A Hundred Miles on a Bike

A hundred miles on a bike. The words ran through my mind, over and over. It was way past midnight, and I rolled once again in my sleeping bag, trying to get comfortable on the floor of a crowded room at the Galaxie Motel. My brother and sister-in-law had earned (and paid for) the queen bed, while two more brothers and I had arranged ourselves strategically on the stale, carpeted floor. It was the eve of the Utah Tour de Cure, a 100 mile charity bike ride benefiting the American Diabetes Association, and I couldn’t sleep.

I was 80% excited and 20% terrified. Would I make it? Had I prepared enough? Would my bike hold up? Was Olive Garden really the best dinner choice? Questions came rapid-fire quick, but the answers wouldn’t arrive until sometime after 7 a.m. the next day, when the Sons of a Motherless Goat would start rolling (we took our team name from a line in the film ‘Three Amigos,’ an Anderson Family classic).   

I’d made the drive from St. George the day before; we’d all met up in Salt Lake City that afternoon, loaded up on pasta, and then driven to Brigham City together. Tim and Maria were the catalysts of our coming together for the event—they had done several centuries together, including this same one the year before. Experienced cyclists, in great shape, with indomitable spirits and wickedly quick senses of humor; they would prove to be the perfect coaches and companions for my grueling ride the next day.

Rusty was there too, also in fantastic shape, having completed a marathon the previous summer. He had done a ton of mountain biking but little road riding; in fact he had to rent a road bike to complete the trip. Finally, my youngest brother Ryan was there—also in good shape; he always crushed me on our training rides together around St. George. Living in Las Vegas, it was pretty easy for him to get to my house for the occasional ride, our favorite being the Veyo Loop—50 miles of scenic desert canyon riding, with some decent climbing, easily accessible from my driveway.

50 miles had been the longest I’d ever ridden. I was about 40 pounds heavier than I should have been, though I had dropped about 20 pounds while training for the ride. Let’s say I was heading the right direction, at the very least. I’d done the 50 miler three times, had bonked once and barely finished, managed it okay a second time, and felt pretty good a third time. Except for the ridiculous climb just past Gunlock, that thing kicked my butt every time. I’d always needed to ride it like a paperboy, zigzagging across the street like I was tossing papers on opposing driveways, or even occasionally pull over for a rest on that climb.

I knew there was only one big climb on the Tour de Cure course, just before the halfway point. The way I saw it, the century would be just like doing Veyo, with another 50 miles of relatively flat cruising after the tough climb. While driving along, scouting the route after our near-coma-inducing carb fest, my excitement built. I could do it. I knew it!

With a belly full of pasta and the hard motel room floor keeping me awake, I mentally rehearsed checklist after checklist. Food? Check. The right food? Check, I think. Clothes? Check. The right clothes? What does the latest weather forecast look like? Check, I think. Mp3 player? Check. Playlist? Check. Battery full? Is the charger supposed to light up? Check, I think…

The OG's (original Goats): Maria, Ryan, Rusty, Me, Tim

6 a.m. came way too quickly, but I was glad to get up and get moving. The ride would begin at Box Elder High School, and I was mesmerized by the pre-ride hoopla. I got to know some great support folks, checked out some vendor tents, and chatted with some awesome people—riders of all ages and skill levels. Oh, and we got some pretty cool swag bags—eight years later I still have my jersey and bottle! I grabbed a bagel, ate half, and stuffed the other half in a jersey pocket, squished in with gels and bars to get me through the day. We pinned our numbers on and found comfortable spots to start, within the last 25% or so of the big mass made up of hundreds and hundreds of riders. The weather was shaping up perfectly—it would range from the 50’s to around 80 degrees through the course of the ride, with a little wind and no rain.

The start was fast and smooth—we maintained about a 17 mph pace for the first hour or so of the ride. I always get a little frantic at the start of a long ride, especially if I’m riding with people I don’t normally ride with. It takes me a good half hour to settle down and find my right breathing rhythm and pedaling cadence. We rode together, even though I was quickly proving to be the slow one. We were making good time, and rode right past the first support station, heading steadily toward stop number two, just before the dreaded climb.

I marveled at how effortlessly Tim and Maria pedaled. Maria had done a century the weekend before and was just a machine—she did not tire once. She can go forever, and loves to climb. Tim was riding on par with her, and Ryan and Rusty were looking strong too. I knew I would go a little slower than those guys, but I also knew I would make it! A brief stop to fuel up and ensure we were hydrated, then on toward the base of the climb to the Golden Spike Visitor’s Center, where a cool drink, snack, and a little rest would be waiting.

As we started up the long steady climb, I told the rest of the guys to go ahead and push it, and not to wait for me until they got to the top. If I couldn’t hang, we’d meet up again at the aid station. It didn’t take long for them to lose me. I tried to keep them in sight, but one by one, Maria, then Tim, then Ryan and Rusty disappeared, further up the mountain somewhere.

I was alone.

I walked a bit to change the nature of my pain—all awkward in my cycling shoes on the hot pavement. The walking was slow-going, but at least my saddle-weary backside was getting a rest. I finally got back on the bike; somehow staying upright as the bike inched forward, going painfully slow. During this stretch, even though I knew it was the only real challenge of the day, and even though I had completed tougher climbs than this before, the negative self-talk crept in.

What were you thinking? You have no business being on this ride. You could turn around right now, and complete 60 miles. No one would fault you for that—it would still be your biggest ride ever! They’d understand. You’re not even halfway through, why did you think you could do this? I turned up the music, trying to drown out what my heart, lungs, legs and head were all seemingly telling me, conspiring against my spirit. The music wasn’t helping, so I shut the mp3 player off. When every part of your body aches and revolts, I wondered, what part is it that still fights on? With a mantra of “muscle and sweat and blood and bones,” a line from a favorite song, replaying in my mind, my spirit finally outlasted the rest of me.



Maria made these cool gifts for the Original Goats

The knowledge that my family was waiting at the top of the mountain was the only thing that kept me on the bike and on track. Seeing them at the top of the hill, feeling the pats on the back and the slapping high fives brought indescribable feelings—I was gonna make it! Incredibly, the sublime feelings were surpassed just a moment later, as we flew down the hill, back the way we had come. I’d never gone faster on a bike, topping 45 mph, eyes watering in spite of the protective shades I sported. We laughed and hollered, feeling free, alive, and elated. A few minutes ago I was considering quitting. Now I was flying! We’ve got this! You’re gonna make it!

The downhill ended all too soon, and we were back to grinding it out on flats and gentle little rollers, into a soft headwind. Tim and Maria got us all to make a pact that we would wait at every aid station if we got separated (an easy commitment for this big fella to make!) That worked well, as it gave the faster guys a chance to really open it up and grind away, and it gave me a chance to catch up every 20 miles or so.

Tim and Maria continued to amaze me with their speed and comfort on the bike. Maria has Type 1 diabetes and had been through some really tough health concerns in the previous couple years, but she battled through, hammering out mile after mile. They barely broke a sweat, while I had to suck on sea salt to ensure my electrolytes kept up with what I was sweating out. For another hour, we battled on.

Tim was really helpful. When I would show signs of distress, really slowing down or feeling sorry for myself out loud instead of just doing it in my head, he would pull up next to me and talk me through it. “How are you feeling?” I’m in pain. “What hurts? What feels strongest; your legs, your lungs, or your mind?” He helped me see that most of the pain was in my head—I was psyching myself out. When my legs hurt, I’d spin in a lower, easier gear; then I’d stand up for a moment and push in a tougher gear, trying to interrupt the negative soundtrack playing in my head, reminding me who was in control—me, not the pain, real or imagined. 

I muscled through for another hour. Earlier, the thought of family waiting and welcoming me at the top had gotten me through the rough stuff. Now the thing that kept me going was the knowledge that the worst was behind me; the big climb was done. It’s all downhill from here! I am struggling, but I can do it!

That’s when it hit me—another climb.

It looked to be a couple miles long, at about mile 80. Either the route had changed, or Tim and Maria’s memory of the year before had failed. Either way, I had another stinking climb to do, with 20 miles to go, and the 4 pm cut-off coming soon. The wind had picked up a bit, and the temperature had warmed. The taste of energy gels had become intolerable; the texture of a Clif Bar made me nauseous.

You’ve gone 80 miles, pull over and the wagon will pick you up any second! You’re ruining this ride for everyone else by going so slow! You CANNOT make it, just get off, walk, and wait for that wagon to get you. You won’t be the only one who doesn’t finish. They’ll understand. Again with the self-doubt. Also, again, thankfully, I was understood, listened to, and coached up that hill. The guys took turns riding with me, while the others rode just a quarter mile ahead or so. Sometimes I needed to be left alone, and not talked to, and they understood. Sometimes I needed that nudge or push, and they provided it. Not once did they make me feel like I was a burden, in the way, or slowing them down.

As we pedaled the last 10 miles or so, each gentle breeze felt hurricane-strong, each little rolling hill felt like the Golden Spike ordeal all over again, but my team got me through them. The last two miles, we all rode together, nice and easy through the neighborhood streets around the high school. As we approached the finish, I saw the rest of our family waiting—wives and kids, cheering us on. The five of us crossed the line together, and I did my best to hide the tears of pain, joy, relief, and triumph that I just couldn’t suppress.

The ultimate feeling of finishing surpassed all the other mini-moments of joy I’d felt that day. The rush of excitement at the start, the relief of getting to the top of the first hill, the exhilaration of flying down it, and surviving the surprise hill climb all combined couldn’t touch the full, final sense of accomplishment—I rode a hundred miles on a bike!  Plus, we got to eat some darn good barbecue and talk riding with Greg LeMond—three time Tour de France winner, the first non-European Tour de France winner, and the only American to officially win that Tour. What a rewarding finish to an unforgettable day!

Riding a hundred miles on that bike taught me a lot about myself and about life. Because I outlasted that grueling day, I now know, more than ever:

We can do anything. Preparation, commitment, and support from family and friends unlock and enable power beyond our limitations—real or imagined.

We must plan to be tried and tested. The Veyo Loop had a similar climb to the one I knew I’d encounter in my century. Ultimately surpassing the practice run helped me get over the ‘real’ climb.

We will encounter obstacles that we haven’t planned or prepared for. Prayer, coaches, teammates, opponents, heroes, and perseverance will get us through these. Draw on the strength of others, and on the strength you’ve developed from surpassing other obstacles. You’ve got this!



Your team is cheering you on! From dealing with life’s little challenges today, to enduring your entire life’s work and span, there are teammates cheering you on, seen and unseen, known and unknown. People in your life who have your back, even if you don’t immediately recognize it. There are people—angels even—watching, waiting, supporting, and strengthening you. Some seen, many unseen. Sometimes, just knowing that my loved ones will be waiting for me after this life is enough to get me through a tough day, or to help me make the right choice. That family is at the top of your mountain, cheering you on!

With Greg LeMond, the greatest American cyclist in history

There were other lessons I learned too; like what creams will soothe what pains, how to better plan what to eat and drink on a long endurance ride, what clothing choices work (and don’t work), and so forth. But none are as poignant as those life lessons mentioned above. Even now, almost nine years later, I draw strength from what I learned that day, riding a hundred miles on a bike.