Being a mechanic feels like the most natural thing for me. Not only do I get to be surrounded by bikes all day, but I am able to tackle projects and problem solve while constantly learning. I am also acutely aware that I am almost always the only woman in this space. While everyone I have ever worked with or for has been extremely welcoming and inclusive to all, there is often an unintentional divide. As a woman, you feel like this in so many spaces and the cycling world is not an exception.
This present moment in history seems like a good time to pause from our traditional focus on riding bikes and seeking adventure. Instead, whether you know it or not yet, a whole lot in the world changed this week, and it is going to affect bikes, non-bikes, people, the economy, geopolitics, and possibly even a colony of penguins on an uninhabited island near Antarctica.
Disclaimer: I am very much not an expert in most anything that I will write about below, save for being an expert in running exactly one bike company, called Rodeo Labs, that is trying to navigate the huge changes that are happening in the world. There may be many errors in what I write. If and when you find them, feel free to correct me in the comments and educate me and anyone else who cares to learn more. If anything, what I’m going to write is in fact myself attempting to think through what is happening, and how it will affect Rodeo Labs, our customers, and the cycling community.
There was fire in the air on the last day of July. The morning felt thick with haze from the three Front Range blazes as I rolled my bike outside. Colorado has been lucky the last few years, but there’s always the chance that fire season will mar my otherwise favorite time to live here. At least the air doesn’t smell like smoke yet, I thought as I swung a leg over and pushed off. The day would be long and the air thin enough where I was headed: from my home in Boulder all the way up to the 14,000+ foot perch of Mount Blue Sky.
The road above Echo Lake, June 2022; photo: Anton Krupicka
I’m not generally a fan of paving roads to the tops of mountains—the summit of Blue Sky (formerly known as Mt Evans) boasts the highest paved road in the US. But, cyclists (this one included) undoubtedly benefit from such paved infrastructure. Whether you’re riding a road, gravel, or mountain bike, mountain passes are often the closest you can get on two wheels to any actual summits. When a road like the one up Blue Sky does exist, it presents an almost irresistible challenge in the opportunity to ride to such a high point. There’s even an annual bike race on the notorious high-altitude tarmac to Blue Sky’s summit. The race starts from nearby Idaho Springs and the point-to-point course clocks a whopping 6,700 feet of elevation gain in only 27 miles.
My first time riding up Blue Sky; August 2020. Cruising the Peak to Peak Highway (left), learning the meaning of the word bonk (right).
Although I’ve never done the race, I’d tagged Blue Sky twice before, as mega from-the-doorstep rides. I’ve not quite managed to make it an annual tradition, but both previous rides have been rewarding experiences, days I remember those summers by. Plus, I knew that Blue Sky would be off the table for 2025 due to (much needed) repaving operations above Echo Lake, so I felt a little extra incentive to tick it off once more. Third time’s the charm, though, as I set out, I wasn’t quite sure what for in this case.
Not exactly an alpine start, I left home just before 7 a.m. I tried not to think about the day’s AQI as I rolled through the familiar warm-up miles, past Boulder’s red-bricked university district—nearly deserted in summer—to reach downtown, and then onto the crushed-gravel bike path at the mouth of Boulder Canyon. The canyon’s gentle opening gradient marked the start of the nearly continuous climbing that lay between me and Blue Sky’s far-off summit. Shortly after the bike path’s end, the warm-up also came to an abrupt close as I turned off onto Magnolia Road.
Of the many climbs that carve through the foothills to the west of town, Magnolia is the one I visit least. The name may sound sweet but it’s steep—not many have lung capacity to spare to do any flower-smelling here. Gaining 2,000 vertical feet in the initial four miles, Magnolia doesn’t beat around the bush, and you know pretty immediately if your legs are up for the task or waging early protest. Fortunately I rode through Magnolia’s rudest pitches without giving them much thought (a welcome indicator) and soon found myself at the false top-out, where pavement turns to dirt. See, after its initial burn, Magnolia continues to sting: a series of undulating rollers punctuate the dirt stretch. They’re just steep enough to remind you that the climbing isn’t over and to lament any precious elevation lost when you roll over their tops.
Cresting the top of the pavement on Magnolia Road, June 2022; photo: Aaron LaVanchy
Riding out the momentum of one such roller—and moving from open meadow to tree cover—I entered a sharp, ascending S-turn. Just as the road began to climb again, I saw a long and low silhouette moving up ahead. In the split second that it took my heart to jump into my throat, I realized it was a mountain lion. My foot went down as I stopped to watch. The mountain lion was, perhaps, thirty feet from where I stood. In the nearly eight years that I have lived in Colorado, this was the first time I’d seen one. To call it a “cat”—as people do colloquially—is to undersell its presence. This creature was a lion and embodied all the predatory potential that name implies.
I was sure that the animal knew I was there, though (mercifully) it never turned its head in my direction. I considered fumbling for my phone, but then thought better of missing the moment. For just a few seconds, I was graced with the vision of its nonchalant swagger as it padded across the road before ducking under a guardrail and disappearing into the trees, just like that. I could hear a vehicle approaching and I waited until an F-150 barrelled by obliviously, hoping that its mechanical roar would nix any second thoughts that the lion might have been having about coming back to check me out. Once the truck was gone, I pedaled on.
For the next few miles, I buzzed with adrenaline from the encounter. The speed of bike travel seems to lend itself to witnessing this kind of trivial beauty, moments of life just happening. Sometimes these moments are what stick with me most: a black bear bobbing in the waters of the South Platte River; the music of a back-yard wedding party; the daybreak smell of someone’s breakfast drifting out an open window; the way that dusk falls in the desert, cool and velvet. By bike, you can cover a lot of ground efficiently, while still moving at a pace that lets you really see. It takes you out of yourself, while also offering complete immersion.
Central City, almost to Idaho Springs; July 2024
I was thoroughly enjoying the day when, with 40 miles and 6300’ in the legs, I reached the old mining town of Idaho Springs in time for an early lunch at the combo Subway and Starbucks. I’ve ridden to Idaho Springs plenty, including twice during the North South Colorado bikepacking race, and once with my partner in March during a frosty credit-card overnighter to the wholly underwhelming Indian Hot Springs Resort (where the basement tubs made me feel like I was walking into the plot of a horror movie). Despite this familiarity, I find the town pretty depressing with its visible vestiges of bygone mining operations, the commercial clustering along the I-70 corridor, and the tourist trappings that line the old downtown drag. It feels like the past carved out Idaho Springs and the town has never found anything new to fill the void. No matter, I wouldn’t be stopping long enough for my mood to be brought down.
A six-inch sandwich, bag of chips, slice of pound cake and an iced coffee later and I felt heroic. Leaving town, I decided on a whim to point my wheels towards the dirt climb up Little Bear Creek Rd, instead of the more direct and paved climb up State Hwy 103. I’ve ridden both in the past and, although Little Bear would add an extra four miles and ~600’ of climbing, I was craving the quiet of its forested turns. I didn’t question the feeling.
Starting up the climb, I watched the breeze flutter a front-yard flag in the favorable direction: tailwind. I took that as a good sign and proceeded to crank up the climb with renewed appreciation. It was on Little Bear that I realized how badly I’d needed this ride. With the recent shake-up in the Democratic presidential ticket, and the election looming, the news had become almost unbearably frenzied.
On top of that, my work situation also seemed uncertain at best. As a freelance writer in the cycling industry, the line between work and life had been feeling increasingly muddled for the past couple years. Events and trips seemed to always have a work tie-in, and I was starting to realize that the work side was becoming a crutch, sometimes allowing me to avoid the question of what I might have otherwise been motivated to do if I simply “clocked out” and could choose anything. Add in the post-pandemic gut punch to the cycling industry, and the fact that I was barely making a living wage, and I was beginning to question what I was actually gaining versus giving up by taking the freelance route. Blah blah blah I was tired of hearing myself think about it all. Days like these were a reminder that time can’t always be money; sometimes it’s just time that you need to spend freely. Tacking on the “extra” climb up Little Bear felt liberating because it was entirely elective. I didn’t need to ride it to reach the summit of Blue Sky, I just wanted to.
A chilly day on Little Bear Creek Road, March 2022; photo: Anton Krupicka
Memories of past rides flashed through my mind as I climbed under the eyes of the aspens; riding Little Bear felt like hearing a favorite story retold. At the top, I rejoined the pavement, a brief highway in the sky that wheels between 10,000 and 11,000’ past one of the smallest still-operating ski hills in the state. Ahead, I caught a fresh glimpse of the day’s objective: Blue Sky was living up to its name under an azure banner. A band of motorcycles throttled past me on the brief downhill from Juniper Pass; the chance to coast for even a precious few minutes made the extra climbing effort feel worthwhile.
The Echo Lake turnoff marks the last chapter in the Blue Sky climb: 14.5 miles and 3,550’ remain to reach the top. Here, my mind shifted from the dreamy daze of feeling present in the day to the firmer focus I knew would be required not to crack on this last leg. I queued up some hard-hitting music and put my head down. Here, it’s easy to succumb to the tedium of mile-counting as this last part can feel interminable even as, or especially because, the end is close enough to imagine.
Above treeline, July 2024
As the road climbed above treeline, the haze-thickened air below became more apparent. All day, I’d been getting text updates about the fires’ containment and evacuation orders for parts of the Front Range. It seemed that another fire had started in the hills southwest of Boulder since I’d left. That made four fires in 48 hours. The thought crossed my mind that, depending on how the afternoon’s wind played out, my return route home might be blocked off by teams fighting this new blaze.
Cars passed as I slowly traced the final stack of seven switchbacks up to the summit. The cars were annoying me, for no better reason than they were there, distracting, taking me out of the present effort. Crank up the music, turn the pedals, don’t think about the top, breathe. Down to my right, I saw a family of mountain goats lounging on the tundra hillside, their ragged white coats acting as camouflage among sun-whitened rock. The mountain goats you see in Colorado are not native to the state; they were introduced in the 1940s to entice big game hunters, but they look like they belong.
Mountain goats on the way up Blue Sky; July 2024
Unsurprisingly, I found plenty of people on the summit, though I was the only one I could see who’d arrived by bike. Groups of two’s and three’s milled about in flip flops, lining up to take selfies in front of the summit sign. I waited my turn, positioned my bike, then dutifully took a photo of my bike in front of the sign. Alone amidst the other visitors, I didn’t feel like taking a selfie. The fires, which I’d largely been riding away from all day, were bumming me out. Looking north, I could see the way I’d ridden up and, further, the foothills that guard the Continental Divide’s eastern flank. The hanging haze of smoke made the mid-afternoon light seem especially harsh.
Regardless, I took a few moments to enjoy the summit. Only 75 miles from home, I’d gained a total of almost 14k’ in elevation to arrive. I was glad to have made it, but as I looked out at the smog-filtered air, mixed with my feeling of personal satisfaction was the sinking realization of the power of the forces beyond me. Riding a bike is an infinitesimally small act in the face of climate change, and that wasn’t the point of my ride anyway. My vote in the upcoming election felt only marginally more impactful. Wanting to see the first woman elected president in the United States and believing that can happen, in this moment, are not the same thing.
Blue Sky summit; July 2024
The afternoon was getting late and, despite the huge net downhill, there were (unbelievably) still plenty of hills separating me from home. Donning jacket and gloves, I kicked off. As I left the summit, I saw in one corner of the parking lot, a female mountain goat and her kid staring dumbly into the eyes of passersby, like beggars on a street corner. The sight brought a heaviness to my chest and I wanted to shoo them away.
The cold rush of the descent made quick work of drying the tears that had inexplicably clouded my vision. The dueling feelings of gratitude and longing, trying and fatigue washed over me. Sometimes you have to push against something as immovable as a mountain to feel the weight of life so completely.
Starting the descent, July 2024
Repassing Echo Lake, I felt more at ease and began to enjoy the rewards of the descent back to Idaho Springs. Picnickers lined the banks and the day seemed promising again. Dropping the 27 miles from the summit to town in an effortless hour suddenly made the return home feel more manageable.
A quick gas station stop—ice cream sandwich, barbeque Fritos—plug in a podcast and keep rolling. I told myself that the two major climbs remaining to return the way I’d come were relatively easy, in the totality of the day: 2000’ back up the gravel switchbacks of Oh My God Rd to Central City, and then the steady 1500’ pavement grind of the Peak to Peak highway back to Magnolia. The ride would, eventually, be “all downhill from here,” but not yet.
Oh My God Road, the second time; July 2024
I wanted to regain the quiet, gravel rollers of Magnolia before dark fell. I almost did, but watching the sun dip like a sinking comet below the Divide from the high point of the Peak to Peak was worth getting benighted prematurely. Darkness in the trees on Magnolia and the slosh of gravel under tires. I hoped the lion was done prowling for the day. Breezing through an open meadow, I could see the sprinkle of lights from Boulder and, closer, the dim glow of the teams working on the latest fire just south of me.
“All downhill from here” finally came once I crested onto the paved portion of Magnolia, the beam of my headlight guiding me through the steep corners. The air was warm and the miles swift as the canyon deposited me back into downtown. Chocolate milk to go from the corner bodega; a burrito was waiting at home.
I didn’t want the day to be over as I cruised back through town. It was the best day on the bike I’d had in recent memory and my legs still had the rare readiness of wanting to ride forever. But I didn’t have anywhere else to go and dinner, a shower and bed were sounding pretty good, too. In the driveway, I took off my helmet, clicked off my lights and shouldered my bike to take inside. My lungs felt tired, but my mind was quiet, content. I was back where I started, but I felt renewed, more full for having emptied myself, ready again to try in all the ways that life demands.
Sponsorship in cycling is a moving target. In all aspects of the sport, sponsorship is a crucial marketing tool, but it is often economically inefficient. What’s more, those two outcomes are difficult to track, adding to the complexity of the topic.
While the importance of sponsorship is integral to a wide range of elements of the cycling business, it is so difficult to discuss because everyone has their perspectives and interests shaping how they interact with it. Even journalists cannot be entirely unbiased as relationships and support are unavoidable. Conflict of interest, to some degree, is unavoidable.
Yet, here at Rodeo Adventure Labs, we are unphased. Sponsorship is a constant topic of conversation here, so we felt we needed to bring that conversion out into the open. To do that and to avoid one that was restricted to the Rodeo perspective, we called up Hailey Moore from The Radavist to add to our collective understanding of sponsorship in terms of marketing, storytelling, and athletics.
Darkness surrounds me. There’s a smell of moisture in the air, and the only noise I hear is the sound of my bike moving slowly up a gravel road toward the edge of the world. I am riding toward the end of an island—Tierra del Fuego—a place touched by few and known by even fewer. And I am inspired. On the horizon, I see traces of the sun rising. The sun brings hope for a new day, a race finished, and a decision made.
At 5:00 AM, the harsh buzz of my phone alarm shakes me awake. The temptation to hit snooze is real, especially knowing the comfort of 15 more minutes in bed. But I remind myself of the reward: another episode of The Sopranos, my new trainer session companion. I shimmy into my bibs and socks, letting the compression stir some circulation. My spare bike is already set up on the trainer, making it easy to slide on my shoes, swing a leg over, and press play. Last winter, I binged Six Feet Under, diving into its poignant storytelling of a family funeral home swirling in chaos. The characters were so maddeningly flawed that they became magnetic, drawing me into their world episode after episode. This winter, The Sopranos has muscled its way onto my training regimen, using classic Mafia tactics—charm and intimidation. Widely acclaimed as one of the greatest shows ever made, it was simply a show I couldn’t refuse. Tony’s relentless pursuit of control in a chaotic world feels familiar. Each episode is a reminder that life is often a balancing act between ambition and the forces that threaten to unravel it.
Hi there. This is Stephen here with an intro to this piece. Back in Covid times, 2021, the bike space was as crazy as it will ever be. Some of the business was good, and a lot of it was, honestly, bad. One thing that cannot be argued, the stress and anxiety of it all left everything a blur. I can’t remember a lot of what happened in those 2-3 years. This story, I had forgotten about this one mostly. I remember there was this guy, Adrian, and he ordered a bike. I was running operations and didn’t talk to most customers at that point, Isaac was customer service and sales, so he did. Despite the chaos during his time at working here, Isaac did a great job taking care of people, and he built out a great bike spec for Adrian. Adrian had ordered this bike, and then because of the trickle down effects of Covid, it turned out that his funds for buying the bike had to be funneled on just staying afloat during that difficult era. So, Adrian got in touch to cancel the order. Once a build is underway, we do charge a restocking fee to cancel it, because we have to order all those parts on a per-bike basis. In Adrian’s case, it seemed like a good idea to waive that fee. But then Isaac said “what if we just give him the bike?”. I really don’t remember much from that moment, but in that moment I think it was strangely obvious to us that the right thing to do was to just give him the bike for free. So we did. Adrian was so awesome and grateful. He never hinted at getting the bike for free, and wasn’t trying to guilt us into giving him a bike. I think all of us, Adrian, Isaac, and myself were all equally surprised this whole thing was happening. We finished the build, we boxed it up, we shipped it, and then, more or less, the bike disappeared.
This week, we are back in the Lab to consider the new SRAM RED XPLR AXS (so many capital letters!) and its use of the UDH (moar capital letters! moar!). While we jest at the branding, the tech is serious business. The new 1×13 groupset leans into the SRAM Transmission style rear derailleur and brings it to drop bar bikes, with the UDH hanger instead of the previous convention of specific hangers for specific frames. This change is a big deal for Rodeo because the design is at odds with the pre-existing design of the Trail Donkey as the frame is not UDH compatible.
We delve into some of the specifics, but the majority of the conversation is about how these big standard shifts in the bike industry affect small-frame brands. Along the way, we also find a few tangents to discuss some of the nuances of groupsets in this day and age of cycling. In this conversation, Stephen and Logan talk shop at first, before the Intern passes the baton to Drew van Kampen and Cameron “Coco” Lindberg to get into the weeds. Then, it’s back to Stephen and Logan to bring it all around.
Host: Logan Jones-Wilkins
Guests: Stephen Fitzgerald, Drew van Kampen, and Cameron “Coco” Lindberg
When I was 15 I had my heart broken. My first love had dumped me and the world was ending. What had I done wrong? My mind raced with possibilities and answers to sad lines of questions. Surely there was a simple way to fix the problem. I moped around the house, listening to laughably angsty Dashboard Confessional songs (“My heart is yours to fill or burst to break or bury, or wear as jewelry, whichever you prefer”), going on long runs by myself, blackout drinking with friends, self-mutilation, and being generally morose. My mom would roll her eyes and give her 10,000 ft view: there will be more girlfriends.
I didn’t believe her at the time, and looking back my behavior seems so silly and overdramatic. Of course, there would be other girlfriends. Of course, that heartbreak wouldn’t last forever. Of course, there would be more heartbreaks. But at the time, it was so painful and real. I couldn’t imagine loving anything or anyone else, simply because I hadn’t experienced anything else.
Back then, the only thing to heal my broken heart was to fall for someone else. A new love interest would occupy my attention span and eventually, I forgot about the pain of a broken heart.
I actually had no idea what it was to love as a teen. Truly, I couldn’t understand how much hard work goes into loving someone or something. The challenge is waking up every day, resetting, and rededicating with your whole heart. In the lull of the mundane, it’s easy to go through the motions of emotion, thinking about my to-do list or daydreaming of other things.
Bike racing is a labor of love and with anything that you love, there has to be heartbreak. My friend Hannah wisely said, “The bigger the dream, the bigger the heartbreaks along the way.” I have sacrificed so much of my money, time, energy, and relationships. In exchange, I’ve received a lot of scars, new friends, and some really precious memories. Similar to romantic relationships, I’ve broken up with bike racing before.
I moved to Northwest Arkansas in 2016 to take road riding more seriously. For the last couple of years, I had been living in Kansas City and worked my way from Cat 5 to Cat 3 in quick succession. I loved road and criterium racing—the speed, the strategy, and the timing. The delicate dance had to be just to end up at the top. In Arkansas, I put in hard work and went to the right races, upgrading to a Cat 2 after the season. I raced a handful of Cat 1/2 criteriums and realized how much more work and money the next step was going to take. I would need to rededicate myself to training but also travel a lot more for races to get my Cat 1 upgrade. And then what? Disenchanted, I stopped racing altogether.
When I describe my passion for long-distance racing, people have asked me, “Why?” and that’s a funny question when you’re in love—it’s a little indescribable. At times, it can feel like the easiest thing in the world and then it can also feel like the most punishing. I can list a hundred different ways that bike racing is fulfilling for me, but it won’t quite capture my love of the sport. I know that when it’s good, it’s really, really good. The Process is a long one, day in and day out. Hours of riding, hours of bike maintenance, hours of body maintenance, the right food, experimenting with bike setups and fuel strategy. When it all comes together, it’s not just a celebration of one moment or event, but of The Process.
Hours of riding in Arkansas and I found the world’s sketchies ferris wheel
Humans may share up to 55% of their DNA with a Tyrannosaurus rex
People’s reaction to Lachlan winning Unbound 200 has been so wholesome. Finally, a champion that everyone can celebrate. Why is this feeling so universal? Lachlan’s story has been in cycling media everywhere. He tried his hand at World Tour racing and was burnt out by the grind. Shifting his focus, he raced in the emerging American gravel scene and Team EF believed in him enough to support him. Lachlan comes off as humble and personable while still achieving superhuman feats, like unofficially blasting through the Tour Divide record. Lachlan is the everyman, and we see our own reflections. “That would be my story.” Bike racing takes its pound of flesh in any way it can, so when we see someone pay their dues year after year and finally take the top step, it’s like we all won. In my own successes, I feel that energy from the people cheering from my corner.
My favorite hero to rescue me, my girlfriend Heather
I have had success this year, despite the tone of this post–a win at Ozark Highlands Classic and at the Rule of Three 200
Peter and Rodeo Bro Logan came to visit Arkansas for the Rule of Three
My crash at Unbound happened in the blink of an eye. One moment I was on top of the world, feeling like I was finally proving myself in one of the toughest bike races. I remember we crested over the top of Dawson’s Hill, picked up speed and the road turned into a gnarly, ledgy rut. My body tensed up when I saw I was on a really bad line. My front tire was a bit low on pressure and I smashed into the edge of a jutted rock and instantly deflated. The momentum catapulted me from the bike going from 22 mph to zero. I lay on my back for a second stunned at the sudden turn of events. In a combination of agony and frustration, I let out a wild scream before remembering I was a danger to the folks behind me. I quickly scrambled to my feet to drag my bike out of the way and assess any damage. Nothing on the bike was broken, just the levers turned inward. Frantic, I grabbed my CO2 to start on my front tire when my helmet slid down over my eyes, no longer holding to my head. When I took it off, I knew my race was over. Underneath the huge dent on the back, the styrofoam had cracked in multiple spots. For a moment, I considered the option of charging forward but knew the serious repercussions of concussions. Some concussions won’t show the worst symptoms for a few hours. As a high school cycling coach and advocate for rider safety, I understood the gravity of head injuries and the importance of prioritizing health over ambition. Ignoring my own advice and charging forward would be reckless and stupid. Dazed and dejected, I rolled my Donkey backward on the course to a spot with cell service to call my girlfriend Heather for a pickup.
The verdant green Flint Hills were putting on an apology show. Dusk sunlight streamed through clusters of clouds, highlighting the deep valleys and luscious hilltops. As much mettle and grit as one thinks they have, this land stays stoic and unwavering in its slopes. My existence is a blink of an eye with the tens of thousands of years of Dawson’s Hill and my inexperience is apparent. The hill does not care about this stupid race, but I feel some consolation while I saunter back to the gravel road, the vast rolling landscape reminding me of the stunning beauty of Kansas. In 2024, I am not the first Kansan to win Unbound XL, but I will be back next year. The first conversation with Heather is all business. When she calls back 5 minutes later, her voice is cracking with emotional strain. She knows just how bad I wanted this title because she believed I had it in me. I have sacrificed a lot of time, energy, and money for this goal, but so has she. Even in this moment, we are sharing the heartbreak of a lost dream. I am thankful for the ability to still walk, I am thankful for a partner who is willing to drive an hour to the middle of nowhere to rescue me.
I remember some spectators on a corner and walking another mile to a gray Dodge Caravan sitting with the back hatch stretching open like a cheetah’s jaw. Their eyes look surprised to see me and they ask a couple of times if I’m okay. I am, I think. While I sit there on the back bumper, I go through sharp emotional whiplash and feel like I’m in a fog. The two locals hand me a blanket that ends up smearing with my blood and I feel guilty. They just wanted to enjoy the race, not have to keep an eye on a grown man with a head injury.
After two hours, Heather and I are at the local emergency room and I’m being pampered by late-shift nurses with not a whole lot else happening on their watch. After CT scans and multiple X-rays, I got the all-clear and we left the hospital at 1:30 in the morning to swing through a greasy drive-through. This is a fitting meal when you’re mentally beating yourself up, thinking through all the different possibilities and choices that could have been. The next morning, as we are leaving, we make our way to downtown Emporia just in time for the finish of the XL, a sprint between the German that I met in Spain and last year’s winner, Logan Kasper. 353 miles and it all came down to a few dozen yards. Afterwards, we sneak out of town to head back to my parent’s house, a place that feels familiar and comforting while my entire right side feels like it’s been sledgehammered by John Henry and the cloud of a concussion follows me around. In moments of intense emotion: am I grieving for the race or is this a symptom? In moments of exhaustion: am I tired from the race and subsequent night or is this a symptom? Lines blur and skew and I feel unfocused, but maybe depressed.
The nurses gave me a pretty serious looking neckbrace for an hour
Two ruined skinsuits in one season 👎
A week later, Heather and I made the long drive westward to Oregon spanning over two days. Springdale, Arkansas to Laramie, Wyoming. Laramie to Denio Junction, Nevada. Denio Junction to Klamath Falls, Oregon. 29 hours of driving packed into two and a half days. In the first couple of days of landing, I have a couple of rides and I feel stiff and slow and start to worry the FKT may not go according to plan. I am still nursing twisted knots and green and blue bruises from my wreck in Kansas only 9 days previous. I’m telling myself that I am ready for this FKT attempt and I think I want to believe it so badly because I need redemption from Unbound. If I can smash this record wide open, I am reassured that I have the fitness for Unbound greatness. I’ve made a Google Sheet timetable with a 15 mph average to a bold 18 mph average.
A whole day of laying around and fiddling with my setup and I am set to take off on my quest at midnight. The setup feels dialed. The bike hasn’t felt this smooth since the first ride. Standing outside the building of our Airbnb, the air is a crisp 46 degrees. Cool, but not cold. In the first ten miles, I am warming up and I feel like the FKT doesn’t stand a chance. Over the first hour, though, the temperature drops below 30 degrees, bottoming out at 23 degrees. I had gone over 100 scenarios except for a major temperature drop and was only clothed in my skinsuit and long-fingered gloves. For five hours straight, my body shivered and shook with violent tremors to keep itself warm. Out of the first section, the OC&E rail to trail, I wondered if you can die from hypothermia while still being active. The effort in the dark is a delicate balancing act. I want to go hard enough that I can generate heat, but going too fast means more windchill. I pray for climbs, knowing there isn’t much. Every so often I am in so much physical pain that I just need to stop and catch my breath. Even though the sun is finally over the horizon, I’m ready to bail at mile 110, already feeling like I have ridden 300 miles. My body and mind feel absolutely wrecked. My brain has this fogginess that is an exact replica of how my concussion felt and I worry I’ve agitated a sleeping monster. I continue on, even pulling par with the current FKT’s average speed. As I slog through the infamous silty, red dirt of the Deschutes National Forest roads, I know I’m going to call it. Out of the 363-mile route, there are still 190 miles to go and I am shattered.
Maybe this sounds conceited, but I’m not here for completion. I don’t do efforts like this to check them off a list, collecting routes like Boy Scout badges. I know I’m perfectly capable of finishing the Oregon Outback, but I want the title of Fastest Known Time. Too far off course from that goal and I’m digging a hole and I’ll need serious recovery. To bail now means I can salvage some of my aches and pains and mostly deal with the emotional vacancy of failure. Heather rescues me again from the roadside and we drive down parts of the course towards our preplanned camp spot at the Deschutes River State Park campground. Out of Shaniko, Oregon is a 15-mile stretch of a new chip and seal on a two-lane highway. Piles of tiny gravel undulate perpendicular to the road and the big truck traffic is intense. I imagine myself crawling along the hot highway for an hour being pelted by the flecks of rock that get kicked up under the 65 mph dually tires and part of me is relieved to not finish the Oregon Outback. But, a couple of hours later I’m already scheming to return. I can’t let this business go unfinished.
29 hours of driving over the course of two and a half days, but random dispersed camping spots like this one in Wyoming are just the best
Night two of our epic drive we landed at this natural hot spring in Nevada. Divine!
In bike racing, I have been spurned by many lovers. Cat 4, my first Tulsa Tough, crashed out all three days and ended up on the front page of the Tulsa World newspaper looking like the Invisible Man with all my bandages. Cat 3, Tour of Gila, a junior slid out of a corner while CLIMBING. I had to pull off my own mangled pinky nail in the aid tent after the finish line. It was disgusting. Mid South 24, Velcroed my front tire to a rut at 23 mph, gaining a lovely leopard print of scars running from my right shoulder to my butt. My elbows and knees are layers of scars, like the folding geological formations found on mountainsides. By now, bike racing scars have overtaken my alcohol-induced scars by a long shot. Some racing scars are like those hazy bender scars and I can’t remember where they came from, but I can look at my ugly pinky nail and think “Damn. That kid is riding for Israel Premier Tech now.”
Those scars are markers of love lost, and races interrupted. They also signal to take a few steps back. Days of recovery, shrinking confidence, and the replacement of parts or worse a whole bike. All these steps back to take a bigger look at what is safe, strong, and worthwhile. Walking back from my crash on Dawson’s Hill, I imagine my life filled with a different hobby. Maybe piloting a side-by-side ATV through this rugged terrain, still enjoying this remote landscape, just from the comfort of a roll cage and a gas-powered vehicle. Or perhaps I’m an amateur geologist, picking up random gravel and proposing an approximate chemical makeup. I know that green is more copper-rich, and red is more iron. I’m basically halfway to my new life.
The Buddhists say that all suffering comes from our attachments and our desires. I try not to assign superstitious patterns out of chaos, but this season has been challenging. Last November, I set the 350-mile distance as my main target. The pinnacle of my season would come in early June at the Unbound XL. I would have some good prep running up to the event though: Traka 560km, Rule of Three 200, Unbound XL, and then cap off the 6-week run with a stab at the Oregon Outback FKT. My heart felt so full with this new direction—refocused training, some new events, and a personal touch at Unbound XL. I wanted to be the first Kansan to win the distance. Truth is, I haven’t had a good run at my new target distance. Traka was canceled, Rule of Three was around 13 hours, and I crashed at Unbound XL, and bombed at the Oregon Outback FKT. I put my desire into making this my focus and the reward is a broken helmet, scars, and DNFs. In my center of the universe, everything is conspiring against a clean run. But, you have to have the desire to race at this level, to be this competitive. You have to want it and persistence is the highest form of worship.
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