The Iceman Ride

Cycling purists may have a hard time reading some of this because I took a few liberties (its fiction), so jump to the end for my comments. This is self-edited. Any volunteers for future editing? Very little sex, and some burns. 17k words so skip this story if you don't like the length. Most of the bad guys reap consequences.

"Keep going, keep going, go faster! Gotta keep running!" These were the only thoughts in the mind of the mountain biker, flying on the single track, passing slower riders whose lungs and legs were straining their endurance.

Thoughts of "Faster! Must go faster! Gotta get away, gotta run!" drove him forward. Somehow his legs, heart, and lungs were in perfect sync for the stress he was putting on his body as he flew down the forested trail. Mentally he was what some people would call "in the zone," only that might not be entirely accurate.

Some people find that running away from some problem can provide a sense of relief, even if temporary. It doesn't address the underlying cause of the trauma, and in reality when running, there is no place really to go.

He had been in the 15th wave of the annual Iceman race in Kalkaska, Michigan held annually on the second Saturday of November. It is a very popular 30 mile ride of mostly flowey single-track through the forests of upper lower Michigan, with a few fire-roads thrown in, some technical drops and banks on the trail, with about the last five miles uphill.

Over 5,000 riders register each year with an extensive waiting list. Some years it was a snow-covered trail, other years deep winter temperatures, some years basically a mud pit, and like this year just cold frozen ground with no snow, but slowly warming temps during the day that would make portions of the trail moist, muddy, slippery.

"Left! Left!" he yelled with urgency as he was quickly coming up on riders who had left before him in earlier waves. He had been passing other riders on the left and right with reckless abandon. Some would shout and swear at him as he blew by.

One portion of the trail was along a ridge with a dropoff on the left. The actual trail was only about 12 inches wide, the dropoff on the left, and trees and bushes on the right. With little to no room to pass the rider blasted down the trail on the very edge, surprising and shocking those he passed with the dangerous maneuvers in such a narrow area, with such a huge risk.

But they also marveled at the skill and smoothness of his bike handling. The trail then dipped into a hard right bank immediately followed by a sharp uphill grade before leveling off again into a flowey trail.

His very expensive Trek Top Fuel AXS Gen 4 mountain bike had a bluetooth seat dropper. He dropped it just before hitting the downhill into the sharp berm, dropping his body weight to distribute his center of gravity in a safer position as he whipped around the berm, trusting his Maxxis Minion tires to grip the dirt and hold the curve.

Blasting at full speed out of the berm to the uphill he hit the dropper button again and raised his seat while simultaneously clicking his gears for the optimal pedaling cadence, clearing the rise and continuing his conquest of the trail.

Buster Baker glanced down at his Garmin trip computer and saw he was at the 22nd mile with eight to go. "How did I get this far already? It feels like I just started the race! Nevermind, I've got to go, gotta keep going, gotta get away! C'mon, c'mon!," as he urged on his body.

The trail opened onto a fire road, basically a dirt road through the forest wide enough for a vehicle, but straight and flat enough for bikers to either get some speed up or pass slower riders, or just relax and catch their breath from the exertions on the singletrack.

Only Buster didn't slow down, instead he heard his gears being clicked up to high gear as he stood on the pedals and went even faster. On the flat road he took another glance at his trip computer and saw his heart rate monitor was at 190! "How can it be that high," he consciously wondered, "I just got started!"

As he was passing other riders he realized there were two riders, the one on the bike doing the work and one that was seemingly floating above the bike watching everything, and it was that one that realized the reality of the scene.

The floating body watching the rider realized that the heart, lungs, and legs were in perfect synch, that the gear changes were smooth and virtually automatic without any thought, that the eyes were seeing the perfect line to take on the trail, even in what most would consider perilous maneuvers around other riders or on the drops, rocks, berms, and other technical parts of the trail.

The floating body was in awe of this out-of-body experience watching the perfect flow of the rider, but with some nagging realization this was not normal for him, that something was driving him to abandon any hint of risk or personal safety.

* * * *

Several hours earlier Buster Baker woke in his hotel at 5:30 am at the Grand Traverse Resort and Spa, the accommodations arranged by the race organizers. He woke refreshed from a good night's sleep, and hopped out of bed to get ready to head to the course.

On race days he always made sure to get a good night's rest, not hanging out late with all the other riders down in the hotel bar the night before. Although last night, as usual, his wife Rachel hung around with all the other riders and their wives or girlfriends.

The 27 year old Rachel did not frequently accompany her 32 year old husband on his races and rides, preferring to stay home, unless it was to a nice destination where she'd get her spa days and shopping. Even in November, Traverse City, Michigan is a very nice waterside town off the Grand Traverse Bay.

This morning she briefly awoke as her husband was finishing dressing in his race kit. His lightly insulated jersey fit his athletically trim torso and wide shoulders quite well, showing off his pecks, deltoids, and biceps. Over his narrow waist and very firm ass he pulled on his cycling shorts.

It was always amusing to her how the hard core bikers went commando under those shorts. Anything for less weight on the ride!

He pulled on thicker socks that went over his calf, given that the weather might be cold he knew his body would heat up quickly for the most part, but he'd rather the mud get on his socks than on his skin.

Rachel picked up her phone from the nightstand and sent a text, then called over to Buster, "what wave are you in? What time do you leave the chute?"

"I'm in the 15th wave, so will probably be leaving around 10:30 or 11:00"

"What time will you be back? Do you know?"

"Well, the best riders are just under two hours, I'm not that good. So I'll be close to three hours, maybe more if there's a lot of riders ahead of me I can't pass, and then I'd like to hang around and eat and see the awards, so probably late afternoon."

"OK, have a good time!"

"Looking forward to it babe. You have a good time too!"

Rachel thought, "don't worry, I certainly will" as she smiled and sent another text.

Buster finished harnessing his chest mount for his GoPro because he loved filming his entire ride, having even fashioned a light battery pack for longer recording time. He grabbed his water bottle and duffle bag of clothes to change into after his shower at the race site.

Hopping in his Sprinter Van, fully outfitted to carry his bikes and equipment, basically a rolling repair shop, he headed out to breakfast to get his body ticking and kickstart the breakdown of food for fuel. He found a local breakfast place called a "coney island," which in Michigan is basically what a typical diner is called.

Six eggs, veggies, spinach, and a slice of raisin toast, orange juice and a cup of coffee did the trick. He'd eat a banana just before the race, and had a few gel packs taped to his crossbar.

As he left the diner, he checked over his equipment before heading to the race site and saw that he forgot his toiletry kit at the hotel. It was only 10 minutes away and he still had time to retrieve it and get to the starting line in time.

After pulling back into the hotel and going up to his room, he knew his wife would likely be in the shower or bathroom getting ready for a spa day. He really loved Rachel who he married when she graduated University of Michigan. She came from a family that was well-off, but they looked down on Buster since he had not gone to college.

Buster couldn't afford to go to college since his father died when he was a teenager, and he had to work after school to supplement his mother's income as a stock clerk at the grocery store and she would clean offices at night and rich people's homes during the day.

At age 18 he got his life insurance license and began door-knocking. It was a grind, but he was sincere and honest and a very hard worker and eventually he began writing small life insurance policies.

His training was on-the job. He knocked on hundreds of doors every week, mostly the low-end neighborhoods who could only afford perhaps $35-$50 in monthly premiums for small whole life policies. They basically covered burial expenses with a little extra.

It was a real grind, but the commissions started at 60% of annual premiums for the first year, and dropped to basically nothing after that.

His mother was a hard worker, not healthy, but did a good job raising her son by herself. Who knows where his deadbeat father had disappeared to? Buster respected his mother, and she was his biggest fan.

In fact, she was one of his first customers, buying a $50 monthly policy for $40,000 in face amount so he could get used to the application and underwriting process.

She wouldn't know it at the time, but that was one of the best things she could do for her son's career. One night she didn't come home from cleaning the office building. The next morning Buster woke to a police officer knocking on the apartment door to inform him she suffered a major heart attack and died.

That was when Buster saw the true value of life insurance. Buster and his mother had been living month-to-month for years, always scrimping. So losing her income from her death, with expenses pretty much staying the same, plus burial costs, really would have been a problem if it were not for that $40,000 policy.

After having knocked on so many underprivileged homes and seeing so many impoverished families, difficult health and family circumstances, where life and unfair and unexpected things had put people in situations that were too enormous to crawl out of, he saw how so many people were reduced to just surviving.

And death messes that up even more. Were it not for that small, cheap, $40,000 policy Buster would be out on the street, no mailing address, no stability. And that is what happens every day to people in the richest country in the world, America.

So the insurance proceeds helped him out of a financial jam. He paid the burial expenses and now had reserves to pay for his housing and food. But it also gave him a story, a real story and a personal one to tell his insurance prospects.

Buster got "religion." He now truly understood the importance of what he did, and he did it with vigor and intensity. His final expense sales took off, up to 10 policies a week which made him one of the highest producers in the State. With that volume he also left the agency and went independent where his first year commission was now 110 percent of premium.

Knowing the fragility of how money can disappear, but also the opportunities it presents, he began to take insurance education classes such as the CLU and LUTFC. He began to see the larger picture of life insurance applications for individuals, families, and businesses.

Over the years the 18 year old turned into a 21 year old professional, and one might say "graduated" to the larger policies for estate and business planning. By age 23 he bought his 1,700 square foot ranch home in an inner-ring suburb. He turned one of the bedrooms into a home office, properly appointed and secured per insurance and FINRA regulations.

He had a steady inflow of referrals by the time he met Rachel at a dance club. Even at a relatively young age it was recognized how he really understood his products and applications, and had become skilled at explaining and resolving complex estate planning issues.

His commissions soared, and qualified for the Million Dollar Round Table every year except for his first year of door knocking. At MDRT he made many valuable connections, learned even more purposes for insurance products, and found resources to support his growing business.

One of these connections took Buster under his wing and advised him on how to protect his own assets and commissions and reduce his taxes. This involved registering an insurance agency with the Cayman Islands, meeting the specific annual filing regulations with the Cayman Islands Monetary Authority.

It also required extra hoops to go through for any appointments with the various insurance companies he represented. But once a person is organized it just becomes a routine amount of paperwork.

And Buster was organized, as opposed to so many agents and agencies that love to sell, but are terrible with any sort of paperwork. Believe it or not, this is common within the industry.

Rachel found Buster to have a great personality, friendly, handsome, and a hard worker. She didn't quite like the inner suburb where he lived but recognized how clean the home was and well-kept the yard was so she thought she could live like this for a little while. They were married four years ago.

Her family looked down on him for the lack of a university education, and especially because they looked down on salespeople, especially when they considered insurance agents to be slimy hucksters. Her father, while having those same views, silently but grudgingly admired the young man's work ethic and reputation with his clients. After all, how many young people could afford a home on their own at age 23 without family support?

Gordon and Gracy, Rachel's parents, belonged to an exclusive country club, and would regularly invite the newlyweds for dinner there. Her father, though, admonished Buster that he was not to prospect any of the members, or even tell them he sold insurance. All he could say is that he "helps process paperwork for an insurance corporation."

To a salesperson, especially one now of Buster's caliber and qualifications, this restriction is a missed opportunity. Eventually Buster asked his father-in-law why other members who sold insurance were permitted to prospect other members, but he was not.

"Because they're "financial planners," Buster. And you're not. There's a difference."

"Sir, you realize that's just another term for people who sell insurance products, right? I get that I'm not the kind of guy you wanted your daughter to marry, but do you really think I'd embarrass you if I spoke to any of the members?"

"Buster, we already agreed on this. Leave it at that."

He had become used to the superior attitude his father-in-law had toward him, but he was partly envious and partly frustrated at how other agents could sell within the club, almost as their exclusive territory.

One big blow-up occurred when Buster met his father-in-law's business partner, Roger Doring. Roger had initially put up most of the money to buy the factory a number of years ago, so he held 51% of the stock, and the father-in-law 49%. Somehow this came up in conversation over drinks at the club one evening.

"So do you guys have a buy/sell agreement in place?"

"What are you talking about Buster? Is this some insurance-talk you're using?" asked Roger.

"Not exactly, but it is a planning concept to protect your interests if one of you needs to sell your portion of the business for any reason, like death, disability, or you just want out."

"Sounds interesting, Buster, " said Roger. "When we organized years ago I think our attorney put something like that together."

"Buster, goddammit, I told you no talking about your business here in the club!" admonished Gordon.

"Yeah, I know, but this is important. You've got to have an agreement, and make sure you have a funding mechanism in place and that's where insurance comes in. It's imperative you have a contingency funding solution in place."

Frustrated, his father-in-law got up and went over to Buster and "SLAP"!! He slapped Buster across the face. "How many times do I have to tell you to know your place! I don't need a low-life insurance huckster embarrassing me or my family or my partners here in the club."

Dear reader, can you imagine the embarrassment of publicly getting shamed in front of other people by your own father-in-law?

All Buster could do was sit there, with the red mark of the slap on his cheek blending into the rest of his face as it flushed with embarrassment when other members had turned in their chairs to see what the commotion was.

The slap turned into a wake up call for Buster. He began to notice stark differences between him and his in-laws, and even between himself and his wife.

Initially, the economic and cultural differences were not an issue for two young people in love. As the few years passed, however, Buster noticed a difference in his wife. A little less patience, perhaps more snippy with him, and curiously, even though she knew his background and occupation when dating him she would occasionally make demeaning comments about it even as he continued to support her extravagences.

At one of the fancy events at the club, Rachel, her parents and grandparents, the Dorings, and a few other members were standing in a circle with their drinks telling stories of their vacations.

Because Buster was such a high producer, placing large amounts of premium with various insurance companies, he was constantly in the top five or ten agents for volume within those companies. And the industry rewards the very top producers with very lavish annual trips based on their production.

So while Buster lived a modest life in a modest home and modest neighborhood, about three or four times a year he would have an all expense paid first class trip with other top producers and their wives to exotic locations. Maldives, Croatia, Morocco, France, Tokyo, Spain, New Zealand, even one very special trip was to the Vatican.

Rachel, of course, soaked up all the commendation her husband received from those organizations during their awards ceremony held at one of those locations. Everything was first-class, everything was paid.

Mind you, she had no idea the work that went into producing such high levels of insurance. She took her husband for granted. Her ego would not permit her to put two and two together to arrive at the conclusion that she was married to a Top of the Table MDRT member, a very prestigious and the highest level of membership.

So within the social circle relating their latest vacations, attempting to appear humble and ordinary as if the wealth they spread around was what everyone did, as if it was normal, Rachel decided to relate her and Buster's latest trip to Istanbul, Turkey.

But did she give any credit to

how

they got there, by way of Buster's amazing work?

Not only did she not even mention Buster, but just then Mr. Personality came up and put his arm across her shoulder and said "Hey everyone, what's going on? Is little Buster telling vacation stories to try and get in with the cool kids?

Connor smirked his bright white toothy grin at Buster while the rest of the group - including Rachel - laughed uproariously.

Buster did not smile. He looked at Rachel with her head back laughing at him, then over to his father-in-law Gordon, then over to Rachel's grandfather, Griffin. Griffin was a serious and wise man, quite successful in his past life and enjoying his travels in retirement. He held Buster's eye. He was not laughing.