me, a gold/purple sky glowed brazenly in its final glory into the crevasses of the Royal Society Range across the sound. For once, a rare quiet softened the bitter edge of the crystal white desert before me. One of the glaciers, more than ten miles across at its terminus radiated liquid gold from the setting sun. Riding along, I nearly tipped over, but soon, I pulled through and gained the edge of the ice. Even with polar weather gear protecting my body, the numbing cold crept through the air, as if it were trying to find a way into my being.
The bike frame creaked at the cold and the tires made a popping sound on the snow I pedaled over. The big boots I wore made it hard to keep on the pedals. I persevered and kept moving forward.
After four miles, and across the ice, I looked through the sunlight and saw four black figures approaching. I shaded my eyes with my gloved hand. They drew closer, their bodies back-lit by the sun on the horizon. I saw a family of Emperor penguins. I dismounted from my bike and walked onto the pack-ice about 50 yards from the ice road. From our survival classes, I learned to sit down so as not to frighten them. By appearing smaller, they might find me interesting.
Slowly, I lowered myself into the snow, cross-legged, like an Indian chief. Minute by minute, they waddled closer--straight toward me. Three big birds, about 80 pounds each kept moving dead-on in my direction. The smallest followed behind them.
Another minute passed and they were within 30 feet of me. The lead emperor carried himself like a king. His silky black head-color swept down the back of his body and through his tail. A bright crayon yellow/orange streaked along his beak like a Nike logo. Under his cheek, soft aspirin-white feathers poured downward, glistening in lanolin. A pink colored line ran along his beak. His wings were black on the outside and mixed with black/white on the front. He stood at least 40 inches tall and his enormous gray three-toed feet featured a gray reptilian roughness with blunted talons sticking out. He rolled his head, looking at me in a cockeyed fashion, as if I was the strangest creature he'd ever seen.
I don't know what made me do it, but I slipped my right hand out of the glove and moved it toward him--slowly. The rest of the penguins closed in. The big guy stuck his beak across the palm of my hand and twisted his head, as if to scratch himself against my skin. I felt glossy feathers against my hand. He uttered a muffled, “Coo,coo...” The rest of the penguins cooed. Their mucus membranes slid like liquid soap over their eyes every few seconds. I stared back, wanting to say something to them, but realized I could not speak their language. However, at that moment, we shared a consciousness of living.
My frozen breath vapors hung in the air briefly before descending as crystals toward the ground. I battled to keep from bursting with excitement. Within seconds, one of the other penguins pecked my new friend on the rump. He drew back. With that he turned and waddled away. Following the elders, the little one gave one last look at me, as if he too wanted to scratch my hand, but was afraid, and turned with his friends. As they retreated, their wings spread out, away from their bodies like children trying to catch the wind in their arms. The baby emperor was last to go.
My hand turned numb so I stuck it back into the glove. As I sat there, I remembered once when a hummingbird landed on my finger near a feeder on a cabin porch in the Rocky Mountains--and I remembered the sheer delicacy nature shared with me that warm spring day. Here, in this frozen wasteland beyond the borders of my imagination where man does not belong, nature touched me again today with its pulsing heart and living warmth. I only hope my species learns as much respect for our fellow travelers as they show toward us.
I stood up, tightened my hood and looked for the penguins. They vanished into the whiteness. Only the pack ice rumbled toward the horizon. I walked toward my bike. It’s hard to believe that two rubber tires laced together with spokes and rims—and attached to a metal frame could carry me from the Amazon Jungle, along the Great Wall of China, across 15,000 foot passes in the Andes, through the scorching Outback of Australia, across Europe, through Death Valley and on to where the bolt goes into the bottom of the globe. That simple machine lying in the frozen snow had taken me to far-flung places on this planet and it had allowed me magical moments beyond description. That moment with the penguins probably ranks as number one for my long distance bicycling adventures. I remounted it and turned toward the base.
The ride back didn't seem so cold.
Merry Christmas Aspen, Colorado friends!
Excerpt from “An Extreme Encounter: Antarctica” by Frosty Wooldridge
www.frostywooldridge.com and www.amazon.com
December 24th, 2008
By Frosty Wooldridge
I never told my own religion nor scrutinized that of another. I never attempted to make a convert, nor wished to change another’s creed. I am satisfied that yours must be an excellent religion to have produced a life of such exemplary virtue and correctness. For it is in our lives, and not from our words, that our religion must be judged.
~Thomas Jefferson
While I usually write about heavy subjects facing Colorado and the nation, Christmas brings out the fun side of my heart and a sense of hope. This story may delight you and cause a chuckle or two. It’s one of the many amazing moments from my six bicycle adventures crossing coast to coast across this great country of ours. We live in a most amazing nation and Americans prove some of the kindest, zaniest and funniest on the planet. May Christmas bless you and yours in every way and may our world become a more peaceful place in the year ahead. And so this tale begins:
A hill descends into St. Johns, Arizona, Route 180, on the eastern end of the state. Little did I know, I pedaled into the depths of hell. My traveling companions John, Mike, and Kevin rode ahead because I stopped to fix a flat tire.
We had toured the Petrified Forest near Holbrook, and continued east across arid prairie. A full-blown western sunset with a multicolored light show stretched to the horizon. The sky dripped in crimson swirling clouds. We planned to pick up Route 380 east into New Mexico. While coasting to the bottom of the hill, I saw my friends talking with a middle-aged, portly man in a blue Chevy Nova.
“How’s it going mates?” I asked, pulling to a stop.
“I want you to meet my new friend Joe,” John said.
“Hi Joe,” I said, looking at a man who looked like the local school custodian in grey work clothes.
“Joe has asked us over to his house for showers and dinner,” John said. “We can camp in his back yard.”
“Sounds great,” I said, noticing Kevin giving me odd eye signals.
“You boys can follow me,” Joe said. “My house is two miles from here.”
We hopped on the bikes for a quick ride to his place. Kevin rode alongside me.
“What a good deal!” I said. “Showers and a hot meal!”
“I think it’s going to cost us a bit of religious conversion,” Kevin said. “I tried to talk John out of this but he didn’t seem to understand.”
“John’s an innocent child,” I said. “But we can handle it.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Famous last words of General Custer. Here were four sweaty bicycle riders on a coast to coast ride across America following a middle-aged man to his home in the suburbs. We rode up his driveway and withstood the glare of his wife standing on the porch like the wicked witch of the North. She swept the porch, but I swear she could straddle the broom and fly.
I knew things weren’t right when this oversized Army drill sergeant wife named Hazel grabbed him by the arm as he walked up the porch steps.
“What do you mean bringing home a bunch of strangers again?” she demanded, talking through her clinched teeth. “Wasn’t last week’s batch enough for you? You haven’t cleaned up after them YET! This time, you clean up! Do you hear me, HUSBAND?”
Joe wilted under her barrage. Kevin faded back. I wanted to punt. John and Mike stood there smiling like two kids in a Norman Rockwell painting. Then she turned her fury toward us. I cringed. We stood there looking into the face of Medusa.
“You boys are welcome to stay the night, since my ‘LOYAL’ husband has already invited you, but you have to realize the problems my husband gets us into,” she said. “He can’t cook, can’t vacuum, won’t take out the trash, won’t wash dishes, won’t mow the lawn, can’t tend a garden, never walks the dog, does nothing around the house, and KEEPS inviting strangers into our place like it’s a haven for stray dogs. The kitchen is a disaster area from the last episode. But since you’re here, you can camp out back and come in for showers. Just don’t waste my hot water!”
“Yes ma’am,” John said, in a mouse-like whisper.
“You Australian?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Welcome to America!” she scowled.
At that moment, I wanted to crawl back to the road like a cowardly mutt and find a campsite in a peaceful meadow outside of town. But to my dismay, John walked his bike toward the back yard. He didn’t understand our impending dilemma.
The wicked witch of the North swirled around on her black heels and stomped back into the house, probably to file her fangs and polish her claws. I felt like splitting that second and Kevin would be on my tail. But Joe regained himself and herded the rest of us to the back yard where he made sure we pitched our tents.
“I’m going to take care of you boys. Make yourselves at home,” he said. “The bathroom is on the left inside the house. I’m going to make some mountain food for you. There are clean towels in the washroom. I have some interesting reading for you, too!”
I showered quickly. I expected to excuse myself and slip into my tent to avoid the sermon that I knew was coming. But Joe was a master at shepherding his newly found sinners. He aimed to save us. He tagged me with dishes and silverware before I could get outside. Joe put Kevin in charge of stirring the gravy. Joe knew we were like two race horses ready to bolt. John and Mike hadn’t experienced his brand of evangelism, so they were like gerbils in a glass tank. I gave into Joe because he would haul me out of the tent anyway.
The fact is, I’m a sinner, but sometimes, I don’t think the little sins add up to all that much in the eyes of the Great Spirit. Heck, everybody lies a little. We all have done something we don’t want others to know about. We can’t be perfect. I don’t want to be perfect. I like my foibles. They give me character flaws that others find interesting. The world would be a dull place if everybody was perfect. Because, if they were, we’d have no one to talk about! Look how exciting Monica Lewinski made our lives for an entire year! How about Plexico Burress? What about Clinton’s peccadillos? Madonna’s kissing Britney on stage in front of millions? What about Governor Blagojevich? It’s fun to talk about those characters. As it is, we’re all a bunch of folks going down the road of life doing the best we can. Some of us fail.
But most of us don’t want to be reminded that we’re ‘bad’. Because, at times, being bad is good. I mean, it’s fun to be bad because it feels so good, so how can it be so bad? Then, to have Billy Graham tell me I’m going to fry in the chambers of Hell takes away all the fun of being bad. Besides, if I was really good, I’d probably go to heaven and live on the same street as Joel Osteen, Oral Roberts, Pat Roberston and Billy Graham. To think that I’d have to listen to them every day for the rest of eternity would drive me crazy. I’d be the first man to commit a crime in heaven and be sent to Hell.
Anyway, as Joe cooked the food, we set out the dishes. Soon the table was ready and the food steamed on the stove. We sat down to a large spread fit for a king. His mountain food consisted of boiled vegetables in gravy. Joe opened quarts of homemade apricots and applesauce. He added seven-grain bread for sopping up the juices on our plates. Hazel remained in the next room, presumably combing the snakes on her head and watching Pat Sajak mesmerize his audience with ‘Wheel of Fortune’.
Not long into the meal, Joe passed around cards that explained his faith. I nodded politely along with Kevin. We had heard the spiel before. It’s not that I didn’t respect his right to his beliefs, but I hated having them jammed down my throat. With a break in the conversation, I excused myself and escaped to my tent. Kevin followed.
We expressed our relief at having made it out alive. Better that John and Mike catch the thrust of Joe’s crusade. It was new to them. As I sat in the middle of my tent, writing in my journal, I felt relieved. Suddenly, my zipper ripped upwards under its own power. In a moment, I starred into Joe’s savior-like brown eyes.
“Hi, I thought you might need some important information that you can read in your spare time,” he said, handing me a book.
“Thanks, Joe,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “I hope I didn’t disturb your writing. Good night.”
Seconds later, he repeated the same lines to Kevin. That was it. I was leaving at dawn. When Joe left, I whispered to Kevin.
“I’m making like the Pony Express at daybreak,” I said.
“I’m making like the Union-Pacific before day break,” Kevin shot back.
“Deal!”
Sleep came swiftly. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
With the first bird’s chirp before dawn, Kevin and I packed our gear for the escape. We spoke not a word. I didn’t tell John because he was such a good-natured friend, and he might talk us into staying. No way did I want to chance that. Like ghosts, Kevin and I vanished into the morning darkness. We would never see Hazel and her Medusa again. When we reached the end of the block, we started laughing and talking about John and Mike’s fate.
“Those poor guys are in for a sermon,” Kevin said. “We may never see them again. They’re going to answer the call and become missionaries.”
“Can you believe that guy broke into my tent?” I said.
“Yeah, but as soon as I heard him talking with you, I blew out my candle, so he would figure I was asleep,” Kevin said. “But he had seen my light on while talking with you, so he took it upon himself to open my tent and shine a flashlight on me while he told me about his book.”
“Yeah, well, we’re safe now. Let’s ride.”
We cranked down the street with blazing strawberry light streaking across the morning sky. Horse tail clouds swirled in a menagerie of beautiful shades of gray, red and crimson. An old man walked his dog along the sidewalk. Near the edge of town, we found an all-you-can-eat pancake house. We couldn’t pass it up. We parked the bikes against the glass.
A waitress took our order. Minutes later, she brought us two plates loaded with buttermilk pancakes. We slapped on butter and poured maple syrup over the stacks. Half way through my pancakes, I felt nature calling.
“I’ve got to go Kevin,” I said. “Order me another stack.”
“Okay,” he said, his mouth stuffed with pancakes.
I walked around the outside of the building to the bathroom. I discovered a broken lock on the door, but at that early hour, I didn’t figure anyone would see me from the street if the door swung open. A few minutes later, I washed my hands and headed back for the pancakes. Rounding the corner of the building, I gasped at the sight of Joe standing over Kevin, cajoling him. Kevin’s eyes rose to the top of his head as he stuffed a fork full of pancakes into his mouth.
“Oh my God, that nut is coming after me,” I said to myself.
I ran back to the bathroom, but remembered it wouldn’t lock. I’ll fool him. The girl’s bathroom…that’s it! I’ll hide in there. In a panic, I bolted for the lady’s bathroom. It was unlocked. I walked in, closed the door and punched the button to the door knob lock. It was a shoe-box bathroom with no partition for the toilet. From my nervousness, I had to go again, so I walked over and sat down on the toilet. I felt safe.
Like a scene out of a horror movie, I heard a key slip into the tumbler and the ping of the doorknob lock release. That’s all I needed–a little old lady finding me sitting on her toilet. Or worse yet, a gorgeous blond coming in to fix her panty hose! I sat there paralyzed. What else could I do? The worst that would happen would be when she saw me, she would shut the door in embarrassment. I would be embarrassed too, but she wouldn’t know me from Adam, so it wouldn’t be a big deal. I sat there holding the toilet paper roll in my hand awaiting the stranger at the door.
“Hi,” Joe said, sticking his head into my chamber.
I looked up at him, feeling my skin crawl, and my emotions smoldering into anger. But I kept calm. Joe did not understand his rudeness.
“Your friend promised me that you guys would come back for breakfast,” he said. “I’ll be expecting you in a few minutes. You don’t want to waste my food.”
“Yes Joe,” I said. “Is it okay if I finish my business?”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” he said, closing the door.
Back with Kevin, my pancakes had cooled off. I seethed with distress.
“Do you believe that guy walked in on me in the girl’s bathroom?” I told Kevin.
“He asked me where you were, so I told him I thought you went to the bathroom,” Kevin said. “Then he grabbed the keys off the hooks after he got done talking with me. He’s a man with a mission. He’s trying to save us from ourselves.”
“I don’t want to be saved,” I said. “He told me you agreed to come back to his house for breakfast.”
“Are you kiddin?”
“That’s it, dude! We’re gettin’ outta’ Dodge after these pancakes are in my belly. I can’t take it anymore.”
Five minutes later, we sat in the saddle, cranking hard. We broke free of the city limits–heading for wide-open spaces. In my mind, the New Mexico border offered us a haven. We would ride out of his jurisdiction, and like outlaws pursued, we urged our iron steeds ever faster through the cactus-covered badlands. Ten miles out of town we relaxed.
“We’re cool now,” Kevin said, looking down at his computer. ”He’s probably got Mike and John chained inside his house….”
At that moment, a man driving a blue Chevy Nova roared past us, pulled off the highway and slammed on the brakes. The door swung open. The driver leaped out with his hands spread like an eagle holding his prey to the ground.
“Joe!” I gasped, my spirit dribbling down into the soles of my shoes.
“You didn’t come back for breakfast!” he complained. ”Listen, if you need food, or shelter, I can get you into one of our churches in the next city.”
That did it. Joe pushed me over the edge. Kevin and I stood astride our bikes while being pandered by this poor lost soul.
“Joe,” I said. “Hold your horses for a minute and let me speak. You’re a nice guy, and you’ve shown our friends American hospitality. But you drive a steep price. You’ve bombarded us with your philosophy from the first moment we met. Do you know my name or my friend’s here?”
He stammered.
“Do you even remember my Aussie friends’ names?”
He looked down, shuffling his feet.
“You don’t even care about our names,” I said. “You just want to save us, but you haven’t even considered that we might have our own philosophies. Did you know there are thousands of religions in this world? Why not respect everyone’s religion and leave them be. How would you like me barging into your life, pushing my religion on you? There are two things I never try to change in another person–their religion and politics. It’s a waste of time. I’m not going to change yours, or anyone’s, so I just let people be. The next time you ask people into your home, ask them about their adventures. I’ll bet you will learn more than you ever dreamed possible. Travelers have some of the greatest stories in the world, never seen on television, because they are people experiencing the world. No gloss, no glitter, just reality! Can you do that the next time? If you do, you won’t infringe on their personal philosophies, and everyone will have a great time visiting you. Most of all, you will enjoy them, for what they are and what they believe, and you will learn to respect everyone’s’ personal choices. There is no single answer to God. In fact, God comes to everyone with a slightly different color, size, feeling and angle. You need to respect that.”
“He’s right, Joe,” Kevin said. “We tried to escape because you made us uncomfortable by pushing your beliefs on us. I’m 24 and I don’t mind a discussion on beliefs, but I don’t like religion jammed down my throat. I don’t care what you believe as long as your religion fulfills your spiritual life. Religion is a personal thing. Our friends were being polite, but you’ve made it bad for us.”
“You’re right,” Joe said, standing there like a small child. ”I’ve been harping on your friends all morning about joining my church.”
“You tell them that we’ll be up the road riding slowly so they can catch up,” I said.
“If you need anything, money, food….” Joe started in again.
“JOE!” I exclaimed, cutting him off. “We need your respect, nothing more.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Thank Hazel for her home canned apricots and applesauce,” Kevin said.
“I will.”
Kevin and I slipped our feet into the straps. We waved at Joe as he got into his Nova. He turned his car around and seconds later, vanished from our rearview mirrors.
“Boy, life’s a big adventure isn’t it?” Kevin said, rolling his eyes. “That poor guy! I feel sorry for him. I think he’s lonely.”
“It’s too bad we can’t get him on a bicycle tour,” Kevin said. “It would give him new perspectives.”
“True, but he’d quit on the first climb.”
“Guess you’re right.”
John and Mike caught up to us in New Mexico on a hill climb. Mike didn’t care about our splitting, but John was none too happy about it. At first he rode by us, not speaking, even after we said, “Hello.” I knew he was upset, which made me angry over the whole Joe episode. A short time later, John stopped alongside a guardrail and parked his bike. I didn’t know what to expect from my dear friend, but he was reasonable, so I felt confident that we would work it out. He stood there waiting for us, his arms folded and a serious look on his face.
“John, I’m sorry about this whole mess,” I said, riding up.
“You boys have all day to explain your abandonment of your mates,” he said, with a slight smile slipping into his serious demeanor.
Once we explained our position, John understood the whole story. He started laughing. We laughed! Even Mike laughed. Then he looked down at his back tire. Flat tire number six! We laughed some more. We agreed! We blamed the flat tire on a man named Joe.
Merry Christmas Denver!
Excerpt from: “Bicycling Around the World: Tire Tracks for Your Imagination” by Frosty Wooldridge www.barnesandnoble.com; www.amazon.com ; www.frostywooldridge.com
December 12th, 2008
Lance Armstrong, Aspen's own local hero, is facing a new set of doubts with a new team--and an aging body. "Still there beneath his helmet will be his steely, angular face, weathered from his many miles on a bike," Juliet Macur reports. "Surrounding him will be most of his teammates from last season, including Levi Leipheimer, Chris Horner and Yaroslav Popovych. Still in charge will be Johan Bruyneel, Armstrong’s longtime friend and the team manager. But on Friday, Armstrong, the seven-time Tour de France winner known for his Texas-size swagger, revealed something altogether unfamiliar: a crack in his confidence. At a prerace news conference, he wondered out loud if he was still good enough to win. 'I am a rider that a lot of times hasn’t had a lot of doubts,” said Armstrong, who raced for the Kazakh-based Astana team last season. “And sometimes, there are days I have doubts, to be honest./"
