Meet the Last Paperback Rider of Anchorage
Some stories don’t ask for permission. They step into your life in a parking lot, on a sidewalk, or outside a Denny’s at 20 below, and suddenly you find yourself standing face-to-face with a legend you never expected to meet. This is one of those stories. It begins with a World War I flying ace and ends with a lone man on a bicycle, pedaling paperback books through the frozen edges of Anchorage. It’s the story of Al Atkey — a man who became part of Anchorage folklore simply by showing up every day exactly as he was.
Long before Anchorage ever knew him, Al came from a life of distinction. His father, Alfred Clayburn Atkey, was a decorated Canadian fighter pilot in the Royal Flying Corps — a war hero, a concert pianist, and a journalist. His young son adored him, but Al grew into someone entirely different: an enigma who drifted thousands of miles north and became one of Anchorage’s most recognizable figures. How he arrived there is pure folklore. Some say he rolled a tire down the Alaska Highway thinking he could sell it, until a soldier picked him up and somehow he ended up in Fairbanks, then Anchorage. These stories were told the way fishermen tell tales — with affection, embellishment, and a wink — but everyone agreed that Anchorage didn’t just tolerate characters like Al. Anchorage adopted them.
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Anchorage is a strange, wonderful paradox — big enough to get lost in, small enough that you keep running into the same people. And that’s exactly how I kept running into Al. He wasn’t a drinker and he wasn’t aggressive; he simply lived on a different frequency. In the Glen Alps parking lot — wearing a bow tie, no less — he once launched into an articulate monologue about political corruption reaching all the way into the Governor’s office. He named names with such precision that it left me speechless. At McDonald’s I would spot him a burger and a coffee. He loved music, did odd jobs for tapes and CDs, and always carried a gentle earnestness with him.
He had just one remaining tooth in the middle of his lower jaw, standing out defiantly as if it had a message of its own. It felt symbolic — the last one standing, refusing to give in. In winter he buried himself beneath so many layers of clothing that he puffed out like a giant snowball pushing a bicycle wrapped in white plastic Carrs bags. Everything he owned hung from that bike or was tucked somewhere in those layers. He lived simply, spoke simply, and carried an air of quiet purpose.
One winter outside the Denny’s on Northern Lights, Al finally explained his mission. “It’s my job,” he told me. His job was to ride up and down the Glenn Highway — even at forty below — selling used paperbacks. Someone had to do it, he said, and so he did. Ten to twenty plastic bags hung from his handlebars, stuffed with books and mysterious odds and ends. He had backup bikes hidden in the woods. He never asked for anything except, indirectly, a few minutes of my time.
Vaclav Havel once said that the measure of a civilization is how it treats its most marginalized citizens. By that measure, Anchorage did well. People respected Al, looked out for him, and accepted him as part of the city’s quiet fabric.
In 2011 I visited the Alaska Room at the Loussac Library to ask about him. The librarian knew exactly who I meant. Al had spent countless hours there reading and listening to music. The last she heard, he was back with family in Canada. Wherever he is now, I hope he’s warm, listening to music, with nothing heavier to carry than a single paperback book.
