We Rode The 100 Mile Ironman 2009

WE RODE THE 100 MILE IRONMAN 2009

by Ed Hassler

"...the toughest Ironman in many years."
"...one of the coldest, wettest, windiest, ugliest Ironman rides in a long time."
—Rob Welsh, Randonneur extraordinaire



Five of us—Kathy Mulier, Sadaf Syeda, Quang Truong, Loren Schomaker and myself—completed the full 100 mile Ironman 2009 and can vouch for Rob's assessment of the weather. Paul Frenz rode with us to the first rest stop but had planned all along to to do the 65 miler instead.

Unfazed by the ominous forecast, we arrive in Lakeville at 6:00 AM eager to get an early start and are delighted to see how many others share the same enthusiasm. By 7:20 we're duly photographed and on our way in the cold misty gloom but somewhere before the first rest stop at Jordan the rain comes as predicted. My gloves and shoes are soaked and my hands and feet are getting numb. Quang generously gives Sadaf his raincoat and will tough it out for the entire ride in a mere wind jacket.

After leaving Jordan the ache in my extremities subsides and is replaced by a cold but bearable sogginess that I imagine is what one experiences bobbing in the North Sea in a wet suit. At the halfway point, shivering in the gym-sized foyer of the Le Sueur high school, we hear someone announce that the bus has arrived to ferry riders back to Lakeville and three-fourths of the crowd rises and leaves. Three-fourths! We give each other warm grins and high fives, secure in the knowledge that it can't get much worse. When we get back on the road we discover that it does indeed get worse because now we're headed east directly into the wind with the driving rain stinging our faces like sleet. Loren drops back to ride with Sadaf, who is relatively new to biking, and Kathy, Quang and I press onward. We wonder if Sadaf is going be able to go the distance and I try to reassure them that she is young and fit and determined.

Our average speed with the wind at our backs is a little over 16 MPH but beyond Le Sueur it has now slowed to a dismal 9 MPH in the headwind. And our rain-soaked clothes have probably added ten pounds to our weight—my waterlogged gloves are so heavy it's difficult to wave to the police parked at the crossroads. Quang is the only "A" rider among us and flies effortlessly up the hills, only to have to wait for us to catch up. I learn later that he's racing up the hills trying to stay warm. Quang is an encyclopedia of biking history and technical information and laughs graciously when I tell him that before I joined TCBC two years ago I didn't know who Greg Lemond was or that presta valves existed.

We manage to get the Montgomery rest stop, 70 miles, half an hour before it closes, scarf down some snacks, get back on the road, and then at 3:50 PM wearily pull into the last stop at Lonsdale, 80 miles, with only ten minutes to spare. One of the volunteers informs us of the high attrition rate and reminds us that we need to get off the road by 6:00 PM otherwise the last sag wagon will stop and collect us. Back on the road I can see Loren's eyes bulging in horror at the prospect of coming so far and giving so much only to have the sweet victory of a century ride—this 68-year-young man's first—snatched away by a technicality. I tell him I'm packing my trusty multi-tool and that they'll never take us alive.

And then we see it. A white van with flashing amber lights appears in our rearview mirrors and we think this may be the end of the line, that we've been overtaken by the clock. But the vehicle passes us cautiously and the driver yells out the window that there's one last sag wagon. I picture a maniacal Jack Nicholson as the grim reaper of cycling driving an old pickup and slowly gaining on us. A sense of duty comes over me and I and drop back to take my turn with Sadaf while Kathy, Quang and Loren step up the pace. Soon they are out of sight. I am now the lone rear guard and swear a solemn vow that no one, no clock—nothing—is going to deprive us of the satisfaction of finishing this epic struggle.

I have underestimated Sadaf. Until the previous week when we completed the 75 mile brevet training, her longest ride ever was 50 miles. Somewhere along this grueling test of will called the Ironman, this woman reached down and quietly tapped into a vein of steely determination to continue pedaling one crank at a time. Her resolve reminded me of my son many years ago, determined to ride a bike at the age of five. Off came the training wheels at ten in the morning and by seven that warm summer evening, with ankles and knees and elbows and knuckles dirty and skinned and bleeding but his tear-stained face dry, he conquered more than that big empty parking lot. As he looped silently in large endless victory circles, the sun, then low in the sky, beamed warmly on the boy on the bicycle who, as if through his own triumphant achievement, had that day cast an unusually long shadow.

If Sadaf is giving me inspiration, Kathy is the only person I know who can laugh while climbing Ohio Avenue in St. Paul. Listening to Kathy giggle is like mainlining pure energy. I am hopelessly addicted.

Fortunately the rain has stopped and Sadaf and I forge ahead, one wary eye on my mirror and my multi-tool safely within reach in its holster. On a hilly stretch of asphalt south of Lakeville we pass a couple walking their dog when we hear what sounds like a gunshot. "They've taken down another biker," jokes the man with a grin. They ask us how far we're riding, we tell them a hundred miles, they cheer, the dog barks. Energized, we press onward and I sound off the miles as they roll over on my odometer. Ninety... ninety one... ninety two... Finally we glimpse the stadium lights of Lakeville High School in the distance and I think I see a look of relief on Sadaf's face. We ascend the final hill of Ipava Avenue, turn right, and coast down to the finish line at 6:10 PM, ten hours and fifty minutes after we started. Kathy, Quang and Loren whoop and holler and we are ecstatic. I feel like we conquered Everest in winter.

I'm a "C" rider in spirit, a "B" rider in body, and have ridden as many miles as some "A" riders, but I never could never have accomplished this feat without these amazing people. I could never have done it alone. This experience reinforces why I love the social TCBC rides and proves without a doubt that the strength of the group is far greater than the sum of its parts. Most of all, it reminds me of the truly important things in life—friends.

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We don't stop biking because we grow old...
We grow old because we stop biking.