At least on Assaults day. Thus goes the rule: make Marion this year to earn a spot to attempt – er, assault – Mt. Mitchell the next. So indulge me by allowing a story that, by necessity, ends 29 miles before the ultimate finish.

I’d been cycling less than a year when I signed up for Assault on Marion. It seemed an ambitious-but-achievable goal, and I was variously comforted or chagrined at the frequent comment that “the 73 miles to Marion is EASY; it isn’t hard ‘til you’re heading to Mitchell.”

I spent five months getting in many, many miles. Nothing bonds a friendship quite like sweat, and amongst my blessings is a group of wonderful workout partners. Especially Loretta – a cycling neophyte but an accomplished marathoner – who somewhere along the course of my Marion training decided to assault those “easy” miles alongside me.

The ride took off from Spartanburg in the wee hours of a morning that promised sweltering temperatures. My running buddy Carey surprised us by showing up at the start to wish us well. We also saw our favorite bike mechanic Ron and his brand-new bride – he sported a “just married” sign on his back and dangled two wedding bells from his saddle. Now that’s a honeymoon!

We crept along carefully the first 10 or so very crowded miles; there were a few near-misses as people jockeyed for position. Eventually the ride spread out so we could just cruise along the oh-so-scenic route. Lots of rolling hills, nothing too tough (besides some road construction) until around the 40-mile mark and then it was climb/descend/repeat on into Marion. All Assault riders were intermingled at this point, though we could tell by the number tags – white for Marion, yellow for Mitchell – who planned to finish where.

We passed folks who were struggling, some pushing their bikes on the uphills or waiting out cramps on the side of the road – the heat wasn’t doing anyone any favors. Did I mention the sweltering temps? Loretta and I followed the hydrate-early-and-often rule (of course I also took this opportunity to indulge my addiction to espresso-flavored GUs) and luckily felt good the entire way. 

We made Marion in 4 hours, 40 minutes … it was, all in all, a fabulous ride. Not easy, mind you, but not hard, either. Just long, because no matter what they say, 73 miles is still, well, 73 miles. And that’s longer for some of us than others. Cyclists come in all shapes and sizes, not to mention speeds, and some – like the Assault rider with a prosthetic leg – prove “disabled” doesn’t mean “not able.” Never again will I complain about my own sore legs.

Checking out the other cyclists, I admit to a bit of bike envy, a bit of gear envy. As the most non-mechanical rider on the road, mine was a superficial envy at best. I lusted after the pretty colors and designs, leaving others to covet the components.

Then, while recouping in Marion – as the Mitchell riders pressed on – I determined something else I want, too. So what if women on pink bikes are hot? Women with yellow Mitchell tags are hotter! 

That’s why I’m sticking with my orange Felt but absolutely must have my own yellow tag next year …