Each year on the first Saturday in November, close to 3000 riders of all ages, shapes, sizes and abilities descend upon Traverse City, Michigan to engage in one of the greatest events I have ever witnessed: The Iceman Cometh Challenge. Known as “The Iceman,” the event has been described to me as “the largest single-day off-road bike race in North America.”
This year was the seventeenth consecutive.
There are several races that take place during the day. The primary event is a 27-mile, point-to-point jaunt that begins at Kalkaska High School and finishes at a cross-country skiing and recreation park called Timber Ridge in Traverse City. The race course runs almost entirely within the Pere Marquette State Forest.
The riders, many from Michigan, Wisconsin and neighboring states, but some from as far away as Colorado and Maine, head into the forest in waves based on experience and age. For the next couple of hours, they take on escarpments and sand pits with names like “Teenage Wasteland,” “Ice Station Zebra,” and “Anita’s Hill.” They ride on single bikes, tandems, and a few hearty souls go after the Iceman on single-speeds. Yes. Single-speed bikes for 27 miles — off-road.
Riders return year after year to take on The Iceman: registration opens in January and is usually fully subscribed within a few weeks. The riders love the event because of the natural beauty of it, the physical demands of it, and the sheer unpredictability of it. On the first Saturday in November, you never know what version of “the elements” you are going to get. I have been there for the race in the balmy 40s, and have seen riders spinning through three inches of crunchy snow.
The adult classifications are fun to watch; you find every kind of rider from the committed and regular racer who is very serious about producing a Personal Record, to novice riders called “Clydesdales” just hoping they make it to the finish. There is a professional group that rides in a separate wave. These racers complete the course in the neighborhood of 90 minutes — that’s over eighteen miles per hour on dirt, sand, mud through thickets and brush. Awesome.
But the most joyful sight during the day is the youth classification races: the “Snow Cone” and the “Slush Cup.” Youngsters on training wheels through to teenagers on some pretty high-tech gear get a chance at a shorter course. They even get to cross the big finish line just like the professional, to the fanfare of a professional announcer and the roaring cheers of the crowd – which swells to hundreds by this point in the festivities.
I travel to Traverse City to volunteer at The Iceman each year — helping the race director mark the course, organizing one of the aid stations, and of course fulfilling my most natural role as beast of burden. The days are long as we pull it together for the start on race day, and they begin before sunrise.
But my friendship with “The Iceman” began a lot earlier than that.
I was an eighth grader back in the early 70s. That year, a family moved east from Cleveland, Ohio, and Steve Brown became my classmate. I had only arrived at our fine ivy-covered private school a year-and-a-half earlier, when my father concluded that the unrest and overall decline at my local public school (Asbury Park, New Jersey) was not going to cut it. Believe me when I tell you that at Rumson Country Day School after two years you were still an outsider. So Steve and I became fast friends.
We developed a common interest in cycling. In those days the brands were Italian (Bottecchia and Campagnolo) or French (Heuret, Gitane). Pedals still had toe clips, and the sole of a cycling shoe was made of wood. Helmet? I don’t think so. We aspired to proper bikes with tubular tires, quick release hubs, and center-pull brakes. And we started riding.
We rode back and forth over the 15-mile seaside route between our homes for sleepovers on weekends; and started looking for road races to test our mettle. I can’t remember why, but when we found a time-trial race near where we lived in New Jersey, Steve was unable to compete with me. I managed to finish in second place in the five-speed class. I disabled my forward derailleur, figuring the competition would be less intense than in the ten-speed group. I won a bike rack for a car.
Later that summer, Steve and I set out on what would be my greatest cycling adventure. His mother dropped us off on the east side of the Hudson River in Peekskill, New York, and over the next few days we rode north to Stowe, Vermont, with stops in Lakeville, Connecticut, Mount Brodie in Northwestern Massachusetts, Manchester, Vermont and Stowe. We took a hiatus to spend some time with some of Steve’s family friends on Lake Temagemi in Canada, and returned to the bikes in Hanover, New Hampshire near Camp Lanakila, which Steve attended as a child. We rode to Concord, New Hampshire that day, on to Andover, Massachusetts, and on our final day made it from Andover to Block Island, Rhode Island. Not bad for a couple of 14-year olds.
That final day we were pressing to make the final ferry of the day out of Point Judith, Rhode Island. Concerned we might miss our last chance at a crossing, Steve pressed ahead just after we got south of Providence. His move left me in the dust, but his speed and power got him to the ferry in time, and his gentle manner persuaded the ferry captain to wait a few minutes for his friend. We made it to the island that night.
Steve and I took separate roads through college and early adult life. Our bike trek was the last time I would spend so many days in the saddle, and one of the last times he and I would spend time together for many years. Steve continued cycling competitively and has gone on to make cycling his life.
I had the great good fortune to reconnect with Steve about five years ago. He was traveling east with his family and would be in my vicinity for about a week. So we had another sleepover – this time with our kids. We have been in regular contact ever since. The revitalization of a genuine friendship is one of life’s most generous gifts.
He often emails or phones to share the highlights of his ride that day — and each synopsis includes a weather report, summary of conditions, and assessment of the psychic effects of his ride. I become more energized just from his simple descriptions of how cycling charges his day. He signs his emails, “Happy Miles, Ice.”
Once I was traveling on business, on a plane that would connect through Detroit. Making small talk with the Detroit-native passenger seated next to me, I mentioned that I hadn’t spent much time in Motown, but that I pass through each year on my way to Traverse City. “TC is beautiful,” he said. “What brings you up there?” “I go up to help a friend who runs a bike race called The Iceman.” “My Dad has ridden that race for the last eight years,” he replied.
Steve has chosen a path in life that allows him to bring passion and authenticity to everything that he does. He is doing what he loves. He loves what he is doing. This identity between the person and his product, between Steve Brown and The Iceman, permeates his event, The Iceman Cometh Challenge. Everyone who races, everyone who volunteers, all of the event’s commercial sponsors are participating in something wonderfully genuine. And they come back year after year after year.
Steve has created an enduring promise of value.
We should all be so lucky to have so few artificial filters or “degrees of separation” between our selves and our aspirations and our daily business. Great job, Steve. Or should I say, “Happy Miles, Ice.”
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