Never say never...
State Champ Road Race: 62 miles

For the past couple of years now, my teammate Kirsten has always uttered the words "never say never" at me, usually after a race where I didn't think I could get X or Y or Z in the moment, and I wanted to give up; but sometimes she just likes to remind me before a race, or during training, or basically anytime we're discussing strategy.

Knowing those words, however, and internalizing them to the point you actually believe in them, are two different things. This race was the day I finally started believing them.


Before the race

I signed up rather begrudgingly. I love this race (really!). It's located in a small town near Talequah, OK, up in the northeastern corner. The terrain there is brutal - steep climbs, long descents, and exposure to some of Oklahoma's most blustery conditions. A true champion's course.

But all season, it seems, I'd been struggling mentally to find the drive to really race my bike in anything other than a du. I knew this would be pretty much another training ride... I was feeling some fatigue from the week already, and was nowhere near peak fitness yet. I didn't stand a chance this year against the other fabulous ladies. Which was a bit sad, considering this was the first year there weren't just 3 of us racing. Ordinarily, I'd be stoked by that!

Helene (a teammate) agreed to drive up with me. She even drove to give me some extra time to study (yet another exam was coming up - adding to my stress). My hope was that she could at least take the win for us. I'd do what I could, provided who was left at the back of the field with me, but the challenging climbs of Eucha are best suited to a true billy goat like her.


The course was pretty much the same as last year, from what I could remember. I was just hoping that unlike last year, there'd be more than just the two of us rolling all 62 miles together.

Didn't exactly get my wish...


The Race

Combined W 1-2-3/Men's Masters Field

Things started off pretty smoothly. The P123 women agreed to roll with the Men's Masters field. We headed out for the first small loop, roughly 10 miles to get back to the starting area, before beginning the bulk of the day's work. The small loop contains a couple of steep ascents on the return, and as far as I can tell, that's usually where the break, or at least the first break, occurs. This year proved no different.

Unfortunately, I didn't even have a chance to try and stay with the pack out of the starting loop. I had forgotten about the hairpin turns it also contained, and it seemed that a year of mostly multisport focus had made me even worse at cornering. I was at the very back of the field almost immediately.

And then they were gone.

All that was left was Esther, me, and someone I hadn't met yet named Heather.

Then Heather lost me on another corner, and I began time trialing my way to catch back up.

I pushed and pushed and pushed. Descending into the valley was first up, before the big climbs back out. And I knew that not only was she strong, and could seemingly match my current power, but that she was physically bigger, giving her an edge on the descents.

I came close. Really close to catching her. More than once.

But after a solid hour-plus of high effort, my legs or my heart just couldn't take it anymore, and she started to slowly peel away.

Those damn corners didn't help, either!

Sigh. I could hear Kirsten's words echoing in my head almost immediately, "Never say never!" So I resigned myself to continuing the chase solo (wasn't sure where poor Esther was at this point). Figured I'd at least get a really solid strong couple of efforts in today.

The new plan was to back off a bit, let the legs re-energize, and then hit it again.

I followed the route as well I could, almost missing a turn but kinda-sorta catching a glimpse of a sign and remembering the course from last year made me catch it just in time.

And then there was wind. Just as brutal as a few weeks past at Tallchief, maybe even more so. Only this time I was truly alone.

I knew I was facing 50 miles of solo griding, eventually heading down into the valley and then back out once more before I would be through. With 30 mile-an-hour gusting winds facing me head on. It was going to be a looooong day.

My body hurt. My mind was crying out. What was even the point of this?!! How is this going to help me prepare for Worlds?

Then I would think of the disappointment I would face from Mark, from Helen, from Kirsten if I gave up and took the car back home. I didn't want to face that.

And I kept hearing those words. And I reminded myself that the half-Iron distance in October would require me to TT 50 miles. This was good. I was practicing! At least, I tried to desperately believe that.

The roads were long and empty. I passed a gas station and probably the sole police officer monitoring a single intersection. I passed many, many rural homes, and was chased repeatedly my many, many more dogs.

I was also dangerously out of water.

And then I hit the oasis. The race director had implemented a neutral feed zone this year! HU-FUCKING-ZAH! I came to a full stop, grabbed a water bottle from a vounteer, and guzzled. I then grabbed two more bottles, unscrewed the lids on my racked ones, and filled them. I had no electrolytes to dump in them, but I didn't care. I was dehydrated and the water felt amazing down my throat.

Then, a volunteer I recognized began shouting at me. "Go, go, go! Hurry up! You're in second place!" Whaaaa?

She repeated those words to me again. How? I asked. Apparently, the entire mixed field of W123 and Master's Men had gone the wrong way. They hadn't come through the feed yet. Only Heather had passed by just moments before me.

No. Fucking. Way.

Alright then. I took off, my willpower renewed, and my thirst finally quenched. Heather wasn't that far in front of me. I still had a chance! At the very least, I prayed that I could hold off the main field. I was absolutely certain that would have realized their mistake and circled back to the race course, and with a strong pack like that, it wouldn't be long before they overtook me. I had 20 miles remaining. If I could get another strong effort for that last 20, I might juuuust be able to make the podium.

About 2 miles later I came across Heather on the side of the road. With a flat. I felt terrible for her. I slowed to a crawl and asked if she needed help. She asked me if the wheel vehicle was behind her (turns out it wasn't, but course cars were coming directly behind me, and I wasn't sure if it held the wheels or not). Another Wheelmen, one of the few Master's men who seemed to have found the right direction, was with her. Certain that the main pack was still on my tail, and that Heather was about to get a wheel change, I zipped back off, pedaling even harder now, hoping upon hope that I still had enough in the tank to hold her off. If she got a wheel change here, she would be gunning for that top spot.

The rest of the race of simply me vs. me.

Looking so much better than I feel

Having done this race 3 years running now, I knew the remainder of the course like the back of my hand. I slowly ticked off the miles. I kept repeating those words to myself, Never say never!, giddy now that they might possibly be coming true.

Esther drove by at some point, in a car, to scream encouragement at me. She believed I was going to make it! I was grateful, but just couldn't believe that that field wasn't going to catch me. I kept my head down and soldiered on.

I kept looking back, repeatedly, for any sign of a blue jersey that might indicate Heather.

And kept pushing.

I started feeling lightheaded. And sick to my stomach. In a way that was unrelated to racing. And it suddenly occurred that guzzling all that plain water might not have been the best thing for me.

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.

Blustery, Southernly Winds of Hell
Cycling Road Race: 44 miles

Much to my chagrin, road racing in Oklahoma has really gone over to crits. There are endless practice series, major events, and one day affairs, but sadly, there are only now 2 official road races left - Tallchief and Eucha. Both of which are wonderfully hilly, powerfully hard courses. I have a deep affection for each; in past years, I've even performed relatively well at them.

Tallchief's course was modified this year. What was before a longer, 20-ish mile loop with 3 giant climbs was now a shorter, faster sub-15 mile loop that still managed to pack a punch and retain plenty of climbing, replacing that last, single giant climb with several smaller, but brutal rollers. Different, but still good.

Oh, and there was wind. Sooooo much wind.




I saved registering for the last possible moment, but when I did I was thrilled to discover that the women's fields were huge this year (well, huge for Oklahoma anyway.) Almost 40 ladies in total. Most in the Cat 4s, but the Cat 1/2/3 race actually had 12 racers this year (3-5 was the norm), most of whom I didn't even know! I hope this meant good things for OK.

#foreverbutts

The Race

Did I mention the wind? 40-mile-an-hour gusting, unrelenting, soul-sucking wind. It was blowing up from the South (aka the direction we were mostly headed) and a bit West. Fucking brutal.

The race starts on the Dam Climb, about a half a mile of fun at 6-8% which also serves as the race finish, meaning that no matter what, you always get to climb the Dam Climb one extra time during your race. It then turns immediately South and heads into the winds.

The field of 1/2/3 stayed pretty together. After the first few climbs out of the Dam, Katy B actually led a fairly smart move of pushing hard into the wind, but right up along the yellow line. Since the winds were from the South and West, this meant that no one could get much draft having to line up single file behind.

I managed to surprise myself by staying with the front group of riders through the first few climbs and most of this hellish straightaway. Good, maybe my fitness isn't godawful.

Helene, teammate and badass extroardinnaire

Chelsea, our new teammie in the 4s - ain't she a cutie!? Here is she is soloing ahead her field.

Then it happened. Or I guess I let it happen. I'm still not sure what I should have done.

Some random chica (no idea who - don't even recognize the kit) decided she didn't like the fact that I had passed her earlier to get in on the break, so she pulls around my right, hard, and manages to mostly catch onto the front wheel. I'm now completely trapped slightly back between her and the yellow line. A second later, I see that she has just hit her limit, and dies, losing the wheel in front of her.

I now have a choice to make. I yell at her, angry that she's losing the wheel, and pushing me back with her. She won't back up enough so that I can catch back on, and I can't pass her without crossing the yellow line.

Many more seconds later, I finally make the choice to brake, come around behind her and to her right, and then chase and try to catch back on. I could have pushed around the yellow - there was much controversy that day in many of the fields about riders who did just that to keep themselves in the breaks - but I chose not to. I probably could have pushed at her hip to move her over, but I didn't feel comfortable pushing someone who might potentially not have the handling skills to stay upright and float over to the right.

So I lost the break. And began time trialing my way to catch back on.

At this point, my Garmin was already telling me that my average power had been at threshold. And now I had to push past even that if I had a hope of catching back on.

I fought hard to do so. I just nearly managed it, twice! But each time the break got their act together and started pulling hard again, and one woman solo in winds like I faced stands no chance against a group actually working.

Eventually, I fell back into Nancy K, who somehow remained positive that we could get them (we couldn't, but I really did admire her positive attitude and relentless spirit - I really needed it that day). Shay B also joined our little group, and for much of the remaining race, we 3 chased, and fought, and buoyed each other through the wind.

Eventually we caught Ariel W, though I couldn't really tell you when or on what loop because I was nearly out of my mind with fatigue (though I'll venture it was somewhere at the end of the second lap). She sorta worked with us till the end.

I was cornering awfully (of course). The run up South into the Dam Climb had two corners, and I told Nancy that I would just let her get me. I thought she deserved it. That attitude kept us all from quitting. Besides, she could easily out corner my ass anyway. I thought I might get past Shay, who just was not having a good day health wise, but she managed to rally to sprint way past me. Even Ariel decided to go for it at the end.

I just gave no fucks anymore. By the time the Dam Climb was under my legs, all I did was climb it. No pushing. No fighting. No big efforts. Just a grin on my face that I had survived that day and pushed past every instinct in my body to quit.

My face was windburnt. My legs ached. My back was spasming. My Garmin said that I had just pushed for 44 miles at sweet spot intensity. But I had survived, and in my mind, won an important mental victory.

Addendum...

Mentally and physically, I don't know if I was quite ready for this year's race.

Physically, base season was long and slow, and my build phase had only begun a few weeks ago. I had just begun feeling like I was getting my legs back under me, and was pretty unsure how I would fare against a field of riders who had been hitting the bike a lot harder than me.

Mentally, I had been pretty wiped out after Worlds. I didn't even realize the extent of it until December, or maybe even January. The absolute dedication I gave to building up for that event had taken a toll on me; lately, I had been really struggling to find a way to drive myself again that hard. It's been especially difficult to connect back to my bike, although almost ironically, I find myself zenning out more and more with my run lately.

With bike fitness below where I'd like, and mental excitement equivalent to "meh," I decided to skip on the opportunity to participate in the Pace Bend/Walburg road races hosted down in Texas the prior weekend, and saved Tallchief for this year's opener. I welcomed the thought of being back on familiar ground at a race I loved, and hoped that using it as my opener would rejuvenate my cycling spirit.

While I can't say for absolute certainty that this year's race did that, that it made me excited about road racing again, surviving that wind challenge with just a few other women did give me some strong mental encouragement that maybe I'm not as weak as I've been feeling. And that if I really keep digging deep down, maybe I'll hit upon gold again and find that sweet spot of pain and pleasure that keeps moving my legs forward, one pedal stroke at a time.