The Dirty Kanza 200 - 2 "hey who turned on the wind?"

Back on the bike and climbing the disturbingly steep hill out of Madison, two boys, not much older than my own, congratulated me. They offered high fives for a reward and good luck. I wouldn’t even make it two more blocks before turning west, and face first into the wall of wind that would push me backward for the remainder of the day. I tried swearing at it, but it no one could hear over the roar. The forecasters said up to 20mph, I think they were off by ten. I consulted my map to see where I could have any relief, but it looked like I was riding mostly west, with very short tacks to the south. This leg was going to take a while. Because I had been such a lead ass in Madison, I was now riding toward the middle back of the pack (or perhaps the back) and there were few people to draft of share the duties of cutting of the wind. I could catch riders, but would always outpace them climbing. The game of long uphill climbs had also begun to set in. Riders now faced the wind struggling uphill and down. This leg would mark the first time I gave mental or physical aid to a rider. I can’t remember his name, but he had already begun to struggle with cramps. I slowed and offered my draft. He said he had been with a group, but had dropped out when his legs started to complain. I pulled him for the longest five miles of my life, the howling wind can be thanked for that. Finally we reached a turn to the south, and with that he pulled around me. He asked me to hang on his wheel and took off. I tried, I really did, but my legs needed a snack and I needed a moment to roll. I don’t know where he went after that, aside from over the next hill, but I hope he finished well. I would only get two miles to the south, god that was short, before I was into the wind again. Ugh. I found myself locked in a grind, each pedal stroke felt just like the last. Each blast of the wind made me grimace. I took solace in eating, drinking, and looking around often. The rolling hills were beautiful and it had become a perfect Kansas day. Somewhere on Battle Creek Road I found some riders of similar disposition to me, one had blown a spoke and surprisingly was from Tonganoxie. The other, Bobby, was cursing the wind as much as I had been. We took comfort in our common enemy and would work as a threesome, sometimes five-some depending who we caught or caught us, against the wind and the hills. Right about this time I saw what had to be Texaco Hill, and it looked like two miles of up. I set my gears and my mind to spinning. I knew sooner or later I would make it to the top. I ignored the wind, I ignored thirst, and I climbed. I climbed some more, and when I thought I surely had run out of hill, I climbed a little further. Whew, at the apex of the hill I offered myself a reward, a brief stop to look back and take a photograph of a now limitless valley view. The kid from Tonganoxie and Bobby would come by a few minutes later, noting that everyone did that. Well, it was still my moment. Back on the cranks, I found myself in pursuit again. I would chase the kid from Tongie and Bobby up and down countless hills. They had warned me about the rollers going into Cassoday, but I had thought it would be just like what I had seen so far. Yeah, not quite. The two rollers, I would hear everyone talk about later, were two half-mile climbs, that seem to go up so steeply that you would fall off your bike if you leaned back much past upright. These terrible twins burned your legs, forced you to pull from deep inside, and made you pray for even the briefest of respite from the wind. I saw more than one cyclist dismount and walk, I considered it, but I would have fallen over long before getting my clips clear of the pedals. Standing, spinning, grunting, it all happened in hopes of climbing the hills in front of me. Finally when I came to the top, I was rewarded with another view and big gust of wind. Eh, might as well keep moving. Cassoday waits. Right about this time I had my one unfortunate event, a bee landed on my saddle to hitch a ride. I didn’t know this until I sat down and it stung me. I swore, swerved, and a stopped to crush the offending bug. After this little circus, I lost track of a lot of things, but soon found myself on pavement again. As I rolled down the hill into town, the kid from Tongie joined me again. His rear wheel now looked like a Pringle thanks to his broken spoke. He told me he was out, unable to go any further. I asked him to save me a beer in Emporia. I rolled to the checkpoint and had to turn around. Someone had cruelly put the rest stop back up the last hill. L looked worried, It had taken me five hours fifteen minutes to slog through the wind. I promptly sat down and enjoyed a Coke and some food. As L reloaded me, the support crews looked for Jason; he was later than I was. I hadn’t seen him since the first leg, where he blasted past me easily, so I thought he was ahead of me. When he came in, he didn’t look tired but very calmly sat down and called his day. I still don’t know if it was the call of the beer, the howl of the wind, or some unseen ache that made one of the strongest cyclists from our group quit. I couldn’t ask, I had sat too long again, fifty-five minutes this time. I told L that this leg would have a brief east ride, and then a very long ride directly into the wind. It would take me a while, but I would get there. A kiss and off I went.

The Dirty Kanza 200 - A start.

I found myself standing in front of the Granada in not yet sunny downtown Emporia, KS, with a thousand other cyclists. After a brief pit stop, I saw Dan Hughes. He looked like it was any other day; he was ready for a normal ride in the countryside. We wished each other luck; as he wandered off to find a spot to start. I walked past the front of the pack, the leaders and those who could not stand to see saddles before them, these men and women looked hard. The atmosphere around them did not seem to sink in, the rest of us mortals were enjoying the pre-adventure buzz. The lead pack was ready to push as hard as they could, as long as they could, until there was nothing left. This might be a good point to note my friend Roger, in the front of the pack; First wheel dead center. My good morning fist bump wasn’t really noticed, he had apparently set his mind to the task at hand. A quick picture and I shuffled off so he could concentrate on his fight. The beautiful L and I began to look around for Lawrence Mountain Bike Club members. I hoped they were under the time I hoped to come across the finish line many hours from now. Chuck, Craig, and Rod appeared, and we all relaxed under the veil of a 16-hour finish. Chuck fired off mass start advice; perhaps fueled by the nutrient Goo. He advised me to watch for pile-ups, it wouldn’t take much to cause a heap of cyclists early on. Either way, I figured I had fat tires and would just ride over any heaps of cycle and lycra, should they crash in front of me. It’s not nice, but I had no intent of falling down in Emporia.  One last check of everything and the spectators began to shuffle out of the way. It was time to take that first pedal stroke.

At the stroke of six, nearly 1,000 cyclists rolled forward en mass, dutifully following their police escort down Commercial Street to the edge of town. I wouldn’t say we were going fast, but it was definitely the leader’s pace, something I didn’t expect to hold for long. I did notice a few confused faces as the pack rolled through stoplights.  When we turned onto gravel, the group bunched up again. I had to track stand to keep from mowing over a few smaller rigs. On the gravel the pace lines extended for what seemed like two miles. It was early and the riders consumed the gravel. We were now moving fast, much faster than the pace I had mentally set, but it was calm, the road felt like it was going downhill, and 500 bikes were sucking me along. Eh, roll with it I thought. I figured everyone would calm down. I figured the club would drop off the speed and go back to conserving energy looking for the long finish. I was using the wrong math. After ten fast miles, I decided I would not be able to hold this pace forever and I dropped off to race against myself. Now this isn't to say that I dropped all the way to the back, pulling the rear. I was still passing people without much effort and I still rolled fast and comfortably. My big tires, wide range of gears, and comfort atop my bike allowed me to take crappier lines, out climb, and out descend a lot of lightly laden bikes.  I owe someone at Salsa a Christmas card for the el Mariachi. I was drafting people when I could, trying to make friends, and trying to pick out a group that could run to the end. Strangely most people seemed really irritated that a dude in a mountain bike jersey had ran them down carrying at least twice as much crap as they seemed to be. Eh, probably all in my head.

The miles were turning over quickly, and with the ticker the landscape thinned of the marks of civilization. One climb would be followed by a descent, one turn followed by a climb. How dry the gravel looked surprised me; most of Kansas had received five inches of rain over the last four days, and I was expected flooded roads. No time like the present to eat my words, so imagine my surprise when right about mile 17, a nice climb and a left hand turn revealed a ¼ mile mud bog. Guess it had rained here after all. The cross guys were dismounting and tiptoeing around the edges of the pits, I thought, I could just skirt across a ridge and roll the bike over the crust. Yeah, not so much. I quickly accumulated enough mud in the fork that I couldn’t roll the bike. A drag or two later and I was back on solid(ish) ground, quickly pulling wads of mud off my frame to free the wheels and shifters. Mental note, just follow the little bikes. I rode a few hundred yards, and had to dismount again to skirt an equally deep bog. Another muck clean and off we went, throwing flint and mud everywhere. I’m sorry if you were behind me.  I would have chance to clear more of my tires after a brief climb, and the first of many big downhill sections. We had reached Teapot Mound Road, the first of the stunning valley views we would have over the next 200 miles. Climbing turns and sweeping downhills defined the roads now. Cows were now freely roaming, and more than once I would rocket down a hill, just to see a small water crossing at the foot of the hill. If I was lucky I got to see someone ride through; If not, I pulled back on the bars and hoped for the best. I started to feel the remote feeling of the open range. I was losing my self in my thoughts when I woke up suddenly. A woman in a cut off t-shirt standing by the one of the rescue Jeeps told me I had to dismount. I asked why, slowing to hear her answer, the next water crossing was under water. Actually, a river had sprung up in the middle of the course, fueled by a week of rain. As I heaved my bike onto my shoulder, I briefly regretted carrying all of my gear on a steel bike. 200 feet later, with extra wet feet, I was done with the race’s big water crossing. Climbing the mud soaked hill, I passed several riders who had stopped to mend a tube or dry their feet. I didn’t want to stop, so I elected to push on until I could make the first stop in Madison. I hoped my shoes would drain enough to put dry socks in them. The riding was fast and the weather was perfect. I didn’t realize that the wind had picked up, but I knew I as moving faster than anticipated. Maybe I just felt really good? Suddenly, almost too soon, pavement appeared and I raced into Madison hot behind a pack of riders. I cruised into the heart of town to check in.  I had my second map! It was time to find L and reload fuel and water. L looked startled when I had appeared in just three hours thirty minutes. I didn’t believe it myself. While she set to drying my shoes and reloading my gear I enjoyed an egg sandwich and some chocolate milk. I didn’t realize it until too late, that I had been sitting for 45 minutes.