Huffmaster Gravel Race Recap: Hop In!

“You’re good, man. Hop in!”

Less than a second later my head smacked the ground and my brain registered the message my right shoulder and hip were sending: you are now sliding along the ground at 25 miles an hour because you just drilled the yard sale that used to be the guy in front of you.

Welcome to NorCal gravel.

Thankfully, I know these ruts well. Around here we affectionately call them Shark Fins—those pesky little ridges that build up as mud squishes out of truck tires, then dries into something resembling concrete. The phrase hop in is not metaphorical. It is literal. Because if you try to turn out of one, gravity and physics will have a long conversation with your face. And they rarely negotiate.

There were, believe it or not, some bright sides. The moment I saw the rider ahead of me turn into the rut rather than bunny hop out, I knew he was going down. So I braced, grabbed a fistful of rear brake, and tried to shoot the gap between his flailing body and his bouncing Big “S” bike.

I hit the bike. I went over the bike. And somewhere in the chaos I managed to snap both of his seat stays on impact.

I popped up, checked that my bottles were still in the cages, straightened my bars. But before I could remount, I saw his bike in two pieces and thought, Score one for Rodeo.

This was the second race in the Grasshopper Adventure Series—Huffmaster, one of my favorites—and I wasn’t about to throw in the towel there.

Soon enough I was rolling again, settling into what I assumed would be a long solo chase to get back onto the back of the front group before the big climb. And isn’t this just a perfect reflection of life? One minute you’re locked in, swapping turns, preparing for a test. The next minute you’re dusting yourself off after falling down, staring at an entirely different test.

But I digress.

Back in the hunt, I quieted the voice in my head telling me to burn every match. Instead, I rode the effort I knew I could sustain if the chase took five minutes. Thankfully, the group eased after the gravel sector, and I reconnected just before the headache and throbbing hip started to make their presence known.

I’ve been racing bikes a long time. I started as a BMX dirtbag in my teenage years—building jumps, racing every double-pointer weekend on the ABA regional calendar. Then came the mid-to-late nineties downhill and dual slalom scene. We were dressed in Frankenstein kits that were equal parts motocross and roadie lycra. Everyone trying to look like John Tomac. More often, we looked like the bad guys from The Karate Kid in their Halloween skeleton costumes. Look it up. Thank me later.

After a bad downhill crash, I took up road riding to rehab a busted pelvis. Out of curiosity, I jumped into a Cat 5 crit that winter and fell in love. The chess match. The banter. The trash talk. The sprinting for primes. For the next twenty years I was a roadie. But I went through wheels at an alarming rate, given my tendency to take dirt paths and jump curbs mid-ride.

So when gravel hit the mainstream, it felt like all my worlds were colliding. What a time to be alive.

Back to Huffmaster. Even during that short chase, I could see how every chapter of cycling had prepared me for moments like this. From dirtbag jump lines to shaved legs and baby oil at road starts. My kit dirty with dust and mud. My elbow dripping blood onto the top tube. I figured it would make a great story later—but only if I got back to the front.

When I rejoined, a few buddies shouted, “How’d you get back to the front?”

I just smiled. That was reward enough.

I got dropped over the big climb. Disappointing, but not surprising. So I found a solid group and focused on saving some snap for the final twenty miles—mostly flat and descending gravel—where I knew my bike and handling could pay dividends.

It was my first race of 2026 and a big test for the new TD4.2 and Rodeo Wheels. They did not disappoint. The bike endured a crash, climbed a mountain, bombed descents, and never once wavered.

The result sheet wasn’t much to write home about, P20 doesn’t exactly garner, “congrats,” from anyone who wasn’t there. I suppose the professionalization of gravel has trickled down to us age-groupers too. There were plenty of matchy-matchy team kits, knee high aero socks, and I kid you not, guys warming up on rollers in the parking lot. The spirit of gravel isn’t dead, but it does seem to be hanging around with some evil spirits that need to be cast into a herd of pigs. Soon.

The words on my headset cap read: Ride. Explore. Create.

This race required all three. It was a ride. A beautiful one. But what I’m most proud of is the exploration—the soulful kind that four and a half hours on a bike can provide. Gravel, at its best, is a microcosm for life: facing trials, overcoming obstacles, enduring pain, building community, and telling stories afterward over a beer with new friends.

In fact, the guy who crashed in front of me waited at the finish just to apologize. We laughed. We shared a beer. We traded stories.

This is gravel.

If you haven’t already, now is your time to hop in.

Just don’t hit a rut.