By Perry Stone

Past generations were called to war. I was called to ride. To ride a bicycle down city streets to corner stores, to coffee shops through jungles, across deserts and over mountains -- day and night, night and day. As a recreational cyclist turned commuter turned pedal junkie, I dreamed of victories immortalized by history: Miguel Indurain's unprecedented impossible fifth consecutive Tour de France victory or Jan Ullrich's glorious courageous charge to the podium. I dreamt of chiseled legs, of breaking away and crossing the finish line to raise my arms in the exalted celebration of winning. Like Columbus, I sought a new world.

Well, it sounded great, but reality kept getting in the way. I had no funding, lacked a crew, equipment, sponsors and a million other problems. Yet in spite of a thousand rejections and a million pessimists, I found a way to enter The Race Across America or RAAM - 4,900 kilometers -- one stage.

My team was unique to RAAM because it was the first time a two person relay team had entered the race. The usual team entry had 4 riders. We further snubbed the status quo by opting to ride full suspension mountain bikes, another first for The Race Across America. My teammate was a downhill racer that shunned precipices in favor of traffic and trucks. My crew was a cross-section of Americana.

Early on a California summer morning, seven of us in two race support vans, adorned in decals, spotlights, caution lights and seven roof-mounted, glimmering and tricked-out mountain bikes, rolled quietly into the pit lane to make final preparations for the 17th annual running of The Race Across America. It was race day.

An energetic buzz emanated from the crowd. Electricity coursed through the riders and crew. Expectations soared. I was captivated by the presence of some of the world's greatest competitors. Not the overpaid multi-millionaire prima donnas with self-inflated egos of mainstream sports. Assembled here from around the world were athletes who attempted the inconceivable, simply for the honor of doing so. Here stood the pride and guts of competition. At the starting line were the faces of a true subculture -- the ultra endurance cyclists, the extremists, the elitists. They embodied the essence of what it is to be a rider. They would climb 30,000 vertical meters and pedal 4,900 kilometers in a single stage. These riders were part of the 23 soloists competing. There would be no scheduled rests, no drafting and no paychecks.

The Ironman of The Race Across America, Rob Kish waited to embark on his 12th RAAM campaign. Last years winner Danny Chew, who boasted a lifetime mileage count exceeding 650,000 kilometers, stood along side Wolfgang Fasching, a previous RAAM winner and one of this year's race favorites. Nearest me, standing expressionless behind sunglasses was the madam of RAAM, Seana Hogan. The undisputed female champion of RAAM and the most accomplished female ultra-endurance cyclist the world has ever known. At the moment, the magnitude of her accomplishments and ability meant everything and nothing.

I stood amidst the stars, the pageantry, the crowd and the fanfare straddling my mountain bike, my palms crushing the grips when I heard a race official utter some words followed by the sound of a pistol shot. The race was underway. My heart pounded, my head throbbed and my stomach churned. It was showtime! My feet snapped solidly into my pedals and on cue my legs commenced work. Police riding motorcycles escorted us through the streets of Irvine, California. Under a caution flag we strutted our elan. The finish line in Savannah, Georgia seemed another world away.

We rode beyond the city limits and the race turned live. I kept pace with the lead pack. Leading everyone was Hogan. The speed was conservative. I just rode along until suddenly my enthusiasm burst and I overtook the riders one by one until I arrived at Hogan's back wheel. I felt intimidated by her and for a split second I considered not going past her. Then I did. She offered no recognition or resistance. My face remained stoic, but I loved it, here I was leading The Race Across America. I envisioned tomorrow's headline, 'Man on mountain bike first, Hogan second'. Way too much fun! I pedaled along savoring my position. Suddenly a thought struck me. I realized I didn't know where I was going. When developing our race strategy we never considered I would be leading so we opted for a more rudimentary navigational tactic of follow the leader. Instantly I eased off, Hogan and company passed by in a whir of chains and gears, wheels spinning, tires humming and riders breathing. I felt the draft go by.

I began to settle into my rhythm. My effort manifested in sweat and motion. The anxiety, the stress of organizing the race team and sponsors was beginning to fade. I started to ignite, to fire, to synchronize, time disappeared without trace. I started to ride.

The race progressed through California, Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico and into Texas. I was forced to ride on a highway shoulder that would destroy a tank. The road beneath me was a mix of gravel so maligned, so mutilated it was as if by design. The cracks in its surface were overfilled with tar, forming endless brutal pain-inflicting ridges. These protrusions were inescapable. My butt protested each time I crossed one, my body cringed against the endless vibration. The tremors ripped me apart. I vehemently detested this road and those that built it. No wonder Texas has the death penalty. Everything hurt, my wrists, my forearms, my shoulders, my stomach felt as if it would implode. My skin was grimy, sun burnt and blistered. I couldn't afford any thoughts of the constant aches to linger. I tried to disassociate -- to shut out my strife. I struggled to regain control of my emotions and body. I sucked in air like a vacuum, desperately attempting to turn everything around. With all the strength I could muster I pounded the pedals of my bike harder, striving to fight off my human frailties. I punished the bike but the road punished me back. The wind gusted in my face, taunting me. I searched for something, anything pain-free. The landscape, my motion, my vision evolved into a kaleidoscope of little fragments breaking down then reuniting into focus. The Texas sun began to climb in the sky, its imminent heat alarmed me. My crew complained about conditions inside their motor home. Did they think I actually cared? Did they forget I am the one raging the battle? I would give my world if somehow, just somehow I could crawl into their damn motor home and simply shut my eyes. Warnings exploded inside me, the paranoia that accompanies sleep depravation had arrived. I was terrified that I was letting everyone down, my friends, my family, my teammate, my crew, my sponsors, me. I was losing it. Reluctantly I remembered that sleep was for the weak, and that the weak have no place in this race. The very pain, devastating my body and soul, offered me a single shred of hope. At least it was real. I knew that. I begin to rebuild, to pick up the shattered pieces. To refocus. I was grateful my legs were working. They were tight and my feet burned but it wasn't so bad, I only had 5 days to go. I only had 5 days to go. I took solace that I would be leaving Texas soon. I dreamt of smooth black tar.

The miles slipped beneath my wheels. Minutes added up into hours, hours became days, the days turned into an undistinguishable blur and the states and miles rolled by. Day turned to night and back again. Head winds continued to slow my progress and grate on my nerves. No matter which way the road bent, the wind obstructed my path. Mother Nature could be such a pain. I worked to eradicate her mental demons. The road seemed literally endless.

On a right-angle corner perched between two roads, in a Texaco parking lot, I leaned up against one of my support vehicles. It was about three in the morning. Inside the Texaco at a café table I could see the slumping, sleeping form of a drunk. The gas pumps were busy fueling locals and tourists alike. My support van was refueling and members of my crew were buying coffee and snacks. At this point in the race, most people let their nutrition guards down. Gone were bananas and oranges, replaced with potato chips and chocolate treats. Besides my crew, part of Seana Hogan's team was there. My teammate was approaching for our rider switch but I was anxious to see Seana ride by. By all available accounts, she was leading my teammate and due any moment.

I focused on preparing to ride, to will myself into the shape that I would once again need for the night ride. I searched for a tape for my Walkman. I was desperate for something earth-pounding. I wanted intense rock, I plugged in AC/DC. The tape started hissing. I cranked the volume and walked away from the people. There was a chain link fence separating the gas station parking lot from the roadway. I hung my arms over the top of it and leaned into it, like a man in medieval blocks. The fence's stability comforted me. My senses awoke and suddenly I felt the cool night air. I saw the stars flicker, I could sense the hustle-bustle of the Texaco station behind me. I began to concentrate on taking deep breaths and preparing myself. How, in all the glory of God, did I ever end up at this last-chance Texaco, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a state I couldn't even identify? I felt lonely, isolated and incredibly alive. The music pounded through my temples and the tempo started to rebuild my resolve. I looked down the road, and there beneath the stars rode Seana Hogan. She was illuminated by a beam of light cast from her pace van. It was as though she was on stage with a single spotlight separating her from the darkness. Powering her bicycle through the night she looked like a dangerous animal captured in a cinematographer's light, racing across the plains of Africa, unconcerned by her surroundings, oblivious to harm. She was a predator, a panther, a competitor in complete control, a fusion of bike and body -- a riding machine. Her only focus was to ride.

An aura seemed to block the wind for her, an aura that radiated from her focus, her determination, her incredible will to compete. Then she was gone. I was blown away. Jeff, my teammate, arrived shortly thereafter and I jumped on my bike. I set out into the rolling hillsides, racing into the night, screaming at the top of my lungs, thrilled to be alive, thrilled to be in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, fascinated that up ahead rode Hogan, thrilled that I was on the right road. I was overcome with energy, it fueled my muscles, pulsated through my entire self. AC/DC played on. I was exhilarated. I pedaled harder then I thought was possible! I watched the chain pass over the teeth of the gears, I felt the wheels spin across the continent. As if choreographed by the heavens, between songs, thunder exploded, then lightning tore the sky apart. I felt the energy resonate through the earth and explode in me. I screamed a gut-wrenching scream. I was out of control -- electrified -- in overdrive!! I pedaled like a manic without any respect for supposed physical limits, I just pedaled and pedaled and pedaled and the earth turned faster and faster beneath me! Giving myself completely to this energy I screamed again! My eyes watered, my throat burned. I felt my soul. I was barely conscious of how bizarre I might appear to anyone who saw me, but I thought, "who cares -- if they only knew -- if they could only understand." This was more than bike riding, this was a place in time, the gears of the universe were rotating and I was a cog.

Then it happened, the inconceivable. The mountain ranges were climbed, the deserts crossed, the head winds battled, the mental demons exorcised and I finally had Georgia on my mind. In 9 days and 17 hours, I had, along with my teammate and crew, traveled 4,900 kilometers. It was 5:30 am, local Savannah time, and the finish line, once unimaginable to consider, waited just ten miles away. As I crossed the finish line I raised no arms in the rapturous symbol of victory. True jubilation eluded me. I was torn between the acceptance of accomplishment and the beckoning of new challenges. The impossible was just eclipsed by the possible and I discovered a route to the new world. The finish line became the starting line.