There are 365 of them in a year; thousands in our lifetimes. Hundreds are memorable, but only a select few, a handful at best, are legendary. September 15th, 2012 was one of those days.
This weekend was a bit unusual in that I really didn't know what to expect. I hadn't heard much from Scotty, due to his ridiculous work schedule. All I knew was that I was going to be riding my bike (a lot) and that I needed to bring hamburgers and buns.
If you know anything about my brother, this is a bit strange. Normally I receive a packing list that spans everything from clean changes of underwear to water bottles, from spare parts to food. No matter though. I was determined to show my big brother that I, too, could prepare a packing list. And I succeeded! In fact, I even packed a few things that we probably would need that Scotty never even thought of - like bike-cleaning supplies (you're welcome)!
When 2:50 hit on Friday afternoon, I scribbled Monday's assignments on the board, tidied up the classroom, and bolted out the door. At home, I loaded my car with everything I thought I might need for the weekend: camping gear, 14 changes of clothes (12 of them biking clothes), bike shorts, bike socks, bike jerseys, bike shoes, bike helmet, bike gloves, CamelBak, extra tubes, extra tires, batteries, headlamps, battery chargers, a ridiculous number of energy bars, Gu's, electrolyte mix, hotdogs, gourmet hamburgers... basically everything you might (or might not) need during a 48-hour trip.
The 'Ru was ready, and so was I. I cranked the tunes, hit the gas, and enjoyed the open road.
An hour later, a phone call from Scotty. He was going to be up around 9:00. Something about traveling with a bunch of prima donnas who took too long to get ready... I dunno. No big deal, though. I had sunshine, I had tunes, and I had my bike in tow.
An hour later I roll into Grayling. I hit The Ole Damn Party Store on 72 to pick up the necessities: ice, snacks, and Two-Hearted. A quick glance across the road, and I decide to make a run for the Border, sampling all of the delicacies that the exotic Grayling Taco Bell has to offer.
With a belly full of tacos, I arrive at Hanson Hills. The place was empty. Empty except for the tractor-trailer-sized rig that sat anchored to the base of the mountain. I paid little mind to the rig until a few guys, clad in biker gear emerged. It was at that point, that I got a little nervous.
Thanks to my brother, I've been put through a few situations in which I knew I was more than a little out-classed: Mountain biking in Moab, LEARNING to ski at Copper Canyon, tearing apart the front-end of a car... the list goes on. This, I assumed, was going to be another of those situations.Inside that rig, I imagined, was running, HOT water, a sink, a bathroom, multiple beds, a kitchen, a hot tub, sauna, massage table (complete with hot stones and scented oils), and satellite HDTV.
I paid little mind, however. Instead, I set about selecting the best camp-site available. I hammered in a few stakes for a make-shift clothes line (to dry our sweaty gear), cleared a few sticks away, and began setting up my state-of-the-art, water-proof, all-season North Face tent (thanks Honey!). I knew I'd be livin' large this weekend. I mean, not massage table, sauna, scented OILS large, but large, none-the-less.
After setting up camp, I snap a few photos (some of my amazing camp-site, some of the ridiculous rig parked 30 feet from my amazing campsite) and send them to my brother and his high-maintenance travel companions. Scott replies with the following text message, referring to the rig (and I quote):"We got one looks just like it! Well, not exactly, but close."
Flabbergasted, I read the text message again. I stared at my tent, my make-shift fire pit, my Smokey Joe grill, and replied with an obstinate, "You jackass! Thanks for telling me. I'm sleeping in it (my tent) anyway!"
Thirty minutes later (and an hour-and-a-half before Scott's anticipated arrival time), Todd, Mark and Scott roll up in The Hearse. I couldn't help but notice that they didn't have a fancy semi-trailer in tow. As it turns out, my brother was just messing with me. Little did he know that I was moments away from tearing down my tent in favor of a Hilton on Wheels.
Scott introduced me to the other half of our team: Todd Powers, our team captain, was first. Todd wasn't much to look at to be honest. But what Todd lacked in stature, his mouth more than made up for. Witty, persuasive, hilarious. His banter would help pass the long hours at race headquarters, while we waited for the rider-out to return.
The other guy, Marc Z... Zacchariah...Zellinocci, Z. Cavaricci.... whatever. He was our fourth guy, and pretty much the polar opposite of the vociferous Powers. Marc was harangued at the last minute into participating in this debacle, no doubt by the aforementioned sharp tongue of El Capitan. He brought a sense of calm to the team. He also brought the most delicious oatmeal cookies I have ever eaten. They, like the witticisms of our fearless leader, would help the hours fly by.
As the boys set up their campsites, I fired up the Smokey Joe and started dinner: gourmet hamburgers, marinated for two days in special sauce (Thanks again, Honey!), accompanied by grilled beans, straight out of the can - or Cowboy Style, as my dad likes to call them - chips, beer, and of course, Marc's wife's oatmeal cookies. Carb-loading may be embraced by 99% of athletes around the world, but not us. Nope. We're elite athletes. We are the 1%.
But enough about that... Several beers, a few nips of cotton-candy moonshine, and a water to chase it all down, and I was ready for bed.
The morning came too quickly.
I awake to the smell of fried breakfast bratwurst (I have no idea; ask Todd), eggs, and freshly brewed (from the Marathon station) Big Buck Brew Coffee (not to be confused with its more famous and tasty cousin, Big Buck Brewery Beer).
Breakfast saw the gang subdued, whether the result of age combined with drink, or, more likely, intense mental focus. We decided to let Todd take us out on the first lap. Scotty would take the two-spot, followed by me in third position. Marc would take the rear guard.
The Captain brought home the first lap, not in the much-bragged-about sub-forty-minute loop, but in a more modest, yet still respectable, 46:09, or around 13 miles per hour. We did not, however, let him forget his sub-forty promise.
Scotty was out and back before I knew it. My turn.
I motored out of the gate, and immediately regretted it. The taste of egg and breakfast brats began creeping up the back of my throat. After the first excruciatingly long hill, I managed to keep my breakfast down, and settle into a respectable rhythm. I was passed twice on my first lap, (an old-timer on Team Cannondale, and some wild animal pedaling a bike, sporting some orange and blue jersey). I vowed not to let it happen again. Not that it mattered. Watching my brother's video, you'll see he passed more than his fair share.
Just after mile nine, I crossed a plank bridge and hit the wall. Not the wall that I speak of during a marathon. This was literally a wall of dirt, 3/4 of a mile long, and I had to climb it. My lungs were screaming, my calves were mooing, and my hamstrings were oinking. I gritted my teeth, stood on the pedals, and ground it out to the top. A few dips, a jump to show off my mad aerial skills, and I was home. Lap One in the books. 49:17.
Tag In: Marc Z. First lap out: 55 minutes. Why so long, you ask? Zaccardelli was quoted by an anonymous source as saying, "I'm pretty pleased with my time. I mean, 55 minutes isn't bad, considering I had to repair a snapped chain mid-lap" Animal.
Lap Two: Eased into first mile, thanks to sagely advice from Captain Powers. First hill hurt, but not so bad as the first time. Kept looking over the shoulder for Team Cannondale, but either I was riding really well, or Big Brother spotted me enough of a lead to keep me ahead. Finally, I stopped looking over my shoulder and decided to simply enjoy the ride.
Hit the big ring a lot more during lap two. Thought I'd be WAY faster, but only ended up about a minute faster (48:33). A little dismayed, but took solace knowing there were at least five more laps to redeem myself. Ugh. FIVE more???
Lap Three: Smoothest lap overall. Felt strong and fast. Came across in 49 flat. Body felt amazing. Found a groove, hit the right lines, motored up the climbs, flew down the descents. Now, for my reward...
Lunch consisted of the best-tasting brat ever - yep, my third bratwurst in less than 12 hours. Team Sand Bag's nutritional credo: ride hard, eat hard. Do we ride like Elite athletes? Maybe. Do we eat like them? No way.
Shortly after lunch/dinner, I stretched out for a cat nap, and started to prepare myself for the first dark lap.
El Capitan, Todd Powers, decreed that we'd each ride one night lap, and then back-to-back night laps for each rider, allowing for a bit more of a rest for the guys who weren't riding. The tactician spoke, and we, his faithful and humble servants, obeyed.
Nothing can prepare you for a ride in the dark on a mountain bike, in the middle of the woods, on a trail you've only ridden a handful of times. A nice bike light helps. Unfortunately, my "state-of-the-art" water-bottle-battery-pack halogen light did not fit the bill. Thankfully I had a rockin' Black Diamond Storm Headlamp. Thanks Adam @ Mr. Bike, Ski & Fitness in Escanaba - it saved my life (and my time). Surprisingly, I can't say my brother has the same type of high-tech equipment. He had to make do with a makeshift helmet light of his own...Yes, that's a flashlight; yes those are zip-ties.First dark lap: 53:08. Pleased.
After my fourth lap, heading into my 4-hour break, I slammed two chili dogs, complete with grilled beans (Cowboy-Style of course), chugged a Two-Hearted, and headed toward the lodge to take a super-secret hot-water shower. That's right. A shower. After 40 miles of riding, and a little nosing around in the ski lodge, I took me a hot shower.
Returning to the campsite, smelling of Dial Soap, I unzipped my tent flap and crashed out. Sleep, unfortunately, would be fleeting. It may have had something to do with being so wound up from the ride...or it could have been the Death Metal that was cranking from the speakers at the Finish Line. Either way, I headed to the line to await Scotty, bundling up next to a bonfire to try to stay warm.
As Scotty rolled in and tagged me, I braced myself for the 20-mile journey ahead. Twenty miles. A solid ride on a mountain bike. A great ride on a mountain bike after 40 previous miles of riding. Add the fact that I started my 20-mile trek at 3:30 in the morning? Well, that just made it awesome.
Perhaps my memory is blurred by nostalgia (or lack of sleep), but those twenty miles were incredible. I set out at a moderate effort, knowing that I had to pace myself or pay the consequences later. The air was brisk, a mist had settled around the mountain, and the stars were out. So were the other bikers' headlamps.
As I struggled up a hill, fellow riders could be seen somewhere off in the woods, their headlamps blazing through the darkness. Dodging a phantom branch, another light catches my eye. Knowing that there were other riders out there, other people experiencing the same pain, the same struggles, the same sense of peacefulness and awe was amazing.
The night laps passed uneventfully. I rode 59:00- and 61:00-minute laps. Respectable. Each of us finished our last lap in full daylight, some of us lucky enough to ride while the sun peaked over the horizon. And before we knew it, 24 Hours at Hanson Hills was over.
In one twenty-four hour period, riders - brothers, strangers, friends - came together to forge new bonds and strengthen existing ones. We came to challenge our minds, our bodies, and our machines. We came to make the unattainable, attainable. And in twenty-four hours - just 1,440 minutes - we all stretched the capacities of our minds, our bodies, and our machines, to share in a moment that can only be described as, well, nearly unattainable.
Check out the video highlights compiled by Papa Bear, Scott Vermullen
