The Big Empty

Like lunar explorers in a place not at all like home, we slowly forged our way through the mile-wide valley. Even as we pushed, we listened keenly to the sounds of the snow,waiting for just the right squeak and crunch under our feet to indicate that the snow was packed hard enough to ride.

- Alex Frankel

A local utility worker, driving a pickup truck with a snowplow, pulled up to the one-pump station and rolled down his window. He looked at me and took in my boldly uncamouflaged neon orange, blue and purple Gore-Tex snowsuit.

Then he looked over at my fat bike with its voluptuous 5-inch tires and frame loaded with gear, and then back at me. His look said a lot, like: What the fuck are you doing here riding a bicycle? Are you fucking crazy? I agreed with him before he uttered a word.

And then, looking directly at my diminutive bike saddle and speaking in the slow staccato that Inuit locals speak when using their non-native English, he said: “I. Think. You. Are. Going. To. Freeze. Your. Balls. On. That. Seat.” I wholeheartedly agreed. “Might. Want. To. Add. Some. Seal. Fur.” We both laughed.

Maybe I wasn’t so much worried about literally freezing my balls, but freezing my fingers and toes? No doubt. His skepticism and concern for my bodily harm echoed my own. Temperatures would definitely plunge far below the present day’s seemingly comfortable zero. This was a trip where we could be flirting with survival; frostbite was a real possibility.