The best laid plans usually work out. The half-assed ones end with mud, tears, and a broken derailleur.
Gravel Race: 107 miles until you get your hug


Why am I here?

I can't say I'm particularly fond of gravel. It can be fun, in the way that hard things can sometimes be fun, but it is also exhausting, both physically and mentally. You can't turn off, even for a second on gravel. You have to constantly pay attention to every little detail of the road, to every little thing that your arms are doing, that your form is doing, that the bike is experiencing. The constant bumping, kicking, and need to scooch fore and aft on the saddle can be wearing on your caboose and nether regions. And despite your best efforts, you are moving slooowly. So slowly, in fact, that any length of ride will effectively take double the amount of time to complete that it does on smooth pavement, and you will also require about double the amount of hydration and nutritional supplements. It absolutely tests the limits of my patience.

So when I ride gravel, I do it as a one-off thing, on the random occasion that I desire something different enough from the packed red dirt I can simply ride on my road bike. It's an effort for me, and I don't hide that fact.

But for gravel grinders, it's a completely different philosophy. I saw a quote from Sara S. the other day in the O'Colly, in which she described her experience on gravel thusly: "It's kind of like you turn on … your tires hit that gravel and your endorphins just elevate because you know you're about to experience something you don't experience in any kind of other riding."

Miles of smiles. And dirt.

It tends to be the exact opposite experience for me. Partway through every gravel ride, I begin asking myself Why am I here? It becomes a battle, a test of my patience, will, and fortitude. By the end of the ride, when my tires finally reach the smooth, unyielding surface of pavement, when my pace picks up and I begin moving fast again, I remember why it is I love the road so very much. I love tuning out. I love the feeling of the wind against my face. I love going fast. I love turning my mind off and letting my legs do their thing. No thoughts required, other than the occasional signal my brain sends to my legs to pedal harder.

That's my ideal cycling experience.

But having lived in Stillwater, the home of all things gravel here in Oklahoma, and watching interest in the sport grow from a ragtag group of folks just having fun to a full-fledged movement, I can understand the appeal. I watched the birth of the Land Run 100. I saw the sheer passion that not only Bobby and Crystal Wintle and countless others (Jim Bruer, Trevor Steward, Brett Stevens, Austin Turner, Keith Reed, only to name a teeny, tiny few) poured into this venture, but I routinely played host house and saw the excitement of the race from the other side, in the blood, sweat, and tears, the sense of the adventure, and the pride upon completion that its participants shared.

So for the first time ever, last November, I decided I wanted in.

Maybe I just missed Stillwater. Maybe I missed seeing all those guys at District Bicycles day in and day out. Maybe I wanted to re-kindle a feeling of community I wasn't getting here in Edmond. (I mean, check out the words on District's homepage: "Community and bicycles. These are some good things.") Whatever the reason, at the last possible moment I decided to finally sign up for this truly unique event. I paid my entry fee and Bobby happily placed my name along the list of registered female participants.




Prep Work

I spent the next few months venturing out on gravel every now and then, working with Carin and then Katy M to learn everything from what was a good tire pressure to use, to how to shift your weight over the rear wheel when traversing soupy gravel, to how important it was to bring extra nutrition along for the ride (almost especially so).

I even traveled back to Stillwater at the tail end of January to do a big group 65 mile ride on some of the most leg shredding roads I've ever encountered.

I felt vaguely prepared.

Anxiety and anticipation both twisted in my gut Friday evening before the race, as I began slowly prepping my bike for the long road ahead. It had been a hard training week. Mark hadn't eased up on my plan even a little after the brutal race last Sunday, and the thought that I might dig myself into an immense hole was kicking around in the back of my mind. But I tried to remember all the other hard races I've done. Without fail, the ones that were the most challenging (Wild Horse, Native Lands), I always remember the most fondly.

I could do this.

I was ready. -ish.

800-plus participants lined up at 7:30 Saturday morning, hailing from 23 or so different states (even Canada!) to participate in the 4th (5th?) annual Land Run 100. There were even a large chunk of ultrarunners there, ready to tackle the new 50k event, and after years spent running these very roads myself, I was personally pleased to see that aspect of this event growing.

The morning started out fine. It was misty, and threatened of more rains, but I had remembered to pack my rain gear the night before. I woke on time, ate breakfast, finishing filling up my bottles and prepping my saddle bag, then headed to Stillwater on time to arrive over an hour before the race began.

I was pleased to see so many people I knew. Just about every cycling person I ever knew and loved was present, either to volunteer their time or to try and complete the challenge themselves. I said hi to several folks, then lined up along with Laura and Jon, Katy, and Dustin.

Bobby Wintle's voice fluttered over the loudspeakers, riding the soundwaves of some upbeat tunes, but I honestly couldn't tell you what he said.

My nerves were becoming increasingly frayed now. I surveyed the superior preparations of the other riders. Everyone had more food, more water, and more, well, MORE than I did. I had packed 3 Bonk Breakers, which for me felt like a lot, plus several packets of my travel-sized Osmo and 4 spare tubes. But I didn't have any extra supplies taped to my bike, I didn't have a Bento box packed full of goodies, I didn't even have an extra water bottle. And as for a drop bag, I didn't even know that was a thing. Plus, I had neglected to bring my Garmin Edge mount, leaving me to attach tie my Forerunner to my handlebar instead. Woefully unprepared were the only words starting to float through my mind.


The Race


The cannon finally shot off, and then, so did we. We wound our way down the old, familiar, Tuesday night route until we reached gravel. If I thought the rollouts at Joe Martin had been packed in recent years, this was like funneling salmon up a tiny stream. Or packing a bunch of sardines into a can. A really small can. There were riders everywhere, wheels touching, on the brink of chaos.

Then we reached the dirt roads. Or they would have been dirt had it not been for the rains. They were mud.

I should have known. Land Run is like an annual rain dance for Oklahoma. Without a doubt, if it's Land Run weekend, the entire week will have rained and poured. Land Run is infamous for this.

I had hoped that the dryness of our winter was enough to soak up most of the moisture. For these first several miles, it was. It was somewhat slick and muddy to be sure, but still packed enough to be ride-able. I was thankful that I was still near the front - I hated to think what the road would look like at the end of this 800 person train.

My heart rate began to soar with the effort, and I focused on trying to maintain my position in the group. Yet hard as I was working, I was slowly starting to fall behind. I realized that with good legs and good terrain, my chainring gearing was tough but do-able. Today, riding on mud and fatigue, I began dearly wishing for a smaller small ring. I was grinding up the inclines. Most other folk seemed to have known this would be the case and planned accordingly, changing up their cassettes or small rings and spinning up those hills.

I had had a tough training week, and I was beginning to doubt how much of this my legs would be able to endure.

Katy and Laura had both already gotten away from me, which left me feeling even more anxious. I had been able to easily hang with Katy a few weeks ago - did she just get that much stronger? Or am I that much weaker? Or am I just letting my nerves get to me? What is happening?!

I knew my technical skills had improved immensely, but I was still anxious with all this mud about and trusted myself much more on hard pack dirt. A group of Divas rode up to me and I recognized most of them. I was thrilled to see them, and frankly, in awe of the strength they were displaying on these roads. Yet once again, the moment we hit inclines, they tore quickly up them while I was grinding away...

It must be fatigue in my legs. I know I'm stronger than this!

Then we hit the first deep mud patch. I remembered practicing riding over mud with Carin: the key was to keep pedaling. I tried my best, when many got off and began walking. I figured if I could keep going that was a good thing, right? Mud splayed about me left and right, and I finally learned what big clumps of dirt taste like. But I still managed to make it most of the way through, until eventually, a loss of momentum forced me to dismount and rack the bike across my back. It was heavy and instantly fatiguing; while I had completed my weight training this winter to put a bit of strength back in my arms, I hadn't practiced holding 40 lbs in isolation. Maybe that should be a component?

The second mud pit was not so nice. I bombed my way down steep, mud-slicked hills until I came upon a stretch of road described to me as "peanut butter." It was like witnessing warriors carrying on into battle - most riders had dismounted, hitched their bikes, and were slowly picking their way through. I had momentum under me and determination in my legs. I was splaying mud everywhere, but I was still moving. It was much faster and more comfortable than carrying my bike at any rate, so I kept on at it. Very soon, I spotted all the groups of people who had left me, and I passed them.

Just as I made it up yet another incline, *SNAP!*

I felt a crunch and my legs instantly stopped moving forward.

As I dismounted, I glanced down and saw the thing I had been warned about: the dreaded broken rear derailleur.

It had completely snapped up and back into my wheel, taking the hangar with it, and was caught up in my spokes. I'm not even sure what my chain was doing.

20 miles. I had only completed 20 miles.

I spied a group of fellow riders who had also just broken their bikes. There were lined up against the side of the road, and I carried my bike over to join them. One of them was loading his bike onto the back of a rescue jeep to return to the start line. His race was done.

The jeep reassured me that he would be back to pick me up as soon as he dropped off this group of riders. So I waited. And waited.

In the meantime, I chatted with a former OSU student/resident of Stillwater who was now living in South Dakota. We talked business, bikes, and everything in between. While we waited.

And waited.

And watched the entire field go by.

We called the rescue crew twice. And after 2 hours of waiting, a jeep finally peeked out over the horizon and made its way to us.

By this point, we were both shivering, hungry, filthy, and ready to be home.

That jeep was about the most beautiful thing I saw.

Aftermath

I was pretty bummed to finally be back at the start line. I could see Bobby had already taken up his position as finish line greeter. At this race, you bike or run your heart out, traversing completely ridiculous terrain, overcoming entirely new obstacles, all so you can be greeted with the biggest smile on earth and the most giant bear hug you will ever get, courtesy of race promoter Bobby Wintle. His smile, energy, and enthusiasm are infectious. Year after year, I've witnessed the most beautiful moments as he enthusiastically greets every single finisher at the line and thanks them for coming out to his race.


I desperately had wanted to earn my hug and become part of this group. But it was not my year. He spied me, giving me a knowing look, instantly knowing what had happened.

He began moving towards me, but I knew I hadn't earned my hug, and I demurred.

I moved on to the bike wash station, eager to rinse the pounds of mud off my frame so I could take my broken steed in to the boys at District. There, they could untangle the mess of cables, derailleur, wheel, and chain so that I could take my bike apart and place it back in my car.

It was brutal to be sidelined and only watching on as virtually everybody else I knew managed to finish. Some folks with broken derailleurs were able to craft a single speed rig out of the chaos, and still completed the race. Other folks had no issues, and sailed through the race without a hitch.

I think watching everyone else's reactions to this unique experience was harder on me than anything else. Almost out of spite, I vowed to complete this course next year. Yes, this race is famous for busting up bikes. Yes, people travel hundreds of miles to ride a "gravel" course that's usually soup. Yes, on this route, the bike very frequently walks you. And yes, it's hard AF.

But I think that's the draw of this event.

It pushes you to do things that you would never have thought possible. It forces you dig deep, waaay deep, in order to beat this course. It's all part of the adventure.

So with that, I will be back, Land Run. And I will beat you.

For the Future:

• Walk, don't ride. Yes, it will take longer. But my bike will survive.

• I desperately need to downsize my small chainring. I need to able to spin more on the inclines.

• I will remember to mount my Garmin holder.

• Bring an extra pair of socks. Place them in a dropbag, along with extra food, tubes, and nutrition. Give dropbag to race volunteers.

• Devise a sling with caribiners at either end to secure to the bike frame. This will help immensely with bike walking.

• Bring a stick or wooden stake to scrap mud off my frame with.

• Learn how to convert a rig to single speed, just in case.

• Bring cash.

• Bring fresh legs.

• Bring a sense of adventure.