Note: This is the set up for the actual Lock 4 Six Hour Challenge story. That post should be directly above this one.
Sometime back in the late 80’s I bought my first mountain bike and got hooked. It was a mint celeste Bianchi Sika, which I still have to this day. I road that thing all over LaCrosse, Wisconsin during my second 5 years of college. Eventually I got the the serious bug and decided to tackle a race on my home turf, which was a 10 mile loop up and down the ski hill named, “Mount LaCrosse.”
A friend of mine at the time, Mark Frise, was a pretty heavy road biker who had just ridden from Milwaukee to Eau Claire and back just to qualify for Race Across America. He was hardcore and told me he reached down to pull a leaf from his wheel ten miles out of Milwaukee and cut his finger wide open on the spoke. Mark was my first exposure to genuine endurance athletes and their inspiring qualities.
Anyway, the 10 mile Mount LaCrosse trail was split into 3 sections. Uphill, which was 7 miles, the cross-path was 1.5 miles on the side of a hill in foot tall grass. The remaining 1.5 miles was straight down a ski slope. It was an absolute brutal ride and I was so tired by the time I got to the downhill I was literally leaning over the front handle bars to get enough leverage on my breaks to slow down, which wasn’t going so well.
I was plowing over moguls and dodging trees at top speed. This was one of those moments when you believe your life is truly endangered. I was way behind the pack, so screaming like a little girl wasn’t really a problem. I thought for sure I was going to break through the chalet doors and literally crash a wedding, but somehow I gained control and steered toward the start line, and my second lap.
There weren’t many people around and I had about 500 yards of flat ground to gain my composure. It wasn’t easy. I was a battered man, fighting back tears and ready for bed. I made a quick and sound decision– I was going to coast my ass right off the course and into the parking lot, never to be seen again.
I immediately felt relief and looked forward to private time with my futon followed by a night on 3rd Street with my drinkin’ buddies. It was an awesome feeling. But just then, I saw someone running toward me, shouting my name. “That a boy, Mike! Nice job. Only one more to go!!!”
I was like, who the fuck is this guy jacking up my perfect plan? It was Mark Frise, the man who had just ridden 500 miles in 30 hours. I had just ridden 10, and was wiping slobber from my lips.
“Hey, Mark . . . what are you doing here?”
“I came to support you man! You got this!”
“Uh, well, yeah . . . Okay.”
I wanted to quit so badly. I knew nothing of cycling nutrition and hadn’t eaten that morning. I stared at the “mountain” and peddled my way back into the woods cursing myself, Mark, and innocent squirrels.
About an hour and a half later I was raging down that same hill, scared for my life, but somehow managed to pull it together and coast toward the end. I looked for Mark, but didn’t see him. I didn’t see anyone for that matter and as I zeroed in on the finish line, I noticed they were literally taking it down. I was crushed, but inched my way closer. I wanted to shout “Wait!,” but just then, I heard the PA announcer.
“Hold on a minute, ladies and gentlemen, we have another finisher!* It’s . . . number 87, Mike Tarrolly from LaCrosse, Wisconsin!”
People rushed back from the bar, their bikes, their cars and gave me a rousing ovation. I was moved beyond belief. Then someone pulled me off my bike and gave me a big bear hug. It was Mark, and I power of that moment helps me push on every time I struggle with a ride.
*At first I felt like a total loser for coming in while they were taking down the finish line, but in reality 90 people started that race and I took 45th place. Half of the field quit.