The entire town showed up at the park to support the race and enjoy the festivities. It was refreshing to see a diverse community come together for bikes, music and celebration. Ranchers with hands weathered from years of work and cowboy hats unloaded their bikes for the event. Dreadlocked grandma’s watched children as parents raced. Locals chatted at the start and gave tips. “The first 17 miles are climbing then it flattens out for several miles, then it is all downhill.”Never trust locals; it is all relative. 
After Smokey the Bear lead us through a short neutral start, the pavement disappeared and the gravel 6 km climb started. Shot was already about 1km up the road with 200 people between us. That would be the last I saw of him until the finish. I entered the single track probably mid-pack. The hard packed dirt single track flowed through birch trees, fields of wild flowers, pine trees and valleys packed with ferns. Little wooden bridges kept my feet dry over the occasional creek in the well designed and maintained trails. I was rolling alone at 30 km enjoying the scenery as the trail seemed to level out. I rolled up on a dream weaver and passed him all my food because he was bonking. I was relieved when the trail started downward in a mix of single track, short rock garden sections and wide open gravel fire roads. I hit the second-to-last aid station, where I expected the “all downhill” from the locals’ tips. Wrong. I started the first of two climbs, each several kilometers. They hurt. No food and only one bottle. I started to dream of frying salty bacon. After the first climb I rolled through the bacon station. No bacon yet. I was crushed. No bacon. Really? I came all the way from Missouri for a PBR and bacon. I rolled on up the final climb and ran out of water but finished the ride only slightly dehydrated. 
DoubleShot was waiting. I had told him that if he finished under 4 hours I would share my post-race secret with him-- fried chicken. He crushed the time, even without a watch.
After Smokey the Bear lead us through a short neutral start, the pavement disappeared and the gravel 6 km climb started. Shot was already about 1km up the road with 200 people between us. That would be the last I saw of him until the finish. I entered the single track probably mid-pack. The hard packed dirt single track flowed through birch trees, fields of wild flowers, pine trees and valleys packed with ferns. Little wooden bridges kept my feet dry over the occasional creek in the well designed and maintained trails. I was rolling alone at 30 km enjoying the scenery as the trail seemed to level out. I rolled up on a dream weaver and passed him all my food because he was bonking. I was relieved when the trail started downward in a mix of single track, short rock garden sections and wide open gravel fire roads. I hit the second-to-last aid station, where I expected the “all downhill” from the locals’ tips. Wrong. I started the first of two climbs, each several kilometers. They hurt. No food and only one bottle. I started to dream of frying salty bacon. After the first climb I rolled through the bacon station. No bacon yet. I was crushed. No bacon. Really? I came all the way from Missouri for a PBR and bacon. I rolled on up the final climb and ran out of water but finished the ride only slightly dehydrated. DoubleShot was waiting. I had told him that if he finished under 4 hours I would share my post-race secret with him-- fried chicken. He crushed the time, even without a watch. How did I finish? Somewhere around 4:28 despite all of DoubleShot’s training tips. Just proves that no matter what I do, pack fodder I am. So why not take a day off and forget the training program? Why travel so far for a race with no chance of winning? Rumors of great riding. And I was completely satisfied.
PS - Still no tubes sorry for the late post.
1 comment:
did you go to Wall Drug?
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