Rusty’s brother had gone and got himself killed in Vietnam and his mother henceforth buried herself in drink and with an absent father for whom no one could remember his whereabouts Rusty had decided his only chance at escaping the farmhouse was to run. He had no brains to account for and nothing so much as a dime to his name and no courage to fight another war Uncle Sam sent his godforsaken kind to die in.
Some background I finally lined up for the Iceman Cometh this year after burning out mid-October in both 2016 and 2017 and breaking my foot playing hockey a week before the 2018 race. With a pro field 100-deep that featured national champions, former World Tour pros, and about every build of elite mountain biker imaginable, I knew I needed to do everything possible to boost my sprint and anaerobic capabilities just to hang onto the back of the lead group for a few miles.
Someone tells you it’s eight minutes to 7:30 PM. You have 11 hours and 50 odd minutes in your legs. You meant to do this two years ago but your bike broke the night before. Last year you found out heat hurts. This year was supposed to be different. You trained exclusively for this race. Said screw the local XC events and signed up for five hundred mile races across the Midwest.