Century of Gravel

I rode my first "Century of Gravel" last Saturday at the Almanzo 100 in Spring Valley, MN. For those of you that see me on a day-to-day basis you have already been bored to death hearing tales of my journey. My husband has playfully bantered, "This one time at the Almanzo..." Well, for those that haven't heard I rode 113 miles last weekend with a total time spent in the saddle of 9 hours 18 min. That's unbelievable for two reasons. First, the longest ride I've ever done has been around 60 miles, after which I was sure my pelvis was going to fall into two halves. Second, I didn't send my postcard in to the Almanzo so technically I wasn't on the roster. Last year I had made up my mind to ride the great Minnesota gravel adventure this Spring, but somewhere between the snow storms that lasted until late April I missed the memo. But I didn't stop thinking about Almanzo. A group of friends and acquaintances had made the roster which reminded me of my postcard shortcoming. About a month ago I text messaged my adventuring gal pal, "Hey would you ever want to poach the Almanzo 100? Ponder that, we'll talk soon." She immediately replied, "That sounds awesome." So much for pondering. And so began our quest to make a plan to poach a free gravel ride. Hours were spent scouring the Almanzo blog and looking for the best Strava file to creep a map and torture myself with elevation grids. A girl needs to be prepared, right? 

Then, the ol' Lutheran-guilt struck me. The man behind Almanzo, this Chris Skogen guy, had put his heart and soul into this event, he is the definition of the grassroots cycling movement, this was his baby and all he asked was for people to send a stinking postcard by a deadline so he could account for the riders. But it's a free ride, so it doesn't matter right? And there will be over a thousand riders, so who would even notice two extras? But what if they do? And we are blacklisted from gravel events? It felt disrespectful. Time to muster some courage and ask the man in charge for permission to pirate his event. Dig deep, dig deep... yes, courage came from a "fake-book" account. My alias fearlessly sent a social networking message to The Great Almanzo inquiring whether he had an opinion on riders that may show up without RSVP, but of course would take sole responsibility for themselves. Then I waited, half expecting a disgusted reply from a man that was exhausted after months of preparing to host fourteen hundred cyclists. The reply came within 12 hours: "The roads are not ours to govern." That my friends is the true spirit of gravel adventure! We were IN! 

Race day, 5:00 a.m., time to pack up and carpool nearly three hours to Spring Valley, which is South of Rochester. My stomach was flopping all over in the back of the Cherokee. Even a free gravel ride gets my "pre-race" nerves jazzed up. The thought of eating breakfast brought a lump to my throat as I watched our driver down a gas station breakfast burrito and hash brown wedge. The freeways and truck stops were teeming with cyclists. Gulp. Um, this feels pretty real. Have I actually convinced myself that I can do this?

9:00 a.m. The great send off by Chris Skogen himself. We roll out as a group from Main Street of Spring Valley. The next 12 miles were so crowded and slow that it was maddening and I felt like we would never break up. Wheel to wheel we ate the mud flying off tires, narrowly escaped potholes and averted the numerous water bottles that fell from cages jarred by the craters. 

The first great climb is where the pack spread out. Mile 13 or so. A winding ascent through carved glacial cliffs that compared to nothing I had trained on near home. I always give myself a lot of credit for living in a valley and riding so many hills, but this was incredible in comparison. I walked the second half of this hill along side most other riders that had decided it was too early and too hot to burn up your reserves at mile 13. The pastoral view from the top couldn't be adequately captured in a photo. Rolling, lush, panoramic, exposed and without shade. The sun beat down on the blanched white gravel.

The Arcadian landscape stretched on for miles. Near mile 20 the course began its first of many descents. I have to admit that I love to rip down a gravel road to challenge my wheels to new speeds. My weight gripped the declivity and with merely coasting I approached 41 mph, tearing past fellow cyclists, praying my wheels would grip the corners safely, pushing the thought of road rash from my mind. At the bottom a man rode up along side of me, tipped his head and said, "Woah." and rode off. I chuckled out loud. I think the sturdier mountain bike frame is the cause of my downhill slalom speed. A while later a "clydesdale" of a fellow passed me on a downhill, offering jovially over this shoulder, "This is where the weight comes in handy!" And away he plummeted.

You meet a lot of really amazing people out there. Riders come from all walks. Each with their own objective. Some know they will drop out, some hope that they finish, others push their bodies to the physical limits of exertion to finish in sub-seven while others take their time and enjoy the scenery and company of others. The local residents embraced our visit with hospitality. Two young girls with big smiles stood at the end of their driveway with pitchers of ice water, filling the bottles of riders for free. A real treat, because the next water stop was 20 miles out yet and I was nearly empty already.

I met up with our bike family and joined the tail end of the pace line early in the ride. Having them to laugh with and just having an identity was what kept me sane. Just weeks prior I attempted a metric century ride in which everything that could possibly go wrong did and I rode the brunt of it alone without a single rider in view. Talk about a mental beat down! 

Around mile 30 we found ourselves hunkered down, legs on fire, crawling up an incline. We stopped talking and focused on the spinning. A truck with a film crew drove past us and recorded our suffering. Feigning a smile, I wondered how much mud was on my face. At last we reached the peak, as the relief washed over my body I saw a large group of cyclists stopped at a fork in the road, to the side of them sat the truck with the film crew and a Salsa Cycles representative. The film was rolling so I figured they were doing interviews or testimonials. Turns out we had been following The Pack instead of the cue sheets and we had made a navigational error to the tune of four miles. No one was quite sure how we got off course or when. There was a grumbling overall and then some pulled out their phones to attempt pulling a map up with the limited service available. We were thwarted to climb that beastly hill for nothing, but somehow found room for a laugh. We wondered if the Salsa Rep and film crew filmed us intentionally to capture our moment of confusion and frustration. That was the very last time we made a turn without consulting our cue sheets. 

We rode on and I drifted back from the pace line, eventually stopping for a snack at the peak of yet another grueling ascent. I met a group of young men that were merely attempting to survive until Preston where they had lodging. They were very concerned that they might not have enough beer for the day and needed to get to a store immediately. We had a fun laugh. I also had a sweat bee swarm up and sting my foot from inside my shoe on a climb. I finished the climb and couldn't dismount fast enough to pull my shoe off to see the little bugger fly out unscathed despite my slapping and punching attempts to end his life. Another group of young men rode up along side me shortly after and began badgering me about what I was carrying in my pack. "Food" I told them. This seemed a foreign concept to them. They were the crazy type that only had two bottles in their cages, and a jersey full of Gu. I eat pretty much constantly while I ride, I figure I earn it. Real food. Sandwiches, granola bars, cookies, Chef Boyardee. I could eat at the bottom of a hill and mid-climb my stomach will be growling, asking for more fuel. Chill out, Metabolism.

At Preston I was reunited with my crew. Sitting on the grass gave my bones a nice rest and the water pump filled our hydrapaks with water so cold it must have come straight from the creek. Almost half way at this point. I felt really good so far and was confident that I would survive. We rode out after a brief rest and the consumption of half a can of Chef Boyardee (the latter half which I wrapped a ziplock baggie around and placed back in the bottle cage under my frame bag.) We climbed for a bit and arrived at the first water crossing. The bridge was out for construction so we had no choice but to forge on, through the icy shin-deep water. I had the luxury of a gentleman on our crew, whom assisted me by carrying my bike across the creek for me. That was not expected but certainly appreciated. The banks were slippery otter slides from hundreds of cyclists climbing down and out of the water. Our shoes squeaked and sloshed as we clipped back in for more spinning up, up, up that valley.

Kristen post Chef Boyardee in Preston

Sorry, the bridge is out.

The 52nd mile was my first wall. I was hot, I was tired, and I was whooped from all those hills. The wind had picked up and seemed to fight you every inch. I felt heavy and slow. I began doubting my ability and wondering when I would have cell phone reception that I could use to get a ride back. Then I had the wonderful idea to eat some Gu Roctane. Bam! Four minutes later I was saddled up, alert, feeling fine and rolling at 19 mph. Amazing. Science. 

Beauty continued to roll across the landscape. The roads remained exposed and without a stitch of shade except for a rare and isolated oak tree every 8 miles or so, under which you would find 20 other cyclists sprawled out. The gravel was looser and fresh, inches deep and treacherous, difficult to maneuver even a fat tire on. Often you could only pick a line down the very edge on the grass but had to stand in the saddle to avoid jarring your pelvis on the gopher holes.

For a while I don't remember riding. The backdrop started to look the same as my mind shut down to allow my body the additional energy. This is where I found myself missing cues but strangely still on course. Thank the Lord I didn't get lost! The final stretch before the mile 70 rest stop was breathtaking, though, and woke my senses. The road flowed through pristine, historic farms, tulips popped from the roadside ditches and the sound of water babbled in my ears. I rode up to a small village of brick houses where cyclists were resting in the shade of the buildings and large oak trees, in the background was a small bridge open only to pedestrian traffic. Beyond that was a park with real bathrooms and picnic tables and a water pump. Hallelujah! It was an oasis. I wolfed down the last of my can of Chef and a few Gu Chomps, trying to alleviate my electrolyte displacement.

Before departing I went to the water pump to fill up. As I waited for my turn a man next to me pulled a photo out of his jersey. "This is my son, Alexander," he shared. It was a photo of an infant, he had bright eyes and a look of wide-eyed curiosity. "Chris named The Alexander after him." The Alexander was the 381 mile route that came to fruition this year, the newest relative to Almanzo. I commented on how adorable the baby was and how neat that the race was his namesake. The man soberly replied, "He died in January." The details that followed stung my heart. I felt a lump swell in my throat as I didn't know what to say. This poor father, his pain. I had noticed this man earlier as we ate. He had been sitting at a nearby table, keeping quietly to himself. A fellow cyclist walked by him and asked him if he was going to finish the ride this year, to which he commented he didn't know. As we stood holding back tears at the well I told him I was sorry he had lost his son. I deeply admired him for riding in memorial. "This is your year," I encouraged, "You're going to finish the ride for Alexander." I never saw this man again, but he drifted into my thoughts invariably as the miles rolled on. Hundreds of other cyclists that day, but this was the man I met. His story was eerily familiar to the death my family experienced in January. Fate is a strange thing. I'm not sure why God put me in that moment, but I'm certain He is trying to break my heart for a cause and that I was meant to be there in that moment with that man.

We climbed out of there for what seemed eternity on Maple Road. At the peak of one ascension a fellow rider clipped in but found her legs useless and toppled to the gravel still in the saddle. With a beautiful chain tattoo and gravel protruding from her knee, we rode on. 

Cherry Grove delighted our senses, a sleepy town with moss growing on the streets. There we found a grassy lawn where Twin Six treated us to cold beer at Eliza Jane's Stop-On-In. The crew requested Hamm's. Something about "faster, stronger, longer..." The Cyclova XC beverage of choice. This was our last stop, we knew we had about 23 miles left.

Two miles ahead we met a group of cyclists huddled up on the roadside. Not another wrong turn, my stomach lurched, remembering earlier that day. Here we met Chris "Almanzo" Skogen, founder and heart of the movement. He warned us of the water crossing ahead and gave us instructions for a reroute. "Don't go down there, it's a shit show," he cautioned us. Riders ahead of us had nearly been washed away in the raging waters. The torrential rain of yesterday had engorged the river. Chris reluctantly told us it would add three miles to our ride and advised, "First right, first right, right on pavement, left on Orion.- Repeat that to me..." Three more miles, you've got to be kidding me. But hey, I was already about 10 over from previous wrong turns, what were three more. And let me add, Chris Skogen, truly is the man of compassion and integrity that the press has portrayed. What a stand up guy. Standing at mile 80 protecting riders from impending doom and offering a boost to our spirits. We thanked him for his hospitality and rode on.

I fell back on the reroute and felt the dark cloud settling over my head. Mental beat down and physical stress that couldn't be described. My 90th mile, but still 20 to go. My body craved sleep. My pedal strokes slowed so much that I felt I might nod off on the bike. I imagined laying down in the grass on the roadside and closing my eyes. My saddle began to seer into my flesh and my body ached to be off the bike. The negativity swarmed and I fought to push it away. Again I had a wonderful notion to eat food. I unclipped but stayed over my bike for fear that I wouldn't get back on. I consumed 30 grams of protein in one fell swoop. It was savage. Minutes later I was gaining speed and momentum, cruising those rollers toward what would be the home stretch. 

The last great descent. Throwing all cares aside I plummeted  Thankfully I stayed upright. Near the bottom an older gentleman cruised up alongside me and jested, "Well that was fun, do you want to hear the bad news now?" I glanced over at him. "Now we climb back up. To the tune of Oriole Hill. You'll never forget it." I had known it was coming. "That's the last one, right?" "Nope, there's one after it. But after that you have about 6 miles of easy rollers to finish." 

Oriole Hill. My Mount Everest. Ten miles to the finish. Get after it. I rode a short ways up but found the pitch too challenging for my spent legs. I clawed my way up that hill on foot. Watching as a young man scampered along pushing two bikes, one for his elderly father that accompanied him. My mind flashed forward 15 years and I envisioned riding alongside my son, Charlie. Praying he loves bikes as much as his mama. Almost there. Keep moving forward at all costs. I could taste the finish.

Finally the path leveled out, or at least became a rolling grade. I knew I had less than 6 miles to go. I felt a surge of bolstered energy and renewed spirit. I dropped the hammer and found myself passing riders in a head wind, hitting 19-21 mph in open stretches. There it is, the light at the end of the tunnel.

I rode 113 miles total that day. A new record for me. Strangely after 70 miles, numbers didn't matter anymore. The notion that I would combust at 100 miles was disproved and I rode on feeling stronger and confident, full of persistence. I was happy to dismount, but still yearned to ride. It wasn't about the finish. It was about the journey. And all the self discovery that occurs along the way. Mind vs. Body. And let me tell you, it truly is mind over matter. Your body can withstand amazing feats, your mind just has to believe it. 

I woke numerous times that night to find my feet spinning circles in the bed. All that I could think about the next day was how badly I wanted to ride my bike. I was bitten. The fire was lit. Gravel Junkie. Proudly. Thank you, Almanzo for unveiling my inner strength and revealing my true sense of adventure. I will be back... and with a reservation next year! No more pirating for Betty Rose.