Many people are writing excellent epic race reports on Dirty Kanza 200 this week. I’m going to stick to a simple story… how I would up finishing a 21-hour race with only 57 seconds left. I promise this is my best effort at telling you the truth. It’s important that we start there, because from mile 140 my Dirty Kanza was all about lies.
The first half of DK200 looked like this.
You can jump right in with me after Checkpoint 2 (mile 102) with a couple of quick facts:
Before DK200 my longest gravel ride ever was 102 miles at DK100 last year.
My training plans last winter were shattered by parenting, family illness, and generally being an adult. I managed many late-night hour-long trainer sessions, but I never got the fitness I wanted.
Leaving Checkpoint 2, (Eureka, 102 miles) I was enjoying beautiful conditions, feeling good, on track with an 11.5mph pace and looking forward to an 18-hour finish time.
Feeling good at Checkpoint 2.
Then the hammer fell. From miles 112-122 we slowpokes still on the south end of the route got pummeled by an hour-long thunderstorm. I pulled on my rain jacket and kept riding, even when I couldn’t see beyond 20 feet… what else was there to do? Land Run taught it’s lesson well: don’t stop for rain.
Eventually the rain eased as we turned north, and for the first time I was truly tired. The last hour had been a beating and for the first time I had something really dangerous… an excuse to quit.
Still, I was smiling and still looking forward to a potential 18.5-hour finish time. The groups I had been riding with were scattered to the wind, but a few riders still around when the Jeep club support team started intercepting us to detour around a flash flood.
Trusting another lesson from Land Run I was babying my drivetrain, dodging the post-rain mud bogs and walking as needed. A low water crossing let me to clean things up a bit. Still, even with a clean-looking drivetrain, gravel can be cruel. It was around round mile 140 I heard a horrible thud as my derailleur, without warning, was sucked into my rear wheel. Amazingly, planning for this scenario paid off and I didn’t turn the crank even a single degree as I unclipped and coasted to a stop. I sighed and prepared to convert to single speed, but instead managed to free the spoke that was kissing a jockey wheel and gingerly ease back into riding up with gears. I held my breath but as long as I stayed out of the granny gear the bike was noisy but still rolling.
I could still ride, and if I had to I could still convert to single speed. But now I was armed with excuse #2: the bike is broken.
At the same time, probably because I had opened the door to excuses, two more snuck in. First, the rain had killed my iPhone. I still had a SPOT tracker running and could signal for help if I needed to, but mentally the phone was a big deal. I also realized that my stomach had stopped processing food, and wanted to send back anything I put in. Unpleasant, and potentially a big deal to a diabetic who can literally bonk to death.
So here we are. Mile 140 and I had enough excuses to tell myself the big lie: I could roll into Checkpoint 3 and quit without feeling shame.
Over the next 20 miles I didn’t see any other riders or Jeeps. I did, however, start having to fight my blood sugar down. The Dexcom device that monitors my glucose levels got fouled by mud and failed. I started wondering how safely a diabetic who couldn’t keep food down could survive in the dark without a cellular phone. Excuse #5.
While my mind fed me lies I saw a single red blinking light up the road a mile or more away. Who did that light belong to? I slowly reeled it in to see who else was still riding through this craziness.
Early in the day. Photo credit to Kim Morris @ http://kimmorris.com.
There, at mile 160, was where I met my new best friend Sharon.
When I caught Sharon she was standing at an unmarked dirt road crossing, studying route cards in the dark. It turns out my Wahoo GPS had jumped right back on track after the flood detour, but her Garmin never got back on track. I offered to lead the way the last few miles into Checkpoint 3, and as we got to know each other I realized I was no longer a diabetic alone in the dark.
I was glad for the company, but I saw one of my excuses slipping away. Without the safety issue I could probably go on, but the bike was now shifting itself often. I decided if I could sort out the mechanical issue at the stop I might roll on, but if it was I would probably call it a day.
We rolled in to Checkpoint 3 at 10:12pm, 30 minutes before it would close. Shanon headed off to to find her drop bags, with a promise to regroup soon and figure out what happens next. Once again I was surprised by my wonderful wife. I expected sympathy and concern. That probably would have ended my day. Instead I got a hug and a smile, before she switched into no-nonsense mode. “What do you need? We need to get you moving. The bike has a problem? Just give it to me and take care of yourself… I have a surprise.”
Surprise? It was late, and the Checkpoint was emptying fast. Who could possibly still be around?
The unstoppable Bobby Wintle
Bobby Wintle, of course. Bobby and a pack of the District Bicycles group had hung out after their own last rider had come through, to help and encourage a pair of riders they didn’t know. While I caught my breath, visited the port-o-john, and tried to regroup they swarmed my bike like pirahnas. I know Bobby straightened my bent hanger to get my shifting back in shape, but Bobby wouldn’t stop until it was shifting great and my brakes were adjusted. When Sharon rolled up the jumped on her bike like a Nascar pit crew too.
In just a few minutes metal had been bent, hugs had been given by family and new friends. My excuses were revealed for the lies they were. Then Robin showed me videos my 6-year-old twin boys had sent from home. “We’re pretending bike race, Daddy! Never give up! Never give up!”
What could I say? “Dammit. Come on Sharon. Let’s ride.”
We had lost a lot of time. Still, we had about 4 hours to do about 45 miles. It shouldn’t be a problem. With all the big climbs behind us 11.25 mph would be easy.
Over the next hour Sharon and I got to know each other. I learned about her husband Carlos, her love of riding gravel with him, her pleasure getting to know the Kanza crew at the training camp this year, and how hungry she was to rise to the challenge of DK200. After that hour I I wanted her to finish even more than I wanted myself to.
I could tell she was worried about my blood sugar, and I was worried about her legs that seemed to be running out of steam. I promised I wouldn’t leave her out there, and that we would cross that line together.
But, we had a big problem. Looking at my GPS I could see what she couldn’t: we were going 1-2 mph too slow to beat the clock, and we weren’t getting any faster. My instinct to push the pace by bombing every downhill in the dark was leaving her behind, and the combination of caution and tired legs simply wouldn’t get us there in time.
I could hear in her voice how bad she wanted this. I did too. When her voice cracked I could feel how tired her legs were. Mine weren’t much better. I jumped in front, stayed off the brakes, and promised I’d call out anything wet, loose, or rocky before she crossed it. That helped, but not enough. The computer said we weren’t going to make it. So, I did what anyone would do to encourage their new best friend in the dark.
“13 mph will get us there in time! You’ve done 13 all day!”
She, like me, was right at a 9.6mph average.
“Just another hour! You’ve done this for 19 hours already! One more is nothing!”
We were still nearly 2 hours from the end.
“That’s it! You’re doing 14! 14 will get it you there in time!”
We were turning 16-17mph.
“45 more minutes! You can push it for 45 more minutes!”
One hour, 20 minutes to go.
I did keep repeating one thing that was 100% true: “You are going to do this. We are going to do this together. I’m not crossing that line without you.”
It turns out Sharon is far stronger than she thought she was. I could tell she was hurting in the dark, but she was getting faster. I could hear her hurting. She fell off my wheel, and then clawed right back. But she never, ever stopped.
Just a few miles out of town I realized I had one excuse left. There’s an ugly but real truth about an exercising diabetic: hypoglycemia is a monster. Just walking around my body can run out of glucose and literally bonk to death. I had been riding 19+ hours, and hadn’t been able to keep carbs down for the last 4. Sensors jammed in my side usually give me an early warning system, but the conditions had killed them just like my iPhone, hours ago. I started to get dizzy and just wanted to pull over, shovel sugar in my face, and wait for my body to feel human again.
At this point, however, any stop would end my chance to beat the clock. I could accept coming in a few minutes late, but not unless I had exhausted every option. By now I was soft-pedaling, probably only doing 5mph. I’m sure the spotters were telling the people at the line to start shutting down. I was shouting at Sharon that I was alright and not to stop. I heard my boys’ voices again, singing the song they had sent me earlier. “Never give up, Daddy! Never give up.” I had a few packs of Glukos, water mixed with glucose in a form so simple it hits you near-instantly. That wasn’t for fuel; that was for emergencies. I pounded two, trusting that even if I collapsed it would do it’s job before I passed out, and made myself pick up the pace rolling up the last climb into town and the downhill to the line.
Thanks to whoever captured this and passed it along to my wife.
My vision narrowed to a tunnel. I believed that Sharon had listened I said I was alright and pushed on ahead. I put my head down, trusting that the crowd would be thinned out and those left would stay out of my way, and turned the cranks. I was amazed to see Jim Cummins still at the line, and the clock still running. Our great friends John, Mike, and Kaat helped grab my things and delivered hugs… I’m still grateful they had stayed up after their own long days to see me come in. Of course my partner/crew/best friend Robin was there for me. Just like she had been all day.
I asked and someone assured me Sharon had made it. Then they told me I had made it in with only 43 seconds to spare (the official clock ended up being 51 seconds, but who’s counting). My first thought? I’ll make the midnight club next year.
Then I laid down in the street for a little nap.
P.S. for Sharon. I would have stopped in Madison without you. Your enthusiasm in those last miles before CP3 convinced me I could keep going. Then your drive convinced me I had to keep going. I told you we’d cross that line together in time, and we did. Do you forgive me for lying a bit in those last couple of hours? I told you your legs were lying to you!
andulkaphoto
prguitarman
titsay
stormborns
jbbartram-illu
jacobvanloon
blakekathryn