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Michael Dolenga

The Assault on Mount Mitchell (AMM) is the type of bicycle ride that gives the phrase "may the road rise to meet you" an ominous meaning. This annual event, now in its 22nd year, is staged by the Spartanburg Freewheelers Cycling Club. It starts in Spartanburg, SC, and ends atop Mount Mitchell, the highest peak east of the Rockies at 6,684 feet. The total distance for the ride is 102 miles, and there are 11,000 feet of cumulative climbing, approximately 7000 in the last 30 miles.

My friend Don Andersen and I left Ithaca the Thursday before the ride. Don and I had tried our best to do some training in our version of spring (winter in other places). Building the base mileage has been difficult, and the cold weather has precluded a lot of high intensity riding. The thought of a May century for northerners is at best foolhearty; this particular century ride, well, that went far beyond.

We got into High Point, NC that evening and met up with one of my pals, Burt Whicker. The 3 of us went for what I thought was supposed to be an easy spin, but Don and Burt dropped the hammer from the get go, my protestations falling on deaf ears. Perhaps it was sitting in the car for 10 hours, perhaps it was the higher pollen count in NC, but I found myself unable to breathe. This did not bode well for the upcoming task. It would clear up, but I was worried until the Saturday start that I might be in serious trouble.

The next day we headed down to Spartanburg to register, get out hotel rooms and carbo load. The registration was the first evidence of how well organized this ride would be. We picked up our packets, browsed at some of the vendors’ displays, checked out the bikes of the "competition" and headed back to the hotel. Pasta for dinner and then what would be a fruitless effort to get a good night’s sleep for the early start the next day.

In the hotel room, Don started having a crisis of faith. He’d been speaking to another rider, Dick Rowe, who had (perhaps inadvertently) completely intimidated him and made him rethink the wisdom of using a 42/24 as a low gear. It turned out that our roommate, Joey, had a spare 39 tooth ring with him in his bag of tricks; Don would agonize for a few hours about whether to buy it from him for his bike. Being the good friend that I am, I made sure to play devil’s advocate at all turns. "No, Don, don’t go installing new parts on your bike the night before a ride.... It’ll be a lot easier with the 39 tooth ring, better to have the gears if you need them." Don eventually gave up his quest, and wound up riding with the 42.

We rolled out the 3 miles to the start the next morning. Not much sleep for any of us, with the excitement and all, but the cold morning air (about 45 degrees) and adrenaline kept us going. At the start, we ate some breakfast provided by the organizers; unfortunately, we couldn’t drink the frozen orange juice, which was the only glitch in this entire event as far as I could tell. Don and I clearly had an advantage early on, watching all the southerners freezing in weather that plagued us for most of our early season training. Of course, their increased mileage would more than make up for the difference as the ride progressed, but it was important to feel prepared in whichever way possible.

There was a 30 second countdown, and then the ride began. The start was quite a spectacle. First the sound of hundreds of pedals simultaneously clicking is quite incredible, if only because it is so rare. Second, seeing hundreds of cyclists covering the entire roadway makes one imagine what life might be if we all traveled by bicycle when possible. A pleasant thought, but unfortunately not a likely reality in the near future. As expected, those who treat the ride as a race were off the front fairly quickly; most people were just trying to warm up and lose the early ride jitters.

I found myself in the midst of a group for the first 20 miles, which just crosses the NC/SC border. I stopped at the rest stop to get some food and refill a water bottle (hydration has been a compulsion of mine since dehydrating myself on a ride last year). Just before the rest stop, there is a point along the route at which you can first see the mountains in the distance. Even though they are still a distance to go, their enormousness is immediately obvious. You lose any illusions about this being an easy event.

At this first stop, I met up with Burt; we would wind up riding most of the route together. The next 50 miles were through rolling countryside to Marion, NC, which is at the base of Mt Mitchell. It becomes more rolling as you get closer, no doubt; the most significant climb is Bill’s Hill, at the 43 mile mark. I actually enjoyed the hill, because it’s similar to most of my training hills; 1.5 to 2 miles long, somewhat but not oppresively steep. A roller, in retrospect.

There were a good number of spectators along the route. Some were locals sitting on their porches, watching cyclists ride to their doom; others were obviously sagging riders, but they would still cheer everyone on and clap at the turns. The volunteers, aside from being there to hand out food and drink, were also cheering riders as we went by. It’s difficult to express how much of a positive effect it has on you as a rider; really, it’s best experienced first hand as no words can do it justice. Having a stranger tell you to keep going and to keep your chin up can work miracles.

Burt and I rode along, shooting the breeze, pounding over the hills, coming down the other sides. We were particularly cautious at one sharp bend that comes after a steep descent. I recalled seeing a documentary of this ride which showed several cyclists losing control and running off the road on this turn. Kudos to the organizers, yet again, for clearly marking this as a dangerous stretch, and for having volunteers in the area, both to deal with any emergency, and to reiterate the warnings. The entire ride, as a matter of fact, was extremely safe. Police were guarding the major intersections, letting cyclists pass through; a rare and satisfying experience. I heard of no serious crashes on the ride, except for a couple on a tanden who crashed descending the mountain after the ride was over. Both are fine, to my knowledge.

A lot of things go through your mind riding for all that time. Burt and I kept each other company, but when we weren’t talking I kept hearing Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto. It’s still in my head, a few days later, and as I write this. Burt said he prefered the piano sonatas, in part because he can play them (and, apparently, their enormousness makes them forgiving); I just have to have it as loud as possible. In any event, we agreed that Beethoven was our deserted island composer.

When we got to Marion, it was time to grab some food, and to get ready for the climb. It’s been said that Marion is the halfway point of the ride. While that’s not the case with distance, it is in terms of effort and one’s time. There was a large area set up in Marion where most people met their helpers before hitting the mountain; it was also the finish of the Assault on Marion, run simultaneously as a sister ride to AMM.

Out of Marion, the climb doesn’t start for a few miles. I didn’t realize this and found myself approaching every bend in the road with great trepidation, expecting some steep wall to confront me. Not finding such a wall immediately, I was lulled into a sense of security, but I certainly got my rude awakening after passing the fish hatchery on route 80. The next 10 miles are the steepest of the route. There are several switchbacks working their way up the Blue Ridge Parkway, reminiscent of what we spectators see in European stage races. I kept a pretty decent rhythm (I didn’t know what my speed, cadence or heart rate was, because I’m not a cyborg with an instrumentation panel) through this section, until I made the mistake of using my granny gear. After some reflection, I think it would have been better to save it until absolutely necessary. I was tapping out a reasonably comfortable rhythm in a 42/23 and could have kept my speed up somewhat. Somewhere along this stretch was where my ears first popped. Definaly some climbing going on.

Eventually, you get to the famous Blue Ridge Parkway. The scenery is spectacular. While you can’t see the summit yet, you immediately get a view of how high up you’ve already climbed. The scenery, I should add, was much more apparent during the ride down, when the then silent protestations of the body do not stop the eyes from exploring. It was quite sunny by now, and I was feeling the heat; the two tunnels were a nice cool spot along the road. I began to crave the shade somewhat.

 There were rest stops along the BRP, and I certainly took advantage of them to refill, get some food, and pour water over my head. It was about now that you could see cyclists on the side of the road, either lying down, slumped over their handlebars, sitting dazed, or walking their bikes. Burt and I just kept going. It was at about the 50 mile mark that I realized I was going to finish this ride, barring major mechanical breakdown or a serious injury; stopping was not an option and it never really entered my mind. If nothing else, Beethoven kept me going, drowning out the taunts of the roadway.

The BRP is a more gradual slope, but make no mistake, it does not relent. Dick Rowe told me that the one rule of riding Mt Mitchell is that the flat spot you think exists beyond the next bend is never there. Truer words have not been spoken, especially by Dick. There was a 2 mile descent before reaching the spur road to Mt Mitchell State Park, but that was it. I was too fatigued to really make the best of the downhill, opting to just get through it, and somewhat resentful that the altitude would have to be re-climbed.

After 12 miles on the BRP, you arrive at the spur road leading to the summit. There are 5 miles at this point, and they were by far the hardest. Not the steepest, but they were really painful. I had been riding for just under 8 hours, and things like your shoulders and neck start to feel sore. My toes were numb, and my occasionally cantankerous knee was reminding me of its presence. My longest ride vis a vis time had been about 4 hours this season so my body was not used to this. One can’t also discount what role altitude begins to play in contributing to the fatigue. I stared at my stem for most of these miles. Dick was driving down at this point, and he and his wife shouted out "looking good, Mikey". Thanks guys, but I didn’t feel like it.

Five miles, however, is a finite distance, and a combination of denial and stubbornness will get you through it. At the 2 mile mark, there was a flat section where I relearned how to ride with some speed. One short rise later, and you’re in the summit parking lot.

 Hearing the spectators cheering gave me that final adrenaline rush, and I sprinted (in a 42/17 — we’re defining sprint very liberally here), passing two riders in the finishing straight to arrive at the top with a time of 8 hours, 33 minutes. I stopped, picked up my finishing patch, I recall somebody saying something to me, muttering back to them, and riding down to the van. I got off my bike, emptied my rear pockets, and lay down on the grass. The sun was warm, the grass was soft, and I wouldn’t have to turn the pedals anymore.

A few minutes later, I was already thinking about next year’s edition. There is ample food for thought, and much to be learned from an event like this. There’s also a great deal of inspiration everywhere you look. While it is impressive to hear that George Hincapie cameoed the ride and smashed the course record, it’s the guys crossing at 11:30 who look near death that impress me most. People of all ages, sizes and shapes were finishing this ride. The human spirit can conquer a great deal, gravity included.

 What inspired me most, and was the first instance when I was ready to break down in tears, was seeing Van Epps, who was riding a hand powered tricycle. He’s a member of the organizing club who lost his lower right leg in an accident a few years ago; he started about an hour early and I passed him and his riding partner on route 80. The man was remarkable. Later, we saw him about a mile or two from the finish on our way down, and I was certain that he would finish (he did). With his bare hands. I envy the sense of accomplishment he must have; it has to be far beyond what most of us felt.

The finish area was filled with spectators, human drama and comedy. You would see friends spotting a rider, and cheering him or her on to the finish, taking photos, running alongside. Small kids would cheer their parents as they were coming up. One couple on a tandem almost missed the finishing chute, and the stoker started yelling at the captain (grounds for divorce, no doubt). One group of buddies made one of their party ride back down to the parking lot, so they could get a picture of him coming up; they kept telling him to go further down, and to ride up in his big gear; oddly, he obeyed. People with smiles on their faces lying motionless on the grass.

As for me, I can’t wait to do the ride again. I think I can better my time if I stay with a large group to Marion; and I probably could have eaten a bit more. The hills around here will never seem the same. A 2 mile climb compared to a mountain — well, it doesn’t compare. The relentlessness of the whole thing is so overwhelming.

 Do this ride if you can. You will not be the same.