The 32nd Assault was my first.  I arrived home bloody, sticky, smelling like dog poop, and my wife thinking I was a polygamist. I was anxious to put it behind me, but the physical effects of Mitchell would have me literally crawling out of my skin for the next two weeks.

In February 07 I purchased a bike after some encouragement from a few rider friends.  I started riding in March and with a whopping 500 miles under my belt I committed to the Assault.  On the way to Spartanburg it was pointed out to me that this ride was rated the 5th hardest ride in the U.S. and that Mitchell was the highest point east of the Mississippi,  a real confidence builder for a first timer. 

Peloton riding proved to be intense and at mile 28 it seemed as if my Assault would come to a quick and nasty end.  “Rider down” are certainly not words a biker wants to hear in reference to himself.  According to witnesses, my bike and I did multiple rolls down the side of the road after I lost control on a slight descend.  Disoriented I stood up with a cracked helmet, blood running down my face, and something oozing down the backs of my legs that appeared to be worse than blood.  A sticky substance leaking from a punctured internal organ was my first thought.  Rubbing it between my fingers and smelling it I realized that it was goo.  32 ounces of goo was leaking from the smashed goo packs that were in my back pockets.  I picked up my new bike, which now had 528 miles on it, to learn that the front wheel was bent so severely that it would not spin.   

I stood on the side of the road waiting for a SAG vehicle when a rider stopped to fix his second flat of the day, but he had no tube.  Knowing that I was done I gave him my only spare.  When the SAG vehicle showed up, with defeat in my voice, I asked for a ride to Marion.  Seeing I was truly disgusted the SAG driver said “not so fast, we may be able to get you going again.”  Two techs worked diligently to straighten my wheel enough so that it would roll.  With a wobbling front wheel my assault was on again.
 
My first flat ever came at mile 80 and I had no idea how to change it, which really didn’t matter, as I had no spare tube.  Within a few minutes a passing rider returned the favor and gave me his spare.  As I was attempting to change the flat the same SAG driver stopped to bail be out again.  “Not your day”, is all he said.  He quickly changed my flat and got me going.  9 hrs and 30 minutes of peloton terror and Mitchell torture and my assault was complete, or so I thought.

Returning to Greenville I was greeted by an angry wife, who had been notified of my crash, and that I might have been taken to the hospital.  She spent the day calling hospitals looking for me.  One hospital revealed that a biker had been brought in, but they would not release any information.  She gave them what she thought was my ride number and said that she was my wife.  They told her that the rider did have this number, but he was already with his wife and they could give her no further information.  She went from a state of concern to a state of rage wanting to know who my other wife was.  As my wife’s tongue lashing continued, I proceeded to step in a pile of fresh dog doo.  This gave my wife, and everyone but me, a great laugh. 

I packed up to head home all bloody, sticky, smelling like dog poop, and being accused of polygamy. It was over and a hot shower would fix all problems, except one.  When I crashed I had rolled in poison ivy.  There is nothing better for spreading poison ivy than continuing to sweat for 6 hours and having goo all over your legs to seal it.  For the next two weeks I thought of the Assault with every itch.  It took two rounds of steroids to get rid of it. 

Although this year was difficult, nothing will ever compare to my first Assault on Mt. Mitchell.