Lest you get the idea that the "big four" were just that number of guys who were at the right place at the right time, they share attributes few people know about: In particular, an ability to swim, bike, and run almost superhuman distances in training. They also shared a sense of what might seem recklessness--not only in their desire to experiment and push the limits, but often in their sheer exuberance for exploration. Not only an exploration of what is without--further out and further in, newer, greener, higher, steeper--but also an exploration into how far the body could go, and what happens when it can go no farther, yet must go farther.

In today's world of threshholds, beepers that signal the upper allowable limits of heartrate and power, and the plethora of signs of overtraining which cause you to cease all activity (all of which are good and have a rightly deserved prominent place in the quiver of every athlete), it might be refreshing to look at the other side of it all: What happens when an athlete chooses, for a moment or two, to ignore all that and go for broke. Just for the sheer pleasure of it.

Slowtwitch.com, therefore, introduces a series of stories from those who've made a career out of doing just that. The legendary masters of pain-ignorance and hill-and-dale mentalities are Allen and the three Scotts, along with Kenny Souza, Tom Warren, and because I've seen it (and would not have otherwised believed it), my dear wife. There are some other stories I've only heard about, regarding such stars from the present and past as Kirsten Hansen, John Howard, Dave McGillivray, and others. We'll try to collect as many of these as we can and present them here so that, in the immortal words of Lou Reed, you can see what it's like to take a swim, bike, or run on the wild side.

The Hall of Pain:

• Scott Molina 12/6/99
• JulieAnne White 12/14/99
• Mike Pigg 5/22/03

JulieAnne White 12/14/99

"One fine day in mid-February, 1993, I and my bike were on a rural lane in North San Diego County. I had ridden more miles than I could count on West Lilac Road while preparing for one or another long-distance triathlon. I was in the middle of the biggest bike week on my winter schedule, preparing to race Ironman New Zealand only three weeks out. But my run training was not going well because of a knotted right quadricep and neither massage, acupuncture, nor rest would relieve it. I was going to withdraw from the race if it didn't improve.

"I was returning from a 100-miler on the hilly inland terrain and West Lilac was my final route home when all of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a very large rottweiller, heading straight for me. The impact knocked me off my bike and into a ditch. This dog easily outweighed me and his jaws clamped like a vice into my right quad. The pain was intense and blood was gushing like a hose. I pushed him off and tried to move quickly as his gaze was now fixed on my calf. But to my relief his owner came rushing down the road and called him off. "Oh George, I just can't believe you did this." My body started to shake from the impact of George and his jaws. His owner felt so terrible that he wanted to take me to the nearest hospital. I asked him just to please take me and the bike to my husband's office, and I'd go to the nearest clinic from there. I didn't want any fuss, I just wanted to get back on that bike and ride.

"I rode north on the coast the next day for 100 easy miles feeling slightly stiff from the bike and three layers of stiches. But otherwise I was fine. The next day I decided to tackle my "Double DeLuz," a ride I do when I want to make sure I'm ready to race an Ironman. It is 130 miles of out-and-back endless mountains and heat, rugged and peaceful all at once. It was a great day and a great ending for the week. I had completed more than 400 miles on the bike despite George and his jaws.

"In fact, it turns out George had provided a therapy no one else could. When I unwrapped the heavy bandages and attempted an easy run, I felt no pain or knot in my right quadricep. George had bitten right into the epicenter of the knot and released it. Everyday I ran a little bit further and harder. My final test was a 16 mile run to the master's pool followed by a 3500m swim and 16 more miles of running back home. I was ready.

"George had cost me two weeks in the pool, and it showed in New Zealand as I was 11 minutes behind out of the water. But I finished the race in 9:38, 17 minutes in front of second place, and just 13 seconds from Erin Baker's overall course record. And I had George to thank for it."

Mike Pigg 5/22/03

This occurred in early June of 1991, or a year or two to either side of that. Neither Mike Pigg nor an arch rival of the day, Brad Kearns, precisely remembers. But they remember the ride.

The impetus behind this bike ride—one of many Pigg escapades that could be recounted—depends on whom you talk to you. "Just my sense of adventure, looking at a road on a map that needed to be ridden," is Pigg's recollection.

"He'd just gotten his hide handed to him at the Orange County Triathlon, and he was pissed off," is the way Kearns remembers it.

Both were Hind athletes, and both were due in California's Central Coast town of San Luis Obispo two days after the race for a photo engagement. Pigg had another sponsor commitment the day before the catalog shoot—visiting an Oakley retailer in the L.A. Basin. Oakley's headquarters were within minutes of the triathlon venue, and the Oakley rep and Pigg made their way north the morning after the race.

Commitment done, the rep dropped off Pigg and his bike north of Malibu. It was just past noon before Pigg was able to mount up and start riding. The photo shoot was at dawn the next morning.

Pigg turned his bike inland at Ventura, climbing highway 33 up to, and through, Ojai. He made his way through the Los Padres National Forest, where cyclists are never seen. The riding is too long, too hard, and too remote. There are no stores, no gas stations, no where to refill bottles. It's hard driving a car on this road in June.

By the end of the day, as the sun was approaching the horizon, Pigg had made his way through the mountains, exiting on the inside edge of California's Central Valley. The sun fell behind the range to his left as Pigg pedaled along the Cuyama River. On the windward, coastal side of this range, three months earlier in the year, riders take part in the famous Solvang Century.

Well into the night Pigg's bike light shone from the handlebars as he exited the Valley and made his way back toward the coast. Somewhere between Arroyo Grande and Pismo Beach the tiny light failed. He didn't have a clear idea of the correct direction, and today he cannot re-create his precise route.

He did eventually find the hotel where the athletes were staying. When Brad Kearns came out of his room, sleepy-eyed after a 4:30AM wake-up call, Pigg was there waiting. He'd rolled in not long before after thirteen hours in the saddle, 230 miles covered, and perhaps without that bad race stuck in his craw.