Gravel Shark's NYE Thoughts: The Woolly Bear Lied.

 

Many of you have inquired about the adventures of Gravel Shark since the red disappeared from our thermometers and the Midwest was walloped with a month of snow. While mourning the loss of gravel adventures, camping, night hikes and getting lazy in the river, I embrace the Nordic Tundra and click into my old classic xc skis. Sunday afternoon I found myself so caught up in a brisk ski at William O'Brien State Park that I missed the Packer NFC Championship game! Can you believe it?! I could hardly lift my arms to brush my hair the next day, but I enjoy that burn of worked muscles. I'm looking for my first ski race to compete in this winter- I've never done a winter event so this is a new venture. It's an attempt to keep my head in the game and forcefully find joy in winter. My Cyclova XC family has convinced me that winter can be enjoyed without pedals. Having the right apparel has improved my chances greatly; I purchased a fair amount of cold weather gear that left me feeling guilty of overindulgence initially, but I now give thanks for that splendid protection every time I brave the outdoors. For followers of the Farmer's Almanac, you might have heard about how woolly bears, the furry striped caterpillars, are believed to predict the vigor of the coming winter by the width of their black bands. I found completely brown woolly bears this fall and was falsely given hope for a mild winter. The woolly bear lied, folks. A cruel prank. At this point I'm only holding out a smidgen of hope that the snow will leave in late March so that I can get some mud on those two wheels in time to freshen up for some spring gravel rides. I've got Almanzo on the brain and my postcard RSVP will be in the mail tomorrow! (RSVP opens Jan. 1- if you haven't pedaled this gravel century yet, put it on your 2014 agenda. There is nothing comparable to the splendor of this route!)

I decided to wrap up my 2013 season with a glance back at some of the highlights of my adventures.

I'm not sure what I was doing last January except regretting the exorbitant amount of Christmas cookies I had consumed. I was probably telling myself that I would stop cookie binging in a month... and that spring would come early and I would be pedaling by late February as in years past. This wasn't to become reality. I continued to wine and dine, feast, and tell myself I wouldn't regret it. I stayed indoors as much as possible, after all, it was cold outside and I'm a snob when it comes to seasons. I did, however, achieve multiple high scores in card games played against my 91-year-old Grandma.

February was a special one. Keith and I had an exceptionally rare opportunity to share a patient on a medical flight to Philadelphia. The transport coincided with Valentine's Day, we were both paid to take the trip together, and after our patient was discharged from our care we took a stroll and got Philly cheese steak sandwiches and enjoyed a sunny and 52 degree day. (Eating was my theme.) Later that month we enjoyed the American Birkebeiner as spectators and decided completing a Birkie was in our future.

A day without action working the Birkie

My Sister Jen getting her Prince Haakon on.

 

Keith got skate skis and fell smitten to Nordic adventure. I forced myself to get the old classics down from the rafters and maybe get my butt moving... starting next week... haha. My gear had been in the garage rafters for several years- there was a wasp nest in the toe box of my boot! While Keith was falling in love with snow, I was praying for it to leave. But there were no signs of impending season change.

March beat me down. The snow kept coming and I was forced to hear avid skiers brag about how many consecutive months of winter they had skied this year already. Blerg. I forced myself to xc ski a few times and recall mild enthusiasm. I wanted to pedal so bad! I bought my youngest son his first big boy bike that month in hopes it would somehow hasten spring weather. He was super stoked for his first wheels!

*don't be fooled by the clean sidewalk, there was snow everywhere else.

April was a long month! In spite of being hit with numerous heavy snowfalls and chilly temps, I managed to climb out of depression long enough to force myself to go skiing. There was about 7 inches of fresh, heavy snow and plenty more coming down. The classic track was covered and drifted in places and within ten minutes of embarking I slipped and landed on the back of my ski. My coccyx was not happy. It took me about 30 minutes to limp back to my car. I threw my hands up in defeat at Mother Nature and decided I wasn't coming outside again until I could ride my bike. Keith and I managed to escape "South" for a weekend to visit friends in central Iowa- green grass, warm temps, great gravel.

Iowa before the corn was planted

My morale was boosted after that trip which was good because back home it was still winter. But the best part of April was getting our tandem ready to roll.

Frank and Keith, bike masterminds and brothers.

Late April was still white. In fact, the gravel century ride we host was cancelled on April 20th due to 18 inches of heavy snow. We spent that day in 4WD cruisin' the Mammoth Gravel Classic route in search of a great place to have dinner with friends around a campfire. Sunrise Ferry Landing was the spot! We polished the night off with a stop at the Wolf Creek Tavern for Bloody Mary's.

"Beyond Here is Nowhere"

I think I rode the trainer three times that month and I forced myself to ride pavement in sleet once out of desperation.

buffalo farm on my paved route

The last weekend of April was The Strada Fango Classic. Major sufferfest. My first visit to the "Pain Cave" on a bicycle.

I'll never forget this treat!

The weather El Norte continued to punish The Valley, and even the hearty Scandinavian folk were doubling up on antidepressants to counteract their Seasonal Affect Disorders. It snowed May 11th. Some of my friends had now been skiing for over 8 months. When the warm up finally came I was just itching to ride our new tandem. Keith and I did a spontaneous metric century; a lunch date to the river and home in time to catch the kids off the school bus. That's how we roll! Parents.

The first great day of Spring riding!

It would be my longest training ride prior to doing the Almanzo 100 (or 113, but who's counting?!) Riding the Almanzo later that week lit the fire inside me for more gravel! It was a religious experience. And you can all laugh when I say, "This one time at Almanzo," but I tell you, when you labor for that fruit you'll go a little loco and you'll understand the universe a little better. Magnificent. My husband has never ridden this event- which is seriously Earth-shattering that I have done some bike event he has not! You can expect to see the "V-Train" crushin' that white gravel in 2014 with Keith at the helm and K-10 stokin' the rear.

June brought a new decade for me and I was blessed with great company, adventures on the river, a bit too much hard cider and lots of MTB rides. The Cyclova XC women's fitness group was rekindled and activities flooded the calendar. The day after my birthday we rode The Westside Dirty Benjamin. A great time, in spite of all the rain, and the longest ride completed on our tandem- 107 miles. Later in the month we camped as a family at Cuyuna for four days with friends and their families. We practically lived communally; prepared food together and raised each other's kids while we took turns shreddin' the red. Gotta love that sniggle!

Jurassic Forests, iron-red soil, and fat tires!

By far, the best trip of the summer! The children had nothing but bikes, a beach, a Frisbee, and a driveway to run laps on. No one said they were bored- not ever! Boom! Epic Family Vacation.

This Cuyuna trip sort of kicked off our camping season- we camped or travelled for about five consecutive weekends into July with friends and family and to ride our bikes where ever we landed. July was consumed with camping, riding for fun, and some beach action. Another fun July bike adventure was collaborating with some local moms and meeting at our church parking lot to let our kids ride in a traffic-free area while we had coffee! Loved every second of it! The kids formed packs and began racing one another! In the following months, children continually heckled me for more bike rallies, and one even asked for a mountain bike rally... smart kids.

August will forever be in my heart because Charlie finally learned to ride his bike without training wheels on August 8th! I am tearing up as I write! I bought him a bike this past spring and progress was slow, if not absolutely discouraging, and I thought he'd never learn to ride! I googled how to teach your child to ride a bike. Seriously. And there was a video of a dad that took the pedals off the bike and made the child use it like a strider. It seems ridiculous to learn how to pedal by not using pedals, but by golly,  it worked. And fast. Within a week of the experiment he was riding. It happened suddenly. We were all standing around outside and Charlie says, "Hey watch this," and he hops on his smaller, older bike and rides across the yard in one attempt. Our jaws were on the ground. That night we went to Buck Hill and Charlie asked to bring his bike for the kids races. And he raced. It might have been my proudest parent moment with him...

Charlie riding Mighty Melon, coached by big brother Luke

Later in August though I managed to get some wicked heat exhaustion, after a ride in Big Rock Creek, that took the wind right out of my sails for over three weeks. It was ridiculous and I was starting to think I should plan my funeral. I went into September in bad shape and depression was lurking as I laid around unable to ride. I came back though and conquered the Cheq 40.

Post 40 euphoria

I'm definitely looking forward to that race in 2014. Hoping to stay healthy and strong. Keith and I finagled one last trip to Cuyuna the end of September. I had strength on the bike and could feel the improvement in my riding ability since I first visited Cuyuna in June.

After forming my parking lot posse of child cyclists last summer I wanted to have one last bike hurrah before winter. We hosted a bike rally for kids at our place in October that was a serious success! It was legit. We had about 22 riders- all under the age of 10. This will be reoccurring annually. We can't wait to host again!

 

Biker Gang

 

October also brought the rescheduled Mammoth Gravel Classic. We opted not to ride it and instead worked as unexpected support for the riders. It was a solid core workout just riding in the back seat on those winding roads. I was lifting gallon jugs of water, getting beer out of a cooler, and providing moving hand-ups from the back seat of a Jeep! We fed pop tarts and coke to our fellow teammate Duane and witnessed a dog chase Ben and Mark! Spectating is great. Haha.

November was limited to a few long rides on the weekends. A good friend likes to meet up early on Saturdays at Pine Point. We toughed out some chilly rides and saw the death of riding season as we rode into December.

December then became bleak, as I still miss my outdoor bike rides. I had a great day helping out at the Solstice Chase winter fat bike race... I think I could see myself on a fattie in the future, but I guess some diversity and cross training would be good for now. Skiing has to bridge the seasons. I've made some fitness and competition goals for my winter. I wish I could make the weather- I really hope spring comes soon. But cheers to the start of a true attempt at xc skiing! Time to find some competition! William O'Brien has a race coming up in January that is on my radar, maybe some of you will come race me or to shake a cowbell.

Happy New Year!

107 Tandemonius Miles

My beloved and I purchased a tandem MTB from our friends this past Spring and after tweaking it to our riding preferences we were ready to roll on that beautiful machine. The first test-ride, I must admit was a bit intense, as I have never ridden in the back seat with no control. I felt every little flex and movement of the frame and was certain my husband was steering us toward imminent death! After a few miles I got used to the way we rolled, I learned to look at the scenery to the sides (looking at Keith's back was boring, and looking down at the gravel as it spun underneath us made me dizzy!), and I began to trust that The Captain had it all under control... just keep stokin' those pedals, Kristen.

In June we were able to procure a spot in the West-Side Dirty Benjamin gravel century ride. Our friends Chief and Jones of the Supreme Dream Team, former owners of our tandem, would be there with their brand new 29er tandem MTB. It was game on. Our mission: beat them, and beat them with their former bike! Muhahaha! (This was an overly-optimistic goal; those two are banshees in the saddle. They have more medals hanging around their necks from enduro-races than any co-ed team in the Midwest.) And there is a fair amount of healthy smack-talk and banter that is exchanged regularly between the four of us. Tandemonium!

We rolled out with a group of about a hundred cyclists from a city park in Chaska, Minnesota. The weather was beautiful at the start, sunny and warm. The initial first miles traversed city streets and connected with a very sandy railroad corridor (which produced a handful of crashes, luckily not us.). We kept Chief and Jones in our sights at all times and hugged their wheel whenever possible. The group veered into a forested area with double-track, still soggy from the heavy rains in previous days. We rode alongside our cohorts and jabbed at one another. We decided to make our move and put the gas on. We didn't hold the lead for long, I think they were playing with us. The trail spit us back out on a highway for a mile-long winding climb before we finally reached gravel. We were starting to get in our groove and we were feeling good. But it was early yet and we knew there were many obstacles to come. We could still see our tandem competitors up ahead and we still had the hope of at least hanging with them for a while. Suddenly they veered out of the pack and made a U-turn. Puzzled, we watched as they headed the opposite direction? I wondered if they were playing a trick on us or maybe letting us take the lead so they could again smoke us in a mile or so. They came cruising up in a few minutes and I hollered over to Jones, "What in the world are you doing?!" Chief had dropped his inhaler and they had no choice but to retrieve it! Ah-ha! They did have a weakness...

The miles rolled on and we were still pretty tight as a group. Our tandem was boss and we were hollering at riders to move aside as we ripped down the descents and worked the momentum on our magnificent machine, dubbed the "V-Train." Around mile 15 we were still in close proximity to our tandem pals and I teased that I thought I saw an inhaler laying in the dirt a few miles back. This produced a chuckle; they weren't falling for it. Soon after the Supreme Dream Team started pulling away, proving our own inadequacy. By mile 20 they were gone from our sites and I would be lying if I said we ever saw them again! We had used a lot more energy than anticipated in the early race on the rollers and softer surfaces. But we were still in it.

The thing about a tandem is that it is difficult to re-position yourself in the saddle. The weight is imbalanced when you try to stand in the saddle and so it must be planned carefully and even when you manage to pull it off, it isn't as satisfying as when you ride solo and can stretch out a bit. My low back started to have pain that made the hair on my head start to stand on end. We dismounted for a brief stop and stretched out which helped substantially. We were back in the saddle five minutes later and rolling down some beautiful gravel with farm country on all sides of us. The sky was starting to darken and rain threatened but no precipitation had fallen yet.

Around mile 40 we saw "The Great Almanzo" handing out PBRs at a rest stop. We cruised right on by, not wanting to spare a minute, and taking advantage of building a gap between the riders that were on break. By mile 50 the pain was back. I had it in my head that we had a drop bag at mile 54 or 56 or something like that so we kept pushing on. Why stop now when we were so close to the rest stop where we would eat and get off the bike. Mile 57, mile 58, mile 60... no stop... were we on course? Did we miss the turn? I inspected the cue sheets again and discovered that our drop bag was at mile 67. My optimism was deflating rapidly. I was hungry and my pelvis felt like it was going to split in two. I also have a wonderful old injury in my great toe that flares up halfway through any race. It's an awful reminder of the time my temper flared and I kicked something so hard that I broke it. Though it is only a toe, it is now riddled with arthritis, and can bring me to the edge of grinding my teeth as the pedals go round and round. I hate remembering what a fool I was that night in my tantrum.

We reached the drop-bag at last and laid on the grass devouring our lunches while mosquitoes devoured us. It was good motivation to keep moving. The dark skies still loomed and it certainly felt like it would rain at any minute. But still nothing. We pedaled out of the stop through some fun single-track, connected to a short segment of gravel and turned onto a railroad corridor. Here is were we made up for some lost time! We were flying through that corridor! We were passing riders effortlessly; taking advantage of the flat, hard surface, and the power of four legs to stoke the machine! Six miles later we were back on some light gravel rollers, and soon after that we were on paved city streets that led to off-road trails. This area was heavily saturated from recent rain and we worked hard as we spun through greasy, thick mud that covered our wheels. Amazingly we rode it out, never having the dismount to push the bike. After we reached pavement, the front wheel tossed chunks of mud in the air that rained down on my helmet and the rear wheel flung mud at my back for the next quarter-mile. It was lovely.

At mile 84 my husband reached back for my hand and yelled, "I love you, Baby!" My heart swelled and I knew that on this glorious tandem bike I loved him even more! It is an indescribable feeling of satisfaction to share the burden of pressing up a gravel ascent with your husband, to overcome the obstacles together, and spend a whole day riding next to one another. We are a team. On numerous climbs I found myself patting his back and chiming, "We're almost there." How blessed we are to share a passion for enduro-cycling. The tandem taught me many things. I had to give up control, trust him, and just settle in and pedal. I had to push myself to share the work. I had the luxury of enjoying the countryside, in all it's grandeur; so much more real when seen from a bike. I also learned the neat little trick of leaning forward and tucking my head under The Captain's arm so I could peak at the computer and cue cards. Hehehe.

A few miles later the thunderheads began to churn and we realized rain was inevitable. We had stopped for a quick stretch in a farmer's yard, attempted to seal our cue cards into a plastic baggie,and decided to keep pushing toward the finish rather than wait out the storm. We were 20 miles from the finish when the gully-gusher dropped. It rained so hard my skin felt like it was being pelted by rocks. It rained so hard our cue cards lost their ink. It rained so hard I had to bury my face in my husbands back to protect my flesh. My iPod drowned. Our speed slowed to about 8 mph as we slogged through soft gravel that oozed from the torrential downpour. Surprisingly, though, my joints stopped aching after the cool wash down. Now that our cue sheets were destroyed we had no choice but to catch other riders and hope that we could follow them the duration of the course.

We joined a group of cyclists that we learned had connections to our friends and local clubs and we encouraged one another as we soldiered on. The rain stopped after about ten miles and the sun even shone for a bit. As a group, we finagled our way through the course by connecting portions of cue cards that survived the rain. At last we reached pavement and we knew that this was the last four-mile stint to the finish. Being on a hard surface was glorious and we cranked those pedals to our infinite delight. The last mile was a steep decline and we tore down it, praying there was still some food left at the finish line! We arrived at accolades of cowbells and fellow enthusiasts. Wet, tired, and covered in sand and mud. It felt so good to be off the bike!!! And there was still warm pulled-pork for sandwiches and cold beverages! We had traversed 107 miles in beautiful Carver County. Seven hours in the saddle and we enjoyed every bit spent together on that tandem! We didn't beat Chief and Jones that day, and we may never, but the ride strengthened and transformed us as a team, and when we left we couldn't wait to ride together again.

Fat Tire 40

I can't recall a time I experienced such angst over an event. Leading up to my first Chequamegon Fat Tire 40 I was fighting the biggest mental game of my life. A month before the event I made the mistake of riding without proper nutrition and hydration in 90 degree heat. This led to what I can only describe as a three week long bout of heat exhaustion, stomach flu and dehydration. I lost twelve pounds and could barely walk around my house, let alone ride my bike. I got back on the bike only ten days before the event and did some training rides in Big Rock Creek, which didn't instill confidence. I was cashed after five mile rides in the valley. I nearly called it quits several times prior to the race but decided I wanted my $100 t-shirt badly enough that I was going! And the guilt of having the coveted race entry that other riders had not gotten in the lottery compelled me to ride.

My Chequamegon story begins on Friday. I carb loaded on deep dish pizza from Dominoes on our three hour ride north to Hayward. My appetite that day was great! I couldn't put enough down the hatch to quell my metabolism. Our family stays at the Hayward KOA every year with our "Bike Family" from Penn Cycle and Cyclova XC. The KOA folks put on a spaghetti feed Friday night for the cyclists- which is basically everyone in the campground! I feasted again on a heaping pile of spaghetti, meatballs, and bread. A group of us carpooled up to Telemark in Cable, Wisconsin that evening to pick up our race packets. I stood inside the Trek Project One demo truck and drooled over the custom color frames- florescent, neon, frosted... black stanchions inside white suspension... Oh, how I coveted those beauties.

Trek Project One Display

Returning to camp around nine that night, I thought I could barely keep my eyes open and decided to call it a night and wake rested. Ha! As if I was going to sleep a wink that night! My race jitters were kicking in by midnight as I laid in bed trying to shut off my brain. I did sleep for a few solid hours in the wee morning hours between four and seven.

I woke up with a lump in my throat as I wrestled with my brain that wanted to convince me to quit before I started it. I was scared to DEATH that I was going to bonk and get sick again during the race and spend another month recovering. I tried to eat a banana but after one bite I was gagging so hard I started crying. I knew I had eaten enough the night before to carry me and decided to get dressed and start moving around to keep distracted. I was riding my Trek X-Caliber, with 29-1 EXP Bontrager tires. My pump gauge malfunctioned that morning so I had nothing but a "pinch test" to determine pressure. I figure I was running about 40-45 lbs. I kitted up in my Cyclova XC gear from Mt Borah which has a superbly smooth chamois that has held up for hundreds of miles in the saddle. It was 35 degrees that morning so I wore my Cyclova XC windbreaker for pre-race warm up- a perfect choice.

My friend Dennis forced me to suck down a Gu Roctane at 9 a.m. before we pedaled the 3 miles from our campground into Hayward for the start. It felt good to be moving and the ride in was enjoyable with funny stories and banter from the seven veterans I rode with. About halfway into Hayward I realized I had left my spare tube, tire levers, and multi-tool in our cabin. Well... maybe my subconscious was trying to give me an easy out if I flatted or had mechanical error. No going back now. I said a prayer. The temperature in Hayward was already warming and we tied our jackets up in a drop bag. This being my first year, I was in Gate 7- the very back. I had two other friends with me that were seasoned Cheq vets. As we inched our way to the front 1/3 of the gate, they offered advice and encouragement. The most valuable piece of information was to avoid crashing on the highway. People get all jazzed up on the pavement leading to Rosie's Field and every year cyclists end up in a tangled mess.

Five minutes to start. I could barely stand it. My buddy Pat and I exchanged a high-five. The National Anthem was sung and the roar of the crowd gave me goosebumps. The gun... we were rolling. I cautiously followed the masses and avoided wheels, leaving a bubble around me for safety. The noise on main street was deafening, people blowing horns, shaking cowbells, and screaming for the riders! As we rounded the corner to the highway I saw the guy changing a flat. You know, that guy that you see at every race changing a flat a half-mile after the start. Glad it wasn't me. Two miles into the race I saw the guy that crashed- the guy that undoubtedly got hung up on a wheel and face planted on the highway. The medical crew was calling in a helicopter for him as I passed. I said another prayer. My nerves were still running the show and I knew I had to pedal until I couldn't feel them anymore. Riders were ripping past me on the highway and I feared I would be left behind, but also feared I would burn up if I attempted to keep that pace. My game plan was to ride with caution and to finish.

We arrived at the first section of Birkie trail and riders were jammed up, fighting to climb the hill to Rosie's Field. I cautiously stayed to the far left and avoided getting boxed in. Handlebar to handlebar, wheel to wheel we clawed our way up. We spread out in the field and I was encouraged by familiar faces of spectators. Another rider was down and the pack split in two, like a school of fish, merging on the other side. From here we began the rolling up and down of the Birkie hills. I tried to work the downward momentum to carry myself up the proceeding ascents but we were still too tight to ride free, I had to get over to the side and ride thicker, grassy sections to pass slower riders. At mile 4 I felt my stomach cramp up and the pain caused me to stop and get off the bike. In that moment I thought, "This is it. I'm getting sick again. I am quitting at mile 4, only 1/10 of the race in. Ugh." But then I remembered I only had a Gu Roctane in my gut and we racers all know how that can wreak havoc if not diluted a little. I drank some water and decided to press on. Much to my delight I felt better. I began to enjoy the ride. I was diligent to avoid rocks hidden along the path, still nervous I would get a pinch flat or sidewall tear.

At mile 7 I realized I had lost a bottle of electrolytes, probably on one of the many rough descents. This caused more alarm, as I now only carried about 10 oz of water and had no idea when the next aid station would appear. As the hills rolled I stood in the saddle and slid my weight back while flying down, down, down. I visualized being "one with the bike" to lessen the impact of rocks, roots, washboard and gopher holes. Like a white tail deer, "Cali" and I floated over debris. By mile 12 I realized the miles were ticking away and I wasn't even thinking thoughts, my body just moved. It occurred to me that I had found an energy and power inside of me that I hadn't felt in over a month. I was busting past other riders on climbs- riders I never saw again! Up, down, grass, rocks, sand, up, up, down.

Mile 17 had an aid station and I forced half of a banana down without nearly as much drama as earlier that morning. I drank two Gu Brews and filled my single water bottle up. I left feeling strong. We were still on Birkie trails and ahead of me was a massive descent, a wicked washboard from one side to the other. I was approaching 33 miles per hour when I felt my last water bottle jump out of its cage and hit my calf! Thankfully my pedal stroke was just right at that moment and my leg slammed it back in place. Close call! But I reined in a little to avoid losing my last hydration. Soon after, we reached a fire lane. The first section was quite boggy with sand but eventually firmed up and I was able to give her grief in there to make up for lost time.

Mile 20. Half way. Still feeling ok. The pedals spun. I would see bottles of electrolytes laying on the trail, rattled lose from cages, and wondered if I should pick one up. I recounted tales of Walter Rhein from Beyond Birkie Fever as he bonked at a marathon and picked up used Gu packets to suckle nutrients from. Picking up a used water bottle isn't as bad, right? I didn't do it! I had enough water for now and I figured I would see more bottles along the course if I was desperate enough. Mile 27 appeared quickly and we were given aid and a cautionary description of the approaching Seely Fire Tower Hill. But even that couldn't get me down. I knew I only had 13 miles left and the beast within me was roaring. I was going to finish.

I was still surprised with my level of energy, having come out of a three week period of convalescence. It's a strange phenomenon. Perspective is the ultimate decision maker of your success. I was telling myself I was strong and I was visualizing the competitive beast inside of me that wakes up after 20 miles of labor. Fire Tower Hill came, I clawed my way up, and it was over. The stories of horror I had heard seemed exaggerated as I looked at this hill and thought, "Is this really it?" Don't get me wrong- it's a bugger, but when you know that it's the last great obstacle, you hunker down and you get 'er done!

False Summit of Seely Fire Tower Hill

Double the Fun

After Fire Tower we had about 8 miles left. We were once again back on the Birkie trails and the climbs loomed as our heavy legs suffered cramps. A dark cloud settled over me as I pushed my bike up a hill and felt my feet tripping over rocks. A rider wearing blue jeans came up alongside me and encouraged, "It's only a few more hills then some fast downhills on gravel." The words banished my cloud. I can do this- if that crazy man wearing jeans and riding a single-speed can do this, so can I! Two climbs later I saw the gravel. I started down the road, which was not so much gravel as rocks- very technical, rough rock, but it was downhill so all I had to do was stay upright. "Picking your line," or choosing the path of least resistance, is merely coincidence when you are gaining momentum on those downhills, everything is blurred. I just hoped and prayed I wasn't moments from a flat. My limbs rattled and I felt twinges of nerve pain in my shoulders after 30 miles of shock absorption. It smoothed out after a bit and I was once again gaining speed. My iPod started playing "Bleeding Out" by Imagine Dragons and the percussion began to pound inside me. I was tearing down the road at 27 miles per hour, made a 90 degree left hand turn that spit rocks, and hammered towards the final two miles.

The last section turned back onto double track with sandy, rocky climbs and debris from logging. It looked like the Apocalypse in there. The ground showed evidence of bicycle destruction, chains lay in the dirt, tubes littered the trail, I even saw a wheel skewer. I prayed my own demise wouldn't come at mile 38 1/2. I could barely haul the bike up the terrain but knowing I was so close gave a sense of security. I could almost hear the announcer, the crowd roaring, smell the food, and was that the clanging of a cowbell in the distance?

I saw the sign. 1/2 mile remaining. The trail dropped and I ripped through prairie grass, breathing the sand that spun off my front tire. I saw the chute. I heard the cowbells. I pushed harder. I saw my husband hanging over the fence screaming my name! I smiled from ear to ear! The announcer called out my name as I hit the sensor. I DID IT! Tears rolled down my face- not of pain, but of triumph. Another woman I had ridden along side for portions of the race finished just behind me and we embraced. We shared a special bond in that moment. We conquered.

I have to give thanks to the many fellow cyclists that gave words of wisdom before and during the race. I might not have given Cheq 40 a chance this year if I hadn't been given such a detailed account of the course by Duane Lee at Cyclova XC, or the reminder that you pay the race entry because it is a civilized event with support and aid- thanks Ben Jonjak, the encouragement of Dennis Porter, Pat Sorenson of Penn Cycle, and Charlie P. And of course my husband, Keith Velaski, who believed in me the whole time.

post race photo

My Chequamegon story ends with Saturday night's feast in the pavilion at the KOA. Good friends regaling one another with tales of their personal journey by bike that day, great food, and much laughter and love! Like Minded- Bike Minded! By far, my favorite event of the year.  (For those considering adding Cheq to their list of accomplishments- DO IT! And ride Big Rock Creek to train for the event, it truly has every feature the Birkie Trails boast.)

~Kristen

Pain Cave

The Pain Cave. No words can describe it, but anyone that has been there knows the excruciating labor it takes to push deeper into the cave until you find the hidden exit to glory.  Strada Fango Spring Classic in April was my first venture into "unsupported and self-reliant" ultra-endurance racing. I was naive to what it was going to take to ride 70 miles. And I knew my bike fitness was not there yet, after a delayed arrival of cycling season due to snow. In fact, the previous weekend was supposed to be my first 100-mile race but 12 inches of snow fell on the course 24 hours beforehand and it was cancelled. But I thought, "How bad can it be?" Just keep spinning...

We started out on that sunny morning, enjoying 50-degree weather in t-shirts and wearing sunscreen, a pack of maybe 40 cyclists cruising together for approximately 2 miles of pavement up a winding, slow ascent. At our first turn I glanced down to see my computer was not synced and unless I stopped to reset the magnet I would have potential to get lost on the cue sheets. I stopped fast, spun the magnet on my spoke toward the sensor, got back in the saddle and saw...  no one. In the brief seconds in which I had stopped, the pack left me. I rode on thinking, "I'll see them around this corner..." "Or maybe when I get to the top of that hill I'll see them down below..." Nope. Didn't see anyone. I rode on still optimistic of an eventual cyclist spotting. 

Eventually I realized that my computer was still off a little on mileage due to the error in starting it. I was busy calculating how to make up the difference to match the next cue. And of course, I missed my cue and made several wrong turns after believing I was still matching the cue sheet. Six wrong miles later I was back on course. I was starting to get angry at this point, and a little bit weepy with defeat. I rode to the next cue and was able to figure out my mileage and how to get back on track. 

The ground ahead of me those next four miles was peanut butter, pot-holes, and uphill- the whole way. I reached the top after seeing only two remote hunting shacks along that stretch, one was padlocked, the other has three hound dogs sleeping in barrels in the front yard. Did I forget to mention that this event took place outside of Birchwood, Wisconsin in the Blue Hills? Hilly, it was. And off the grid. Known for it's yeti sightings in the 90's.  At the top of that stretch I saw my next turn and nearly cried. More climbing, more soft mud, and better yet- snow covering most of the road. I decided to get off the bike here and eat something. Get my head right. I was deep in the Pain Cave by this time. My legs had fire eating the sinews from the bones as I had already climbed innumerable large hills. The theme was UP. 

While I was eating I surveyed the map for shortcuts, which all appeared to be dead ends. A vehicle with a couple of ladies in it pulled up alongside me and asked me if I was okay. (This was the only vehicle I would see all day.) They explained that they were the wives of the men that put on the event and they were making sure the course was clear. At this point I had ridden 18 miles and was only near 12 miles on the cue sheets. The ladies told me that if I went straight ahead instead of turning that I could cut the course and showed me where I would land. It was glorious. I rode a mere 3/4 of a mile and popped right out at a check point. I NEVER regretted doing this. I am shameless! I would later learn that the 20 miles I cut off my journey were the worst of the course, with four miles of snow that you had to walk your bike through. Everyone was thrashed. 

I was ahead of the leaders due to my cheat. I just wanted to get back to camp at this point. There were no medals to be won by finishing anyhow and I knew I was in over my head! I rode on and felt the numbness drive into my saddle bones and then the pain, as I traveled winding gravel ascents, some Cat 5 climbs. I stopped numerous times to walk my bike up. My legs were drained. I was not prepared to suffer like that! My mind was a mess. I was having the most pathetic thoughts! I, of course, was hatching ridiculous plans to get someone to pick me up and drive me back, but like every wilderness, there is no cell service and no human life forms to assist you in crisis because no one lives there! I was even mad at my husband for a while because he didn't look back from his bike earlier as I stopped to fix my magnet! Funny how an all day bike ride in the boondocks can clear a mind.

I was lost for most of the race. Even when I was on course the road signs didn't jive or the mileage was confusing because I couldn't figure out my computer due to being off course so much. And I was hungry all the time. I stopped every ten miles to eat. And was I ever glad I packed food, not just goo. Thank you, Katie, who before the event started heard me say I wasn't going to want to eat while racing. She laughed, "Have you ever done one of these events before? You'll get so hungry you would eat your own hand!" I was that hungry for three more days after the ride! 

When I was mentally beat down I would stop, get off the bike, stretch a little, rest and reflect. When I felt my positive thoughts returning, or merely my drive to get back to camp and eat all the food in the cooler, I would saddle back up and could usually soldier on for about 10 miles. The entire race was a mental game. I felt like I was in the middle of nowhere, with limited food supply, no cell reception, and potentially on then wrong road and darkness approaching in Yeti Country. And mostly uphill. The soft ground held your tires down and prevented even the slightest increase of speed.. Even in a downhill you couldn't break 15 mph. So much energy expenditure because of the condition of the roads. And absolute solitude in the woods of Northern Wisconsin. It was tough not having anyone to talk to and it added to my misery. I ate lunch sitting on the side of Imalone Road, no irony there.

Mile 42 or so, the leaders started to pass me. I was perplexed by their speed and annoyed a little, too. They were not suffering and I was, so I imagined they were laughing at me or something and felt annoyed at their pleasure! Pathetic! But it was nice to know I was among the riders again and might see people from time to time who weren't riding their bikes effortlessly like super-humans as the front five leaders did when they passed me. 

At about mile 50 on the cue sheets there was a series of Cat 5 climbs one after another, nearly without descent. And then one of them was a U-Turn at the top! I walked most of this section and thought about the absurdity of the course and how miserable I was! Several more leaders passed me in this section. Some walked their bikes up the hill, though, so I felt relieved to see others were getting a royal beat down with me! Around us lay heaps of snow left from plows after recent snowfall. Creeks flowed abundantly in the hills and several times I felt as though I were in the mountains and was thankful for the sounds of running water, songbirds, and beautiful scenery the Northwoods has to offer.

After this gargantuan climb I enjoyed a few miles of rolling pavement, started to dream of finishing and began to see an end to the ride. I figured I had 15 miles left. I knew I could do it, I was close. The next turn onto gravel was an unmarked road. Best I could tell it was accurate, according to the map there were no other roads before it between the markers. I had missed turns earlier in the day due to missing road signs and I wasn't going to get myself into that mess again. I climbed a grueling ascent and reached a plateau which stretched on for about a mile and a half. In that stretch I crossed two washouts that were several feet deep and wide. The roads throughout the course were barely maintained after a delayed Spring and recent snowfall. At the next bend I discover a dead end. I had made a wrong turn. Defeated! I lost my sanity for a few minutes after that. I cried out, I yelled about how mad I was and how much I hated that event, I said I was never going to ride my bike again (I know, seriously, right?). I was crazy! Then after I asked the good Lord for forgiveness and cooled off, I started making my way back on course and I had an epiphany. I was supposed to suffer that day because I needed to learn how to survive by myself and I needed to show myself that I had it in me. My mind experienced a full array of emotions that day and when I finally sorted them all out, I was so much lighter. 

From there I was on course without difficulty. In the last ten miles or so there were a lot of people to cheer us and offer assistance which made the miles slip by more enjoyably. I was starting to think thoughts like, "Next year I will do it right..." I still have terrible memories of that race, some of them I can laugh about now, but I see it as an event that molded me and showed me how strong I could be. It was also the race that made me determined to come back prepared next year. And a race that I referenced numerous times while pedaling through pain caves at the Almanzo. Thoughts like, "You can do this, it is not as bad at Strada." It was what set my gauge for suffering. Each time I have done a gravel event after the Strada I have gone deeper into the Pain Cave. Just when I think I have reached the maximum level of mental and physical distress, I come through it feeling stronger than ever. Mind vs Body. I will conquer again and will seek adventure that leads me to more caves...

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.