In an instant, he became a 'human hay bale' to save fallen cyclist

Can you imagine crouching in the road and preparing to take the impact of a crowd of sprinting bike racers? Neither can I. But I know whom to ask.

Paul Merwin did just that in 1999. With two laps to go in a St. Paul bike race, his teammate, Steve Hiebert, wiped out and lay sprawled on the ground with a neck injury. With dismay, Merwin saw the other racers bearing down on the finish line -- and on his friend. "I knew there was no way they'd see us," he says. "I had to make a decision."

In a flash, Merwin jumped between the onrushing pack and his friend. He became, in effect, a human hay bale. An oncoming cyclist hit him, triggering another crash. "It was definitely not plan A, but it was better than knowing that Steve got hit," Merwin explains modestly.

When Dave LaPorte, the race promoter, heard about this selfless act, he targeted Merwin like a laser. "Cycling runs on volunteers," says LaPorte, of Roseville, whose day job is biochemistry professor at the University of Minnesota. "I needed a new director for the St. Paul race. Paul seemed like a take-charge kind of guy."

To LaPorte's delight, Merwin -- a St. Paul attorney -- took on the challenge. Nine years later, he's director of operations for what's become the Great River Energy Bicycle Festival, being held this year June 7-15. Merwin and LaPorte are still working together --along with hundreds of other Minnesotans -- to make the festival one of the nation's greatest cycling events.

From modest beginnings in 1999, the festival has grown to include a men's and women's pro race -- the Nature Valley Grand Prix -- with legs in St. Paul, Cannon Falls, Minneapolis, Mankato and Stillwater.

The grand finale in Stillwater, on June 15 this year, has been called "one of the toughest races in North America." It includes climbs up two "lung-busting" hills that most ordinary mortals can't puff up at a walk without stopping for a rest.

But the festival is designed for more than hard-core bicycle racing fans. LaPorte calls it "a party with a bike race in the middle." Sure, there are opportunities to watch spine- tingling action with some of the world's best racers. But fans also can enjoy bands and beer, eye-popping stunt riders and kids' races.

In today's big-name sports world, bike racing is "the only professional sport where you're literally 2 feet from the athletes during the events," says LaPorte. "In one of Lance Armstrong's races in the Tour de France, some woman's purse strap caught his arm and he wiped out -- that's how close it is."

Many top-notch racers are just as accessible off the course. "There are no security guards in dark glasses, saying 'everybody back,'" adds LaPorte. "These athletes are driven by love of the sport, not money."

He illustrates with a story: "Last year, one dad at the St. Paul kids' fun race was there with his 5-year-old daughter. He was up there like Cecil B. DeMille with his video camera. His daughter couldn't get up a slight hill to cross the finish line. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her back gently pushing her across the line -- it was Ivan Stevic, last year's overall winner and the Serbian national champion."

All profits of the festival go to Children's Hospital of Minneapolis. The racers also stop by to visit kids there. A particularly big hit is Team Type 1, several of whose members are diabetic. Their message? "You cannot only live a normal life with diabetes, you can excel," says LaPorte.

Right now, Merwin is up to his eyeballs preparing for the June 13 Minneapolis leg of the festival. The race has special meaning for him, because he started the leg in 2003 and dedicated it to his brother Philip (Flip) Merwin, a champion snowmobile racer. After Flip's death in a race accident earlier that year, the Merwin family began a memorial snowmobile race in Wausau, Wis., whose proceeds go in part to Children's Hospital.

Ironically, in 2005, Merwin also proved his volunteer "action hero" status at that race, when he saved another life -- this time that of a woman riding in a truck that had broken through the ice. The truck's roof had disappeared below the water as he crawled out on the ice, reached into the frigid water and pulled her to safety. "I was thinking, 'No one's going to die at my brother's memorial,'" he says.

But Merwin won't be thinking of that as he oversees the Minneapolis leg of the Nature Valley Grand Prix. Police will close the downtown streets at 6 p.m. June 13, leaving only 45 minutes to transform the area into a world-class sporting venue. About 150 volunteers will string 7,000 feet of fencing, tote hay bales and serve as crossing guards. "Thousands of things need to happen and if one thing goes wrong, chaos ensues," says Merwin. "If one piece of fencing is in the wrong place, the riders go off course."

"It's got the complexity of the Normandy invasion, except we have to land on the right beaches."

Katherine Kersten • kkersten@startribune.com Join the conversation at my blog, www.startribune.com/thinkagain.