In bicycle race reporting, the adjective “epic” has been repeated to the point of losing meaning. Today, I would like to explain why the Chequamegon Fat Tire 40 can justifiably be called epic. To clarify:
Epic (definition)(Wikipedia) narratives are usually in a poetic format, and tell a story that is significant to the history of a culture. They begin “in media res,” which means “into the midst of affairs.” Epics include heroes who embody the values of a culture, broad, expansive consequences and settings, and long lists. They show divine intervention and include great, long, speeches. They also begin with the invocation of a muse. While this is not going to be an epic poem, I will provide examples of how a description of one’s particiation in the Fat Tire 40 could be justifiably described in this format.
An invocation of a muse could go something like this:
Shaw taught me how to race it. Shaw, the decade-long pro race tech, with multiple team wins under his belt, with NORBA championships, with knowledge beyond knowing. Shaw said to be careful on the road before Rosie’s field. That chains would drop on that hill, chains would snap. Shaw taught me where to push and where to recover. He taught me which tires, what food, when to suck wheel and how to know when to go. Shaw showed me how to finish The Chequamegon Fat Tire 40.
So then we’d jump “in media res” and get right to the action of the race. Not the fast road start, not the blast through Rosie’s Field as Ride Of the Valkyries plays on giant speakers. It would begin on the fast Birkebeiner Ski trails, where the real chaos starts:
Up a steep roller, ten riders wide, 1700 mountain bikers charged with a furious machination. 20 MPH on dirt and grass. Cresting the tree-lined hill, the momentum of our descent became more fluid, its fury waxing. 25 MPH. An endless river of helmets behind me, an endless river ahead. As many looked to be on the edge of control, a rider to my right locked his brakes and skidded his tires across the dew-slick Wisconsin Northwoods grass. He rotated right, whipped the bike back left, and went sideways, sliding out a few feet to my side. A shout, gears mashing, gears colliding, and I reminded myself to keep looking ahead. 30 MPH. Across the mass of bicycles and riders, near the front left of this hundred-rider group, I watched one drift closer and closer to the edge, eventually exploding into the trees. Before his cartwheeling body had crumpled to the ground, riders behind him were colliding with each other to avoid colliding with the downed rider. Crashing to avoid crashing; That oxymoronic madness is what briefly crept into my mind, until I shut it out, my mantra for the day settling into its rhythm:
Heads up, hands off the brakes, always have an exit line.
We continued our stampede, our spoke-flying rush, so often too close to one another for an hour before the training miles or hours in front of the television meted us into evenly-matched groups. At highway OO, the clock read 11:04. Were we halfway? Perhaps not in terms of mileage, and definitely not in terms difficulty.
What about lists? What could we list from Chequamegon? Well, bikes, duh. People show up on everything from prototype race bikes to 70’s tandem beach cruisers. One could also play with the fact that 29er bikes dominate this race, in particular Gary Fisher models:
A Paragon, Rush, X-Caliber, first-generation Stumpjumper, Barracuda, ARC, Superfly, Elite 9.8, Niner, Karate Monkey, Fuel EX, XTC, Hardock, Paragon, X-Caliber, Superfly, Remedy, Scalpel, ASR, Truth, F600, 8500, Cobia, a brand-new Stumpjumper…
Etcetera.
I think we could also list the winners of previous 40s. It's a who's who of Midwest mountain biking, and would also give a sense of the history of the sport in this state.
The Chequamegon Fat Tire Festival first ran in 1983, in the dawn of mountain biking. The course itself consists of gravel road, ATV trail, and sections of rolling ski trail appropriated from the American Birkebeiner race. These trails are not what a modern XC mountain bike racecourse looks like, but the Chequamegon is still frequently called “The Midwest Mountain Bike World Championships.” Once everyone is finished, the Telemark Resort becomes a reunion party, where everyone’s accomplishments are re-lived, no matter the individual’s level of participation. This unity and diversity are core aspects of mountain biking culture. The versatility of the original Klunkers promoted wide use over all sorts of terrain, bringing together an odd assortment of road riders, thrill seekers, and outdoorsy families. The store of the Chequamegon Fat Tire 40 serves as a strong reminder of what Mountain Biking is all about, even when it’s about racing.
And here we have everyone together, from all aspects of mountain biking. In a single start wave, world-level professionals begin with cube-dwelling weekend warriors. It covers a distance at least ten miles longer than a normal professional course, and for many, simply finishing is an achievement. Those who are in contention for a win are there to make a name for themselves and hope to go down in history. How’s that for a wide scope?
What of the battles? How about man vs. man in the race, man vs. nature on the racecourse, and man vs. himself when considering those who simply hope to finish before the time cut? How about Brian Matter outsprinting Cole House for the win? What about Doug Swanson riding off the front at Rosie’s Field and winning solo? The Eppens finishing with the pros on the fastest tandem The 40 has ever seen? And what about Steve Tilford always returning after decades of pro racing and still landing in the top 3?
I'm not quite sure where divine intervention falls into this story, but I bet it's there for some. I've met a few who compare finding mountain biking to finding God. I'm sure there are some who have been just ten miles out with their third flat and a guardian angel steps out of the woods to hand the another tube. Lastly, for the author, the euphoria of racing at speeds topping 25 MPH in a field of hundreds is oddly comforting. It makes one feel a part of something greater than oneself.
The battles of Schlecks and Contadors on alpine slopes are more akin to the Gods of Olympus battling amongst themselves than the stories of Gilgamesh or Beowulf. The history of The 40 is as deep as the sport of mountian biking, and plays the role of an annual reminder to us all that no matter our level of participation, our mileage or talent, our wheel diameter or suspension setup, or the vintage of our bikes, mountain biking a unifying sport. And in an age of increased discipline diversity, The 40 should stand out as most epic for bringing those dispersed disciplines and riders together.
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