An Ode to the Gravel Metric: A dirge in E-flat major

For a bike race that wasn't a race, I sure spent a lot of time on Saturday getting ready for Sunday.  I washed two (cross + road) bikes, swapped  my commuting wheels for my race wheels, tuned my cross bike, packed tools and gear, bought food, bought a new under seat bag for a spare tube, mixed up some of my home brew energy gel + energy drink, and then at 10pm realized I hadn't packed any clothes and my team kit was dirty.  I was hoping to be in bed by 10pm.  It was after 12AM when my head hit the pillow.

My alarm was ringing at 5:45AM, and I was up.  I did finish packing everything the night before, so my to-do list was short.  I had to put on my kit (with a still damp shammy, blergh), have some breakfast, throw on my backpack, and headed out the door with the Falcon.  I was getting a ride from my friend Jackie which meant I had a short pedal to get downtown so I could take the blue line West to  Forest Park.  This time I skipped the Grand stop and took a shortcut across the blue-line loop downtown and picked up a train at Halsted and UIC.  Jackie picked me up at 7:30am, and we headed west to Dekalb.  Traffic was good, the company was even better, and the miles went fast.  We arrived at NCC with what seemed like plenty of time.  Instead of registering right then, we ran to Walgreens for sunscreen and extra water (both turned out to be absolute necessities), and returned to the parking lot at 8:45am, and made it over to registration at 8:55AM.  The race started at 9AM so we cut it a little close for comfort, but I had time for one last visit to the bedroom before we rolled out.

Although I came in late to the line-up I pulled up near the front of the pack off to the side.  I did not want to get shuffled off the back at the start, as I was hoping to ride well, and stay near the front for a while.  I probably should have explained my goals to Jackie prior to the start, who was kind of taken aback when I suggested I take the keys since I would most likely be the first person back to the car.  The neutral roll-out with police escort was really fun.  It was slow, only about 15mph, so there was lots of time to banter back and forth, and we all talked a mean game.  The weather was warm, but the sky was still a little overcast and the sun was still low in the east behind us.

We made it to Twomblee Road without incident, and although the race was supposed to start when the police escort left, we continued to tool onward at 15-16mph.  So we continued down the road like a spark traveling down a cartoon fuse looking for a bomb to explode.  I had never been to this race before, so I wasn't sure at first what that bomb looked like.  I didn't know what was going to set loose the pent up fury in this calm pack of riders.  But as we rode into the westerly wind on Twomblee Rd we came over a ridge, and I saw it in the distance.  A few miles ahead there was a stark line of contrast between the black asphalt and the shimmering white gravel.  That was our bomb.

When we hit the edge of pavement the field exploded forward.  The leaders surged forward the field followed like a stretched slinky, and the road got gnarly.  I was more than a little surprised by the condition of the road.  I was expecting gravel like I had seen before, at the Killer Gravel Road race or on the Des Plaines River trail, but this wasn't a gravel road as much as it was just a pile of loose gravel between two grassy banks.  It was like a river of gravel washing downhill in the lowest spot of the country.  It had a liquid consistency, and was more like riding on sand, big, angry, and sharp pieces of sand, than it was like riding on a road.  Some took to the grass margins to avoid it, but most plowed down the two tire tracks that were available.  I saw it clearly when a rider in red and white moved across from the left line to the right line to fill a perceived gap, and clipped my teammate Robbie's front wheel.  Robbie went down, and I thought about stopping to check on him, but he was up quickly, and was back on his bike in a flash.  In that case the softness of the gravel probably helped in that it moved beneath his hand like sand to "cushion" his fall.  You know, as much as gravel can be cushy.

The field surged on.  We hit our first turn and caught our first breath of tail wind.  The leaders started to push the pace, and I clung to them like a burr on the tail of a dog.  I pushed with them for a solid two miles watching my heart rate climb out of the safe zone into the red zone.  When my turn came I pulled around in front and took a turn pulling, but for the most part I tried to be smart and just hang on, as the gap continued to widen between the lead pack of 11 riders, and the rest of the field.  We opened up a wide enough gap that we felt comfortable stopping even, to take a bio-break at a nice drainage ditch.  It was the last time I would need to relieve myself until I got home at 7:30pm, nine and a half hours later.

Shortly thereafter, my race took a turn for the worst.  It started with the remount.  I revved up my motor and climbed back up to speed quickly, more quickly than the rest of the field and ended up out front.  The course took a turn to the left, and started uphill into the wind.  I was feeling pretty good, so I didn't mind starting out on the front.  Except the front turned out to be a "break away."  So I ended up pulling another rider who went with me on this faux-break (no one really expects the big Cat 3 guy to sustain a breakaway including the big Cat 3 guy), when I was ready to fall back, the field was 100-150yds behind.  So what did I do?  I kept on grinding.  I knew they would catch me eventually.  And catch me they did.  Just in time for a downhill sprint, then a right turn onto the first REALLY abusive stretch of "road".  It wasn't a road really, just two hard-dried muddy ruts over grown with grass through a field.  It was here that I started to suffer, and to fall off the pack.  There was no one within sight, and it was way too early to be riding alone.  I pushed back into the red to hang on.  I fell off for a bit, but we came up on another hill, and the field slowed down, and I got washed out into the lead again.  So I pulled the field up another hill.  This time?  I slowed down.  Way down.  You want to ride the big mule until he dies?  That's fine.  But he's going out on his own terms.  Mumford eventually got twitchy and came out to take the lead, to sprint to the top of the overpass before we dropped down into Creston.

I almost had a big break in Creston.  We made it across IL-38 with only a minor pause for traffic, but as we were leaving town, just as we were pulling up to the train tracks, the lights started flashing and the crossing guards came down.  I was in the lead again (fast off the line again), and I did not hesitate, I slowed a little to see the train was still 300 yds away, and swerved around the barriers and kept riding.  One other guy came with me, and the rest of the lead pack paused.  They head faked twice, and then snuck through before the train.  We found out later that those behind us had to wait 10 minutes for the trains to pass.  If I had a 10 minute gap on the leaders?  Well.  Remember this is a dirge.

The leaders did stare down that oncoming train and sneak through, and as the land continued to climb, I started to fade.  This time I was really fading.  I could not stay with the lead pack and fell off for what I feared was for good.  I was saved momentarily by the first rest stop.  As I pulled up to get some water, the leaders were still there filling bottles and taking in fruit.  I didn't have more than a minute standing and catching my breath before they were off again.  I didn't even get to top off a water bottle. I hopped back on my bike and headed down a freshly grated dirt road.  It was rough, and my efforts seemed in vain.  I fell off the leaders before we made the next turn south to ride into the wind again.  There were a couple other stragglers who I glommed onto for a while as we headed through some very loose gravel, but soon passed them to try and re-attach.  It was then that I saw a forboding sign.

DEAD END.

The route on my garmin ran straight down this so-called "dead end" road onto the next turn.  The quality of the road got poor again, a choice of three ruts.  At one point I remember being in a rut, trying to pedal and ending up catching my left pedal on the edge of the rut and actually having enough momentum to pedal up and over, lifting my back wheel off the ground.  Somehow I didn't wipe out and die.

I kept on riding and when I came to the river crossing, I could see no one ahead of me, so I didn't know what to do.  It looked ride able, and I did not see wet footsteps on the  other side, so I picked what looked to be a clean line to the left, and hit it.  It was rough, but I made it through without tumbling.  Unfortunately I did not make it through unscathed.

PSSSSSSSFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTTT.  The first flat.  E-flat.  

Before I was 20 yds on the other side of the stream my rear rim clanking against the gravel.  I swore, pulled over, and went to work.  I remember that my legs were involuntarily spasming so badly that I could hardly stand.  I tried to breathe, and just do my work.  I got the tube changed, and one of the guys who was there taking pictures came over to help out.  He remounted my tire after I inflated it, while I wrangled stuff.  The kindness of a stranger was enough to get me going again.  I knew I wasn't going to catch the leaders again, not that I was ever going to catch them, but I had only been passed by a handful of riders, and I could maybe catch them again.

So I headed up the hill.  I made up and over the railroad tracks, and when I remounted, I realized my front wheel started to make a metalic crunching in the gravel.

The second flat.  A-flat.  

I was 38 miles into a 62mile race, and my second spare tube never made it out of the my backpack in the car.  In my haste to get to the start I did not dig out out.  So I mentally kicked myself and start walking.  I walked for about 5 minutes before the first rider passed me. I think four or five guys (who I will not call out by name for leaving me to die in the desert) went by without slowing down before a teammate came by and saved my life.  Robbie had a spare tube in his jersey pocket, and he slowed long enough to pull it out and toss it to me.  I had everything else I needed, a CO2 cartridge, levers, I was just just 1 tube short of making a change.

I looked at the tube, and it looked a little narrow, like maybe it was a 20-28mm tube, and thought about my big 32 mm wheels, but it was the only option I had.  So I put it in, carefully checking the inner tirewall for obstructions, and then I used my second CO2 to carefully re-inflate and get riding.

So I started grinding alone again.  Up until the first flat, I felt like I was having a really good race.  Even if I couldn't stay with the leaders until the finish, I expected that we were plenty far ahead of the rest of the field that I could grind it out.  After my second flat, my spirits went flat.  There were a lot of guys ahead of me that I was hoping to beat.  But I didn't give up.  There were only two ways back to Dekalb, the short way and the race course.  We were approaching the farthest point, so there wasn't much difference at the time.  So I ground on.   I made up time, I caught riders, I gained on the field.

The most emotionally painful part of the course was Woodlawn Road.  It was a 4 mile down and back, so as I was grinding up a hill the leaders, guys who I had been riding with 15 minutes earlier started passing me on the way down.  They looked fresh and fast still, and I felt dead and slow.  But I kept riding.  It was a long slow grind up hill.  At some point I realized that I was horripulating and shivering.  My garmin read 98 degrees and I was cold.  Conventional wisdom was consulted and this was not considered a good sign.  I pulled up to the rest station and there was a crowd.  A crowd of guys that I knew including Chris Jensen, PB, the younger Lombardo, and others.  They were still snacking on oranges so I went straight for what I needed, water in my camelpak.  I only had a few minutes before they were ready to shove off so I went to pick up my bike.

The final flat.  B-flat.

My front wheel had gone again.  I had noticed on the way up the hill that the sidewall was rubbing on the brake and had loosened the adjust to make them as wide as possible.  I'm not certain if the tube ruptured and filled up tire (wheels are tubeless compatible) which then leaked because there was no sealant, or what.  But the third flat was a crushing blow.  I was fortunate that the rest stop had a full supply of tubes, and a pump (that was broken) but I was able to sit down on the tailgate, get a tube in my tire, and put enough pressure in it to ride.  Thankfully the worst of the roads were over, I had some spare tubes (so only needed to borrow a pump if the race was going to shift to the key of F minor), but my spirits were broken. 

My spirits were broken, the temperature was in the hundreds, and I was 25 miles from the finish.

In the bar after the race Chris Jensen summarized it thusly: "We came out here this morning to do something hard, and damn it, it was hard."

Those were the hardest 25 miles of my life.

My heart rate which was pushing 160-170 for the first 30 miles would not go above 140 without causing me to feel nauseous and light headed.  My shoulders ached, my sit bones brutalized, and my stomach was full of water, and gels, and energy drink.  I couldn't drink anymore, so I would suck the hot water out of my hose, blow it into my lap, then pull a mouthful of cool water and swish it in my mouth until it started to get warm.  I would then blow it onto an arm, a leg, my chest, or the road doing anything I could to get some heat, any heat at all, to leave my body.

I was able to reel in a few riders on the way back into town, and did not lose ground to any, but it wasn't about placing anymore.  It wasn't even really about finishing anymore.  It had devolved into an exercise of simple physical survival.

I pulled into the parking lot behind NCC, and was warmly congratulated by those who had already had time to cool off and change.  I sat down in the shade for a minute and tried successfully not to vomit.  After sitting for a few minutes I realized I had not, in the hustle and bustle of the morning even bothered to fire off a quick "I love you" text message to my girlfriend Morleigh who was planning on meeting me at the finish.  So I did.  Right then.

"Lpbe you"

Clearly I was not functioning at a high level.  I got up to look for her, dug my phone out of the waterproof bag, and just as I dialed her, I spotted her car under the shade of a tree.  She got out, came over to me, and started nursing me back from the dead.  We walked around the building and found the hose.  It was broken, leaking cool clear water onto the ground, so when it was my turn I just grabbed the break and held it first to my legs, then my arms, and then finally across the back of my neck.  My girlfriend told me after the fact that, at that exact moment I let out a guttural animal growl that kind of frightened her.  All I remember is that it felt sooooooo good.  I washed off my legs, then my arm, and then moved up to splash water over the back of my neck and finally into my hair.  I didn't hog the good feeling wanting to share it with others who straggled around the corner.  Morleigh and I headed back to my her car, and then to Jackie's car.  I had her keys so I was able to change, and we moved back into the shade to sit and cool in the AC while waiting for Jackie to finish.  When she rolled into the parking lot we saw her from a distance, and I got up to go help her, and realized I had dropped the car keys.  After a few frantic minutes of searching I found them under the seat, along with a Coach bracelet.  I kept the keys and gave the bracelet to Morleigh.

Just as I was getting ready to head over to find Jackie she texted me:

"Please go to my car."

I found Jackie at the hose, having just experienced the same baptism and rebirth that I had experienced when I found the hose.  She had just finished dousing herself and was looking like she had just walked out of the ocean in a swimsuit ad.  So I grabbed her helmet and shoes, picked up bike, and walked her back to Morleigh's car.  She was still feeling the effects of the heat, so Morleigh gave her an air conditioned ride for the two blocks to her car while I soft-pedaled her bike.  She changed into people clothes, and we headed off to the bar for post race festivities.  I didn't have my free daisy cutter, but did win a water bottle and a large T-shirt.  A large women's T-shirt.  At that point, I didn't care.  It was time to go to Culvers and engage in my traditional post race debauchery.  Root beer, a buttery burger of some sort, and some cheese curds.  Morleigh and I even split a sundae on the way home.

I didn't win the race that isn't a race, I didn't lose the ride that wasn't just a ride.  Last year's flooding and thunderstorms were replaced by the fires of hell.  The Gravel Metric is nothing if not Epic.