By John Chase
"You're going to have to pee in the woods,"
"For real? Are you serious? Would I get a medal?"
"Not for peeing, but maybe for the race,"
I'd imagined it many times, Rachael and I riding this mountain
bike race on a tandem bike. But this wasn't just another
race. It was the Subaru Iceman Cometh Challenge,
and it had everything a Midwest mountain biker could want. It's the biggest single-day mountain-bike race in the world. It takes place amid the permafrost of northern Michigan, rolling through hills, torturous single-track, tire-eating sand pits, and the occasional trailside household appliance. I'd run this event, snaking its way through the Pere Marquette Forest, 11 times before, but this year, things were different.
Last year, I had talked Sara, who is 5, and Rachael, who is 8, into 'doing the kids' races. With the gleam of a finisher's medal in their eyes, they took the bait, but traumatic doesn't begin to describe the race. Every ripple in Sara's quarter-mile course grabbed her training wheels, leaving the center tire to spin wildly in space. Meanwhile, Rachael was thrown to the wolves, forced to fend off the 12-year-olds on a one-mile section of bumpy singletrack. They both finished, but not without tears.
Throughout the summer months, we trained together, doing 20-mile rides on our tandem with Sara attached to our bike in a trailer. I provided the work and they provided the laugh track. They'd giggle hysterically as we sped down the few hills, the trailer fishtailing at 35 mph.
Six miles into the race, we wound through a tight section of singletrack, swerved to miss a tree and hit the ground hard.
But the summer giggles were long gone on race day. Old Man Winter blew in the night before, bringing 25-degree temperatures and several inches of fresh powder. It coated the trail just enough to conceal roots and rocks and turn the smoother sections into skating rinks. We rolled to the starting line and the butterflies in our stomachs felt bigger than the ones stenciled on Rachael's helmet.
Once we were past the cheering crowds and opening excitement, she suddenly realized just how long and cold this race was going to be. Now it was just us, a really long trail and a lot of snow. Wind drove right through our gloves, turning little fingers into icicles.
As if the weather conditions and the trai1 itself weren't enough, our bike was a Frankenstein's monster-like contraption: my usual steed, but trailering a tag-a-long bike connected to my seat post. I imagined what we must look like, a huffing man hauling a frozen 8-year-old riding a 9-foot long bicycle on ice, with a hinge in the middle allowing it to jackknife at will like a truck on the interstate. We made quite a sight, as evidenced by the reactions of our fellow racers.
"You guys rock". "Go little girl, go!" "Dude, big ones...I couldn't do it", called the riders as they sped past, lifting both of our spirits. Some asked why her dad was doing such an awful thing to her. John from Naperville snapped a picture and asked if this was her first time. "We'll see what her assessment is at the end," he said, laughing.
I was more concerned with her current assessment of the situation. The fun seemed to have worn off. She was hardly speaking to me. She was cold. I wondered what would happen next. Six miles into the race, we wound through a tight section of singletrack, swerved to miss a tree and hit the ground hard. I picked her up, dusted off the snow, wiped away her tears and gave her a big hug. "What am I doing?" I asked myself. "I'm scaring her for life, and she'll never want to ride her bike again."
We finally reach the first aid station and stepped off the bike. That was when she discovered the best-kept secret of long-distance mountain-bike races: cookies. Someone said, "Eat 'em up, kiddo. There's no limit today." She listened, chomping down handfuls. From this point on, the quiet rider in the rear seat came alive, talking almost nonstop for the rest of the race-unless, of course, she was too busy eating another cookie.
Other riders fell, and she told me how funny they looked. She assumed the job of designated water-carrier, periodically asking if I needed a drink of her water. (And that was a good thing, as my drinking tube had frozen solid.) She also provided some much-needed encouragement.
We were walking up a hill to a plateau and when I suggested that we walk the second part, she asked "why?" That was all it took. "Get on," I mumbled, embarrassed that I'd just been chastised by an 8-year-old. Further along, as I was grunting my way up another hill, I could feel her smile on my back; propelling us to the top.
We started catching and overtaking others. We would strategically pick the hills that others were walking, just to see the look on the faces of the weary souls who had just been passed by a second grader in a puffy pink coat. (I know it's cruel. but it was her idea.)
It took us four hours to do a two-hour race, but it was Rachael who taught me that being a winner doesn't always mean you cross the line first. I knew we had won at the 24-mile mark when, tired and dreaming of a spaghetti dinner, she said, "Daddy, I really want to do this again next year."
John Chase lives in Bolingbrook with his wife and two daughters. He's currently in the market for a double tag-a-Iong bike for next year's Iceman. Got a story you'd like to share in Cool Down? Send ideas to Seth@windycitysports.com. And check out our writers' guidelines at www.windycitysports.com.
Reprinted from:
38 • Windy City Sports • January 2004