Ice Ice Baby!

When you’re a kid, virtually anything can become a finish line…a trash can, a stop sign, the end of the street, a telephone poll, etc. Your propensity to want to beat your fellow peers to a designated line is quite intense and it doesn’t take much coercing to get your engine revved and a race sparked. There is no such thing as unofficial or official, sanctioned or not, prize purses, race licenses, etc. It is a special time in life when measuring your speed, ability, and gumption against your friends and local click is highly valued and embraced. What is on the line…what are you racing for? All those elevated heart rates are for nothing more than territorial bragging rights accompanied by a wealth of stories to tell in your future. There are unspoken rules and undisputed respect that this all entails.

Everyone once in awhile, I find thoughts of resentment start to slowly seep into my psyche. I try to dismiss them quickly, but alas I cannot deny their presence. These thoughts of resentment are directed toward my most intense passion…the bike. It’s usually a cyclical thing; introducing it’s ugly self around October and November. Some call it “burn out”. Too much of anything, even good things, can eventually become destructive I guess. Usually when I start to recognize these feelings I try to take concerted steps to stop them.

Gary Fisher and a handful of other people, pioneered the great sport of mountain biking by simply pushing some clunkers up a dirt hill and riding them back down as fast as they could. It was a social endeavor; they were doing something new…creating stories and memories. Their focus wasn’t commercialization of the sport, nor was it training for a big audacious race event.

The Iceman Cometh is an annual celebration of mountain biking that takes place in November in Northern Michigan every year. Over the race’s history it has grown almost exponentially in popularity, attracting some of the most talented riders from all over the country. The race usually serves as an end of the season motivator but also as a way for all of us fat tire addicts to celebrate our shared passions of mountain bikes, but also the well-earned oat sodas that accompanies a season of dirt, sweat and gears.

Last season I decided to start a local group ride called “The Ice Ice Baby Ride” in preparation for the Iceman. The focus of the ride was not to simply train for the event but more importantly to take that ever-important step of ensuring that I don’t resent my two-wheeled companion. The idea was to get back to that kid-like mentality of racing your friends for the camaraderie of it but also the lactic acid induced bonding that comes from trying to best each other on a weekly basis.

The rides usually drew 10-15 riders of elite caliber. Much to my surprise, this season there has been a great deal of increased excitement and enthusiasm circling around this ride. I have seen an upwards of 30+ of the “who’s who” of Michigan Mountain Bike racers attending consistently the past few weeks. Best of all, being from the Midwest and all, it seems 26 inch machines have become the minority as big wheels have prevalently dominated. The ride is becoming known as a weekly ceremonial slugfest. Many participants have commented to me that it is the highlight of their week. I’ve received several messages the following work days after the ride from participants sitting in their cubicles dreaming about bombing down double tracks at 28mph guided by nothing but the glow of their high intensity lights and the shadows of storming riders all around them. These sentiments really alleviate any of those fleeting thoughts of resentment that resonate with me and recharge my velo batteries.

Just because we grow up doesn’t mean we have to leave behind that childlike enthusiasm to go fast for no other reason than the rush and elation it brings. Thanks to any rider that has showed up to this MTB territorial pissing contest…you have made my late season and delivered me from the banes of resenting my bike.

See you in November...Viva Le Iceman Cometh!