The Gingerbread Man

I was riding my cyclocross bike along the bike trail, approaching a road crossing at a light. It was a pleasant late September evening a little before 8:00, the sun had just set, and my lights were on.

Ahead at the crossing, a person with a mountain bike was stopped.  The traffic light was red.  Across the street, a skateboarder was headed toward the trail from a sidewalk on the other side of the street.  The skateboarder and the mountain biker were calling out to each other.  They seemed to know each other, and appeared to be challenging one another, talkin' smack.  Despite the light still being red, the mountain biker grabbed a chance to cross the road, rushing onto the trail just ahead of the skateboarder.

 I rolled up to the light moments later and stopped and waited for the light to change.  In the meantime, a runner entered a trail on the other side of the road, behind the skateboarder.  After a brief wait the light changed, and I crossed the road, and continued on the trail.

In a little while, I passed the runner on his left.  A few moments later I rolled up behind the skateboarder.  He was yelling something to the mountain biker, and seemed to be motioning to the left.  I think he was telling the biker to stay on the left.  Perhaps, he hoped to catch and pass the mountain bike on the right.  "On your left," I called out, and passed the skateboarder on the left.

Soon I was behind the mountain biker.  He was in the middle of the trail, and difficult to get around.  I called out, "on your left."  He looked back at me.  I could now see him.  He appeared to be in his early teens, and he rode what looked to be a clunky discount store bike.  With pride he said, "you can't catch me," and he started to spin the pedals rapidly.  Not wanting to be unsafe on a busy trail after dark, I said "fine," and let him race ahead.  But, I gradually accelerated.  Moments later he looked back and saw I was closer to him than he had expected.  He cried, "no fair," and spun the pedals even faster. I accelerated some more, and he looked back to see me right behind him.  He pulled to the right, and I passed him on his left.  As I rode past, he said, "Man, I love that kind of bike!"

I rode on and then smiled, thinking about the children's story.  "Ride, ride as fast as you can.  You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man."

Gravel Worlds 2013

It was brutal. The weather forecast warned them. Hot (94F) and windy (24 mph). The race organizers warned them. Recently graded roads with loose, deep dirt and pebbly gravel. Some sections of newly laid, chunky white rock. Bridges with large gaps between wooden planks. Yet, some 200 people from 21 different states and England lined up with their bicycles before dawn on a humid, August Saturday to race (or ride) 150 miles on hilly gravel and dirt roads outside Lincoln, Nebraska. Who were these crazy people, and why was I one of them?

Over the course of the next fifteen hours, I would ask that question often. That is, when I wasn’t cursing my friends Schmitty, Cornbread, and the rest of the Pirate Cycling League who worked so hard to organize and host this event. This was the fifth time I have participated in Gravel Worlds, including the years it was still known as the Good Life Gravel Adventure. Each year easily three quarters of all my swearing for the year was uttered on this one day. Usually out on my own, climbing another “damn” hill.

Many people think Nebraska is flat. I’m sure that notion comes from people driving through the state on Interstate 80, which generally follows the Platte River. Get out of the river valley and the terrain is not flat. The climbs are not miles long as in the mountains. But they can be steep, in the 8-12 percent grade range, and a route can easily be devised where they are endless. Routes can also be devised that show some mercy. Gravel Worlds routes show little mercy. My theory is the PCL crew want to prove to their out-of-state brethren that Nebraska is not flat. “Who gives a shit what they think about our state,” is one of the curses I mutter often during this annual sufferfest. “Show some mercy, damn it!”

Actually, mercy was revealed in the course route from around mile 100 to 135. However, as it turned out that stretch was ridden into a 24 mile per hour wind in 94° heat. Even so, I was glad to get a respite from the hills, and I knew that with revised expectations I should be able to finish the “race.”

I started with high expectations. Not to be first mind you. But to improve considerably on my recent times in this event, to average a pace comparable to the first year I rode this. That was 2009, the high temperature that day was 72°, and the winds were a relatively calm 8 to 12 mph. It was a gorgeous day, and I felt strong as the day went on. After a checkpoint in Denton, I had the good fortune of hooking up with a group I’ve come to think of as the Warren Wiebe express. We got a good pace line going, and we powered through a north headwind in the final miles. That day I rode farther than I had ever ridden in one day before, and on gravel to boot. Life couldn’t be better.

I had reason to have high expectations this year. Last year I struggled with IT band pain. Finally I solved the problem by shortening my crank arms from 175 mm to 172.5. With the shorter cranks the pain went away, and I began to return to normal. We’ve had beautiful weather here until very recently. Cool summer days, with light winds. My pace on gravel rides had been exceeding my pace on that glorious 2009 day.

I went into the event with detailed preparation. Over the week before the ride, the bike was thoroughly cleaned and every noise eliminated, including a slight ticking sound that took many tries to defeat. I laid out the food, electrolytes, and equipment I would bring with me on the bike. I strategized what bags I would bring and what configuration would work best. As the weather forecast changed during the course of the week, these plans changed twice. With the increase in the expected temperatures and higher winds, I chose an approach I thought would maximize my fluids and minimize wind drag.

Finally I was ready and the morning of the event was here. The alarm went off at 4:00 a.m. My wife, a saint, woke up too. Parking at the start location was limited, and she had agreed to drop me off so my car would not take up space. We arrived around 5:10 a.m. and I unloaded the car at Conestoga.Lake and rode across the road to the Reinkordts'. Peter and Jane, who I have been fortunate to know for many years, have a daughter Elisabeth who has become one of the gravel faithful. Through Elisabeth, Peter and Jane have hosted a rest stop along the course the last couple years and generously agreed to host the start and stop location this year. They awoke even earlier than my 4 a.m. to help the PCL crew set up, and they were still helping out late into the night.

I was greeted by Jane, and then mingled with friends from Hastings and Lincoln until the start time arrived. At 6:00 a.m. cowbells were rung and we rode off.

It was still dark, and we were all equipped with headlights and tail lights. Two hundred blinking red and shining white lights heading en masse west on Pioneers Road. Three miles down the road we turned south onto 140th and a section of new white rock. Worse, we soon hit the steeper hills. Just a short way up the road I knew “Denton Wall” was waiting.

“Denton Wall” is probably the steepest hill we would climb all day. We were warned about loose, deep gravel on it. Denton Wall is not so steep that it can’t be ridden by pretty much everyone at this event. But, you will slow to a crawl, and if you happen to get caught in a pile of loose gravel you’ll lose all momentum and need to dismount or fall. We were going to arrive at the Wall in the dark with 200 other cyclists in front of and behind us.

When we got there I saw one friend, who is a strong rider, dismount and begin walking. I assume he got caught in the deep gravel. I was lucky to find a line that was navigable and made it over fine. After the Wall there is a minimal descent and then more climbing. Then a steep descent. Under good conditions the descent is a thrill. But, in the dark, on a recently graded road, with loose stuff and unreliable lines? You could get going real fast and then hit some deep stuff and lose control. Again, you had people in front, behind, and to your side, and even with lights your view of the road surface was substantially blocked. Fortunately, all went fine here as well. The temperature was still in the 70's and although it was humid, it was comfortable. Wind speed hadn’t kicked up yet and was still in the low teens. We all began to settle in.

From Denton Wall to the first checkpoint in Hickman was pretty much constant climbing and descending. After the sun came up, the sunglasses came out. Friends Bruce and Ron caught up to me in the hills on Panama Road. I enjoyed riding with them for a few minutes, but then we reached a hill that was too steep for me to hang without making a big effort. I let them ride away. There were about 125 miles yet to go, and big efforts would cost later.

Before long I arrived in Hickman. There were bikes everywhere, and a long line inside the convenience store. Everyone was buying a Powerball ticket. At Gravel Worlds there are always three checkpoints at convenience stores, and all the riders must buy a Powerball ticket to prove they have been there. The tickets are turned in at the finish. If there are any significant winnings, the winnings will be shared with all the participants. (By the way guys, we’re monitoring any the big purchases you make.)

The only lottery tickets (apart from a charity fundraiser) I have ever purchased have been during Gravel Worlds. If I am ever meant to win a lottery, it will happen with a Gravel Worlds Powerball ticket and my gravel friends will share in the booty. That’s pleasing.

At Hickman I used the restroom, picked up a Gatorade, and got in line to get my Powerball ticket and pay. I often spend too much time off the bike at events like this, and going into this year’s Gravel Worlds I wanted to keep my breaks to a minimum. I was back on the road in just under 10 minutes. It was about 8:30, in the upper 70's, with a humidity of 75%, and a wind of about 15 mph. A bit humid, but not too unpleasant.

After Hickman, we worked our way farther east and north. I began to notice some slight soreness in my left hamstring. During my bike preparation and my efforts to make my bike run noise free I had pulled out my seat post and cleaned it and the seat tube. When I put the seat post back, I put it down just shy of the tape on the post marking my preferred spot. With the soreness, I paid closer attention to which muscles were working at climbing, and realized the hamstrings were doing too much of the work and the glutes weren’t as involved as they should be. I debated whether to adjust the seat at the first Oasis, which would be at about mile 50. Would I make matters worse? Messing with seat position is something I am cautious about, and changing it in the middle of an event seemed a big risk. Nevertheless, I decided it had to be done.

When I got to the Oasis, I quickly got my pipe cleaner from Schmitty, swilled a bottle of water, and carefully lowered my seat height. At each Oasis you are given a pipe cleaner. This complements the Powerball tickets as an additional “anti-fraud” strategy. Generally, these are used in strategic locations to make sure someone does not “cut” the course. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to cut the course, and not tell the organizers to disqualify them on the results. It’s not like winning or placing high will make you rich or famous. But, apparently people have cut the course without disqualifying themselves.

In 2011, it rained heavily the day and night before the race. The dirt road sections were mud. The mud clung to equipment, and if you were not careful you could break a rear derailleur. Even if you were careful, you could break a derailleur. After a two mile walk through a “mud road” section, dozens of us paused at an intersection to clean the mud off our wheels and drive trains as best we could. Those who didn't, broke derailleurs as gravel adhered to mud near the derailleur, causing the mechanism to clog and pull into the rear wheel. I managed to get through that spot okay. But after the first checkpoint I hit some very soggy gravel and tried to ride through it. The derailleur picked up pebbles, and my derailleur jammed and broke. I disconnected the chain, removed the derailleur, and shortened the chain so I could use the bike like a single speed. I was only about 35-40 miles into a 150 mile race. I wish I could say the repair took minutes. But, I didn't notice a portion of the chain that was twisted, and also needed to be removed. By the time I’d gone through the process again, I’d lost close to an hour. Pretty much everyone rode past me while I was there. They almost all offered help, which is cool, but I hated looking so hapless.

At first the repair worked fine. But, after some 40 miles or so I reached Denton Wall. The torque from climbing that hill in too big a gear (my only one) caused the chain to slide up a gear. Over the next 40-50 miles this happened with increasing frequency. By the time I was about 130 miles into the “race,” my chain was jumping up a cog about every half mile. The drive train would then seize up, and I would get off the bike, undo the quick release, and re-position the chain. I was just about to call it quits when I reached another mud road. It was just before dark, and you would have thought the mud would have dried during the day. But there it was, still an evil mess. I cursed Schmitty, Cornbread, Aaron and everyone else who may have decided on the route, called my saintly wife to come get me, and coasted over to a nearby highway where she would be able to find me more easily.

I count that year as the one year I “lost” at Gravel Worlds, and writing about it I realize I am bitter over it. Afterwards, I vowed that if the conditions were ever like that again, I would ride as much of the course as I could, avoid the mud roads, and disqualify myself at the finish. It’s not worth expensive bike repairs, but it’s also not worth losing a planned long day on the bike.

That same year was the year there was a controversy over cheating. Some people did avoid the mud roads and rode parallel gravel roads. Apparently, they did not disqualify themselves at the finish. Or maybe they did, but the riders who saw them off the course assumed the worse. Someone allegedly had someone else buying lottery tickets at checkpoints for him to reduce time at the checkpoints.

I couldn't understand why anyone would want to cheat at one of these events. Like I said, it won’t make you rich or famous. It’s not a stepping stone to a career as a professional cyclist. I also couldn't understand why anyone would care what someone else was doing. It’s not like their cheating robbed me of anything. What I get out of these races is not a victory over other people, but a victory over the elements, over the devilish course selection, and over my own sense of limits. I get an opportunity to ride my bike, an activity I love, alongside other people who love to ride their bikes as well. I get a chance to test my fitness, and to try to maintain a level of fitness, so I can improve the chance I will be able to ride for years to come.

Anyway, I got my pipe cleaner, wrapped it to my handlebar and hit the road. It was a little after 10:00 a.m. It was in the mid-80's, with a heat index beginning to push 90. The wind speed was over 18 mph with gusts of over 25 mph. The good news was I had a strong tailwind. The bad news was I had a strong tailwind. With that sort of a tailwind a bicyclist, who you might say is riding like the wind, doesn't get much of a cooling breeze. On a hot day that isn't so pleasant.

This section of the course, heading north, isn't very hilly. This is a section I would have expected to make great time on, especially with a strong tailwind. But, I found the benefit was not so great. I was sweltering, and looking forward to the turn onto Old Mill Road to go west. Finally, the turn came and the cross wind was more cooling. But this benefit came with a cost. We were back into hills. Up and down, up and down, up and down. You get the picture.

There was a water station along Old Mill Road. I stopped and refilled a water bottle. There were a good number of cyclists at this stop. My thanks to the volunteers here and at other points who spent their day in the heat!

In time I made it to Malcolm. This was over half way into the race. By the time I got to Malcolm, my Camelback was empty and my water bottles low. I felt hot and dehydrated, and I was tired of riding hills. There were lots of people at the store in Malcolm, and they seemed to be taking longer breaks. I knew I had to take a long break if I hoped to finish the “race.” I needed time to re-hydrate and eat before I could continue on. It was around 12:40 p.m. when I got to Malcolm; about 1:30 p.m. when I left.

I got a Powerball ticket. Then I went next door to Lippy’s barbecue. I got a sandwich, but could only manage to eat half of it. Mostly, I needed to drink and to give my body time to absorb what I drank.

I think Aaron, Kevin, Eric, Scott, Gravy, and Mark were all in there at one point or another while I was there. Eric, of Adventure Monkey renown, was riding a fat tire bike. I met Eric at Dirty Kanza in 2012 when I used Pablove Grub for support. He was helping with that effort and met many people that day. Today, at Gravel Worlds he had come up behind me out on a part of the course west of Sprague, and I initially thought he was a car or a truck approaching from behind me. The fat tires were that loud.

I re-filled my Camelback, my water bottles, borrowed and put on some sun screen. I soaked up fluids and enjoyed the air conditioning. Finally, I left Malcolm. When I did, there were only a few bicyclists in town. There had been a throng when I first arrived. My “race” had become a “ride,” and I had abandoned dreams of a personal best. The only goal now was to finish.

I pushed on west and north, eventually coming to Ridge Road. There was a checkpoint in that area, and I stopped for my pipe cleaner and quickly downed a bottle of water. After mine, there were only two bottles left. I didn't stay long. Others, however, were lingering. I wondered if they were on the verge of calling it a day, or if they would eventually become renewed and ride some more. From Malcolm on, you could see fellow gravel grinders calling it a day.

Somewhere around mile 100 there was a dirt road heading south. There were no road signs at the intersection. The cue sheet said we were supposed to turn soon, but the mileage didn't match my odometer, so I decided to keep going. When I got to the next intersection, it was marked, and it was obvious the earlier road was the correct turn. I rode back to the dirt road, “thankful” for the bonus miles.

Eventually, I realized why the mileage didn't match. Between Malcolm and the missed turn there had been a number of steep hills. I was sick of climbing hills. On the approach to one, with no one around, I threw down the F-bomb and declared I wasn't going to ride it. Schmitty, Corey, Aaron, Randy or whoever, could put all the damn hills they want into a course, but I don’t have to ride them all. F’ them. So, I walked up the hill, and then a couple others, by the time I got to the missed turn. My Garmin will auto-pause when I am going below a certain speed. The half mile or so I walked didn't register, and I thought the correct turn was too early. That’s a new screw up to remember.

Anyway, the dirt road was a pleasant road and I stopped cursing my friends for awhile. For awhile I didn't even much mind that I was now headed into a steady 24 mph wind with stronger gusts, and I tried not to think too much about riding into that wind for the next 35 miles.

I got to Garland and saw a group of cyclists with Gravy. They were calling it a day and waiting for a ride. I went to the bar and had a cold one – a cold Mountain Dew, that is. There were a couple other cyclists there, including Mark and Scott. We sat under the air conditioning blower and enjoyed the cold blast. My mileage was at about 105, and it was close to 3:30 in the afternoon. The temperature was 94°, heat index 99°, wind speed 23 mph, with gusts of 32 mph. (This is all from Weather Underground’s hourly archive.) My Garmin “thought” it was hotter - 102°, and it may have been on the road. I had about 45 miles to go, about 30 of that into the wind. I chilled for about 20 minutes, and hit the road again.

After an initial westward stretch, Mark and I turned south into the wind. Fortunately, the hills subsided and the long slow slog to Milford was uneventful. We moved at different paces and separated. At one point a saddle sore became bothersome, and I applied some Chamois Butter. It comes in a handy, small package, and I brought it for that reason. But, I need to remember to stick with Desitin even if the package is bulkier. Chamois Butter contains alcohol, and if you already have a sore, it stings like hell. If anyone had been around, I would have been quite the sight applying it.

In Milford, there were more road warriors calling home for rides. Those continuing on were taking long breaks. I ordered half a personal pizza and drank plenty. I sat and took my time. This would be my last stop. I texted my wife, the saint, and told her I would be to the Reinkordts between 8:30 and 9:00 p.m. I had about 35 miles to go, but the wind was slowing, and the temperature would be declining. Matt and Elisabeth arrived just as I was leaving.

I left Milford shortly after Pell. After a mile or two, the wind blew Pell’s cue card free of its clip to his bike. He had had a back up, but something had happened to that as well. He turned back to hunt for it, but quickly decided that was a hopeless cause, just as I came along. We rode together most of the rest of the way. He took a photo of my cue card in case we got separated. I didn't want him to wait for me if I proved to be slower. But, we stayed together through most of this stretch, until we made our way into the steeper hills near Denton. At that point, I returned to the attitude that I’d climbed enough hills for the day, and my friends who designed this thing couldn't make me ride more of them. Some time before this, Pete had caught up to us as we consulted the cue cards.

When I rebelled against hill climbing, Pete asked if I was okay. I said I was, but I just did not want to make the effort to ride up the hill. I would walk it. The effort to walk is considerably less, and on steeper hills it’s not that much slower. Pete and Pell rode off, and some others came along and passed me. I didn't care. I was going to finish this ride, but on my terms.

After awhile, I met back up with Pete who had missed a turn and had to come back to it. We rode the rest of the way together. I was too tired to say much, but I enjoyed the company. We rolled into the Reinkordts’ drive at 8:59, barely within the time frame I had I told my wife.

My wife got me a chair, and I sat and drank and ate and visited with Peter R. Jane and Peter wondered if I had seen Elisabeth out on the course. I was able to put their minds at ease, remembering I saw her crew arrive in Milford.

This Gravel Worlds marks the completion of five years of riding these types of events. My first one was this event in 2009. After a tough ride, I will sometimes reflect on what these events mean to me, why I enjoy them, and what I have learned from doing them. Here are some thoughts.

First, for me these events are not about competition against other people. Although to be honest, I have to remind myself of that repeatedly. The fact that other people are doing the same thing at the same time gives me a basis to compare my fitness, and that generally prods me to work harder at it. That’s healthy. But, in the final analysis the competition is with the course, the elements, and myself. If I allow comparisons of how I stack up against others to become too great a concern, I will ride above myself, and tire before the finish. For me the goal is to finish, and while the sense of competition can help me to elevate myself, I cannot allow it to deter me from my primary goal.

Second, don’t kill the love. If you enjoy something, don’t get so excessive with it that you lose joy in doing it. Don’t train so much that it becomes a burden. Don’t ride so hard that it stops being fun. But, do push yourself enough to keep it fun and vibrant. If the ride just stops being fun and you are not enjoying it at any level, quit and come back another day. Better that than to soldier on and sour on the activity for the rest of your life. At Almanzo in 2011 it was in the 40's and it rained. I enjoyed about 30 miles. By the time I reached the first checkpoint, about 40 miles in, I was thoroughly wet and shivering. I called it quits, and I don’t regret that. Others finished, and for a time I felt like a wimp by comparison. But, I know I would have been miserable had I gone on, and I would have risked souring my relationship with the bike. That was a good day for me to pull the plug.

Third, don’t let pride get in the way of reaching your goal. I learned this lesson the first time I finished Dirty Kanza. I was about 130 miles into the race. I was hot, thirsty, hungry, and I hurt in a number of places. The course turned out of the river bed, and immediately there was a wall to climb. The suddenness of reaching the foot of a steep hill and knowing it would require a hard effort was disheartening. I stopped and was ready to quit. I went back to near the river and sat in the shade, considering making the call for a ride off the course. But first, I thought, why not sit in the shade and eat and drink. While I did that some other cyclists went by. I could hear them turn out of the river bed, and then on seeing the wall, curse. Most of them stopped, got off their bikes, and walked up the hill. Then it dawned on me. I was disheartened by the effort it would take to ride that hill in the easiest gear my bike had. But, I had an easier gear, and that was to walk up that hill at whatever pace was comfortable. Eventually, I decided to walk the hill and just take things a mile at a time. That decision allowed me go another 70 miles and to finish Dirty Kanza. If I had stuck with my earlier mindset, I would have considered it wimpy to walk a hill that I knew I could climb on a bike. Pride was an obstacle to reaching the goal, and it had to be conquered to finish the ride.

Fourth, just because you feel bad now, does not mean you will feel bad later. A short stop to drink, eat and stretch can do wonders. On a hot day like this past Saturday, a long break to fully re-hydrate can renew the body and spirit, and can enable you to go on. The most enjoyable part of these long rides is the evening, as the temperature subsides and the winds calm. If you can get to early evening, all will be good.

Fifth, don’t convince yourself you can’t do it. On my first two attempts at Dirty Kanza, I called it quits at the 100 mile checkpoint. Both days were hot, and I felt dehydrated on arriving at the checkpoint. Based on subsequent successes with similar conditions, I now know I could have finished those rides. Those were not “good” quits like Almanzo in 2011. I wasn’t miserable and not having fun. Rather, I just didn't think I could finish. I was already a certain amount dehydrated and a certain amount tired. How could I go the rest of the way? Well, based on what I've learned, I know I could have finished those rides. If you believe you can do it, you generally can. If you don’t believe you can, then you probably won’t.

Finally, once you know you can do it, then don’t allow yourself to be intimidated or frightened by the heat, distance, and hills. Instead, be determined and defiant. Saturday was a brutal day, and I spent a lot of it cursing. But, the cursing was really defiance and determination. I knew I could finish the ride, and to heck with all the obstacles. In accomplishing my goal, I had fun, despite the surface appearance..

Late Saturday night my wife asked me if I planned to ride Gravel Worlds again next year. Yeah, I’ll be there. And, to hell with anyone or anything that gets between me and finishing.

Dirty Kanza 2012

The is the third time I have attempted Dirty Kanza.  Each of the previous two years, the day of the event was hot and somewhat windy.  Although we train in wind all the time around here, we often don't get extreme heat until sometime in June.  In my two prior attempts we had temps in the high 90's and low 100's on the day of Dirty Kanza, and that was the first ride of the year in those kinds of conditions.  As a result, there was little chance to adapt to the heat prior to the event.  By contrast, this year the forecast was for highs in the mid-80's with a light wind.  In addition, this year we'd already had some hot days.  A week before Dirty Kanza I rode 120 miles on a windy day when the high reached the upper 90's.  That day was also humid, so it was good preparation.  I had a couple of other long rides on relatively hot days.  Given the forecast, we all figured this would be the year records would be broken.   It turns out that prediction was right.  This year there was a record number of finishers, and the course record was beaten by a couple minutes.  Even so, only about 60% of the riders who toed the start line, crossed the finish.

It was 48 degrees at the start, and we had our arm warmers and leg warmers out.  They had gotten a fair amount of rain in the area the day before, and we weren't sure how the roads would be.  With over 420 participants, they asked us to line up in goups according to how many hours we thought we would take to finish the race - over 12 hours, over 14, over 16, and over 18.  This way the fast riders would not have to work their way past large numbers of slower riders near the start when everyone is bunched together.  I took a spot near the front of the 18 hour group, as my only goal was to finish, and not to race this event.

For the first 30 miles or so, we bicycled in a long series of double pacelines.  If you rode away from one group, it wasn't long before you bridged the gap to the next group.  The roads were in pretty good shape, although there were some wet places that were soft, and there were some "dirt" roads that were sketchy.  However, even the dirt roads were rideable.  The longest and steepest climb of the day ("Texaco Hill") peaks around 30 miles into the course, and by the time riders crested it, the pacelines were much more fragmented and spread apart.  It was on the climb on Texaco Hill that I eased back from the relatively swift pace of race pack riding into a pace that could be sustained for the next 170 miles.  I took a short break at the top of Texaco Hill to remove my arm and leg warmers, eat and drink, and relieve myself.  The next 35 miles to the first checkpoint were relatively uneventful, except for hitting a big rock on a fast downhill, which caused my front tire to flat.  When I sat down on a smooth rock to change the flat, I noticed a big cowpie a couple of feet to my left and another to my right.  It was just luck I hadn't stepped into either of these.  This stretch of the course was through open range --  there are no fences keeping the cattle from crossing the road or milling about on it.

The first checkpoint was at 65 miles.  I got there at 11:00 a.m., a good hour and a half ahead of the time limit, but I took a long break there, and was only about 40 minutes ahead of the time limit when I left.  If I was in this to race, my long break would have been a bad thing.  But, since I was only focused on finishing, it didn't matter.  In fact, it was encouraging to leave a checkpoint and steadily catch and pass slower riders who had taken shorter breaks at the checkpoint.  This is much better for the morale than being repeatedly passed.

The second checkpoint was at 105 miles.  The second leg was relatively uneventful, except that toward the end we were moving into the hottest part of the day.  Even though the high for the day was mild compared to prior years, it still felt hot out on the open road, where you are exposed to direct sun for miles.  Even though, the second leg was relatively short, my fluid consumption matched the first leg, and I was just about out of fluids by the time I reached the checkpoint.  I've been recovering from an IT band injury, and my IT band reminded me it was there throughout this leg.  I rolled into the second checkpoint at about 3:00 p.m., once again 90 minutes ahead of the cut off.  At this checkpoint, I drank, ate, stretched, changed shorts and my jersey, re-filled my bottles, and camelback, and by the time I had done all this, an hour had passed.  I was only 30 minutes ahead of the time limit, as I rolled into the third leg.

The third leg was 60 miles, and the first couple hours were the hottest of the day.  At first I moved along pretty well.  However, by the time I was 15 miles into it, I was feeling the heat.  My neck was stiff, my IT band ached, and my butt was raw at the points where it contacted the saddle.  I was moving slower and slower, and I began thinking about how I had already ridden my longest ride of the year.  If I rode a total of 130 or 135 miles, that would be a nice increase in mileage.  Around miles 128-130 we rode along a creek, and there were trees alongside the road.  But at about mile 130, we emerged from the creek area with a left turn back into the open.  Immediately after the turn, there was a steep hill.  Not too steep to ride, but at that moment I was fed up with hills, and I didn't want to climb it.  After a couple of pedal strokes, I turned around and went back to the shade just before the turn.  A rider went by and asked me if I was okay.  I replied that I was, but that I was maybe done for the day.  I sat down, and thought about calling for my support to come get me.  But, first I ate a little, drank some, and listened to other riders as they came by me.  They would turn the corner and start up the hill, which at this point was beyond my vision.  About 6 riders went by while I sat there, and I could hear all but one reach the hill and dismount before proceeding to walk up the hill.   Eventually, I realized I didn't have to ride up that cursed hill.  I could just walk up the hill, re-mount my bike, and ride a bit farther.  If I was ever going to finish Dirty Kanza, this was the day to do it, and I might as well ride until I was sure I could go no further.  I could see how I felt at 135, then 140, and so on.

So, I walked up the hill, got back on my bike, and resumed pedalling. I noticed the time off the bike improved my stiff neck, aching leg, and sore butt, and at mile 135 I still felt fine.  At mile 140 the aches and pains were back, so I took another short break.  I was good again until about mile 152, where I took my last break prior to checkpoint 3.  

Shortly before my last break, a pickup truck approached from the other direction.  The sun was setting, and I stopped to put on my lights.  The pickup stopped, and the driver asked if I needed help.  I replied I was fine, and he asked how far I had ridden up to that point.  I told him about 150 miles.  He asked me how much farther I planned to go, and I said I would ride at least to Council Grove, the third checkpoint, which was about 15 miles away.  Once I got there I would evaluate.

I took my last break prior to checkpoint 3 at the turn from a standard gravel road onto a narrow, two track, minimum maintenance road.  While I was sitting there, a rider went sailing past the turn.  I yelled out to him that he missed the turn, and he turned around and came back.  He thanked me for saving him from going off course.  He said he had been enjoying the fast downhill slope so much, he hadn't noticed the markers.  Another rider saw him come back to the turn, so was ready for the turn.  A few minutes later another rider came by, and went sailing past the turn.  Again I called out, and he came back, thanked me, and said he had been enjoying the downhill so much, he hadn't noticed the markers.  A little while later I finished my break, and resumed my ride, but I wondered how many riders would now miss the turn.

I arrived in Council Grove at the third checkpoint at 9:15 p.m.  I had signed up for support provided by volunteers raising money for a foundation that benefits children with cancer.  At each stop, I would make my way to their tent after I had checked in at the checkpoint.  By the time I got to the third checkpoint my contact lenses had been so affected by fine, gravel grit, that I could hardly see.  When I got to my support tent, I asked if there was a grocery or drug store still open, because I needed something with which to soak and re-wet my lenses.  There wasn't an open grocery or drug store, but there was a convenience store.  One of the volunteers said she would run down and see if she could find me anything.  I pulled out some money, but she wouldn't take it.  She said she wore contacts, and would just use whatever I didn't.  When she came back, she had some solution.  Luckily, there was an actual bathroom available, with running water and a mirror.  However, I had trouble getting the right lens out, and must have lost it in the process.  I had better luck with the left lens (my near monovision lens), soaked it, and put it back in.  However, my vision wasn't really any better.  The lens must have been scratched up.  When I came out, I didn't have the heart to tell the volunteers that I still couldn't see worth a darn.  I told them things were greatly improved, and they had saved the day.  

I had a powerful light in my drop bag, and the volunteers helped me get it tightly fixed on my handlebar, so it wouldn't tip forward as I rode.  While there, I had two cold cokes (Heaven!), and two slices of pizza.  I had a new Team Impact vest, but I decided it would be warm enough to not need it.  I unzipped my new Team Impact jersey, and removed my camelback vest to refill it.  Once refilled, I put the camelback vest back on, then attempted to zip up my jersey.  The zipper stuck, and then broke.  One of the volunteers helped me figure out what the problem was.  I didn't want to ride the last 38 miles with a jersey flapping in the wind the entire way, so I retrieved the vest, and put it on over the jersey.  

By the time I left checkpoint 3 at 10:00 p.m., I was once again just 30 minutes ahead of the time limit.  When I got into checkpoint 3, I asked my support if I was their last rider in.  They said no, there were about nine others behind me.  By the time I left, there was only one of their riders still to come into the checkpoint, and all the others had  made short stops and left before I did.  

I rolled out alone, with the world looking to me like Van Gogh's "Starry Starry Night."  I hoped I would catch up to some other riders before my impaired vision caused me to miss a turn and ride off course.  While I could see the road, I couldn't make out the best tracks in the road or see clear enough to read the cue sheet.  Seeing the stakes marking the turns was a challenge.  Luckily a few miles out of Council Grove I caught a glimpse of a flashing red light, and I eventually caught up to it.  From there on, there was always someone nearby, and I was able to latch on to other riders and get their help with navigation.  Over the last 38 miles, I caught and passed many riders.  Many were walking up the steeper hills, but with the cooler temps and my earlier breaks I was rejuvenated, and I just plowed right along. I rode with a couple of guys for about 15 miles, but about 10 miles from the finish, they faded and must have stopped for awhile.  I rode those last miles with Mike from New Mexico.  When we got to the edge of Emporia, some volunteers told us which way to go.  Mike ignored them, I did what they said (I think, but at that point who knows).  A little while later a police car came up, and the officer told me the volunteers had told me wrong, and to follow his car.  I did, and he led me back to the course and to the Emporia State campus, which I rode through.  The course then exited onto Commercial Street, a few blocks from the finish line.  There were many lights on Commercial Street, and the clouds or halos I saw around every light made it impossible to see clearly. It was 1:24 a.m. when I crossed the finish line.  From the sounds, it was clear the street was lined with people cheering.  As I approached the finish line the crowds were close to me on each side.  I hoped I wouldn't hit anyone.  One older child dashed in front of me.  Thankfully, I didn't hit him.

I was congratulated by numerous people, who enthusiastically praised my accomplishment.  I was given a DK 200 Finisher's glass.  Behind me other riders were coming in, greeted by cowbells and wild cheers, and I made my way to the side of the festivities.  I looked around for Martha, but couldn't see her. I assumed she was at the motel, and I got out my cell phone to call her.  She didn't answer her cell phone, so I decided to try to look around some more for her.  Shortly, I saw her brilliant, beacon-like, silver hair near the finish line.  When I called out to her, she rushed over, embraced me, and asked when I got in.  It was about five minutes earlier.  She had been at the finish line that entire time, but she had been looking for the black, red, and white Pirate Cycling League jersey I started the day in, not the green and white Team Impact jersey I changed into at checkpoint 2 or the green and white Team Impact vest I put on at checkpoint 3.  I told her I had thought she might be at the hotel.  She said she initially thought she would wait and rest at the hotel until I called, but then she thought, "if David can manage to ride over 200 miles and finish this thing, then the least I can do is be there when he crosses the finish line!"  I'm a blessed man.

Soon we returned to the motel, but we talked about our day's events for some time, and I spent a long time icing my IT band.  Eventually, the IT band's anger lessened, and I could fall asleep.  After several hours sleeping we were back up getting ready for the return trip.  I was pleased to finish DK 200, but now I want to repeat in a year when this monster throws all its punches.