Here’s a fresh metaphor for starters: life is a spiral. Or rather, a Slinky resting on both of its ends. And I might have completed another turn going “up”, because it feels like progress and a wash at the same time.

Before September 19th, 2021, I had a strange, somewhat unhealthy relationship with my road bike. Every time I’d get on it, I’d feel like there had to be a purpose. Every pedal stroke was supposed to make me faster. No place for joy, no moments of execution. A perpetual training toward nothing. Not only did I not know the solution to the problem, I didn’t even perceive that there was anything wrong with it. Until I broke a spoke. Perhaps on Wednesday. I have no recollection of that exact moment (why would I?). I just checked my Strava now while writing this to see when the last ride was before the weekend. But I do remember the Sunday morning, as if it were one of the most memorable days of my life (maybe it was). That’s when my six-year-old and I went to Mike’s Bikes of Palo Alto to fix that wheel. Those were the “good” old days when I only had one bike to ride, and it seemed like enough. Put me in those shoes now, without even a spare wheelset, and the anxiety will perhaps eat me alive. That’s like walking on a frozen lake in Spring. If you push your luck long enough, you’ll have to find joy in swimming. But I was a few weeks sober by now, and had too much energy and motivation to spare, so having my horsie taken away for a couple of days opened a void big enough that it could suck me in and spit me out onto the dark side of my past, unless immediately filled.

So, I looked at the indoor trainers, and they looked back at me, asking, “What else needs to happen for you to finally pull the trigger”? Well, I suppose at that moment even my kid already knew the answer, but I wisely responded with an eternal classic: “Yes, but first — coffee”. Then added: “And a hot chocolate, medium temperature, with whipped cream, of course.” We drove to Verve Coffee, thoroughly discussed the matter, then headed straight back to the bike shop. Can you buy happiness? Well, the answer is “it depends”. But if the inner peace makes one happy, then I just bought a small piece of mine.

Peace came from magically solving my not-yet-acknowledged problem. The side that’s obvious to any person with an athletic obsession is that only consistent training will make you better (as in faster, or stronger, or durablerier). This played an important role in the further development of the story. But that’s a long game. An immediate, overwhelmingly positive impact was on how I was now perceiving my rides out in the real world. Now, when I had a spot in the corner of a rented apartment that I could proudly call a pain cave, and where all the hard work now was being done, I gave myself an indulgence to do whatever the heck I’m pleased to do when rubber touches the tarmac. Which would go both ways: if I feel like beating the shit out of myself on every climb — knock yourself out, my friend; if I want to roll like a slouch — my innie won’t judge. I basically invented The Severance before it became trendy. Suffer inside, play outdoors. And so myself an I lived happily ever after.

Until a few weeks ago, I read this piece by Dominic Rivard “Are You Actually Riding, Or Just Collecting Content?” 2025 was the year when I could sense that something's off, and this story happened to be the nudge to stop and think. Am I still having fun riding my bike, or am I back in the never-ending state of grind? And if I am, then what is it that I’m collecting? If it were, once again, a perpetual obsession with fitness improvement, it wouldn’t be that bad. But it’s not that. What is it then?

Since Dominic’s story is now behind the paywall, I’ll give you two key aspects he’s talking about (all in my own words, hoping that the memory serves me right):

1. While out on a ride, the author often finds himself looking at the world around him not with wonder, but in a constant search for a perfect picture to post later on.
2. And naturally, when those pictures have been snapped, he can’t help but think and think and think of a good title and description to accompany them with. He even uses a clever notion of pre-memories, but if you’re wondering what in the world that could mean, I’d encourage you to pay your dues and read the original story at the link above. I don’t want to step into the territory of copyright infringement, even slightly.

Mind you, I’m not a picture-taking material. I’m not even a stopping-for-a-second-to-admire-the-beauty-around-me kind of a guy. But I do have a guilty pleasure of my own, which echoes loudly and clearly to both of the obsessions named above. I could take that story, auto-replace all occurrences of Instagram with Strava, the word “picture” and its synonyms with various kinds of “achievements”, title and description with… well, title and description, and the entire text would still make a whole lot of sense.

Even more to that. I don’t know about you, but tenish years ago, when Instagram was all the rage, we used to say, “If you didn’t post it, you didn’t eat it.” Which is no different from “If it’s not on Strava, it didn’t happen,” is it? I can hear you thinking, “Oh, this guy posts all his activities. Everyone does it, there’s nothing wrong with that.” LOL, I wish. Here’s where things are getting worse.

The problem is not in sharing the activity. It’s the self-imposed necessity to make it worth sharing. First, there has to be a standout achievement. It can be racing performance, or an impressive distance, or decent elevation gain, or a top-10 time on a random segment (bullshit, they are never random, it’s all pre-planned), or at least some significant PR, but that’s kinda pathetic. No matter the form, the validation must be there. And if it’s not, here comes the complementary piece of the puzzle.

I thought that maybe I shouldn't be so hard on myself. Maybe the truth is that I’m chasing the virtual hardware solely for my own entertainment. I’m no monk to deprive myself of little pleasurable sins. Making those achievements public is not even a vanity, but simply a rule of the game, because technically, you can’t win if you don’t open your hand. But unfortunately, such a theory does not explain the second part — obsessively crafting the title. Song lyrics, smart-ass wordplay, dad jokes, self-praise or belittlement, everything goes. I kid you not, I can spend two hours in the saddle thinking about nothing else but how I'm going to name my ride on Strava. If only I could get a penny for every minute of it.

And if you think I’m exaggerating, I’ll give you that: if it’s neither overly impressive in numbers, nor notably hilarious in words, then more often than not I don’t even post it! I just keep it private, as if I must be ashamed of being active and genuinely happy for a couple of hours. Ridiculous.

In the end, it feels like I’m riding for all kinds of reasons and purposes, except for my own joy. Even if it’s not true, even if all this is nothing more than noise in my head, it takes away its fair share of fun. And as the 2025/26 offseason progresses, it becomes more and more about the mental side of my hobbies. As I wrote a few weeks before, this slow-going winter has its undoubted benefits. It creates time and space for reflection. Brings up all the right, yet unpleasant, questions.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do about all this. There’s only one obvious medicine: quit or take a break from Strava. It wouldn’t be the first poisonous thing I’d cut out of my life. In fact, it’s probably the last one standing. I‘ve already either quit everything I possibly could or established barriers that made things hard enough for me to access, so I tend to forget that they even exist (I have literally zero distractors on my phone now, and it’s fucking awesome).

But frankly, Strava is different. No matter how many sides of it I wish didn’t exist, there’s one that makes it all worth it. With no exaggeration, people on Strava truly are my community. That’s how I’ve met a lot of great folks. That’s how I stay in touch with many. And for my humankind (aka expatriated sociopaths), it’s not that easy to cut one of not so many threads that keep us socially alive.

Time will tell.

Today, I’m writing not because I have something substantially meaningful to tell the world. Because the reality is that even if I had anything like that on my mind, no one reads this journal anyway. So, what’s the difference? But right now I’m desperate for the process, not the outcome.

I always want to write more. I think about that daily, but I rarely have ideas beyond race reports and other bike-related stuff, which can get old even to myself. And on top of that, I also have a history of writing some stupid crap and then having the audacity to post it for an audience broad enough to learn from the experience to be more self-critical. But today, just for a moment, I feel like I can overcome the fear of oversharing and just write about why today is so special.

Our small town got its first substantial snowfall of the season. It’s always special. Even if it’s already the beginning of December in the Ski Country, and we haven’t started the winter season yet. So yeah, anticipation would be too weak a word to describe the situation. So, when I told my friend that I had to plow the driveway three times today, I wasn’t complaining. I was bragging about this cozy attribute of rural life.

And once you come back inside, it just makes sense to make a coffee, get a blanket, grab a notebook, and write a story. Fortunately, modern MacBooks fit into this setting just as well as a Moleskine would do. So, I’d go with that.

The story is about time. Not the time that has been deliberately carved out of the daily cycle of work, family, and training. But the one that has been forcefully given. The true offseason. Only a week ago, the weather around here was so unusually pleasant that I would’ve rather jumped on my bike and gotten lost for a couple of hours. A few weeks from now, if in the same situation, I’d perhaps throw my twigs into the trunk and go hit the slopes. But right here, right now, I can’t do shit. Well, I tried running, but that was so embarrassing I didn’t even post it on Strava. And, in a nutshell, what I wanna say about this time is that I’m wholeheartedly grateful for it! Praised be the boredom.

The roses...

It’s like clipping a junkie to a heating radiator. Same concept and similar outcomes. Detox for the body that tends to be in a permanent state of exhaustion. Reflection opportunity for the mind that is otherwise too obsessed with performance right now, or tomorrow, or at the race next weekend. The only difference is that after everything is said and done, a junkie-me goes straight back to his dopamine dealer. Because it’s not a cure, I don’t want to be cured. But it’s a welcome medicine to keep the “bad habits” sustainable. It feels weird calling a physically active lifestyle bad, even taken in quotes, but in the context of an imposed recovery, it’s a “too much of a good thing” kind of situation that I’m talking about.

Training-wise, I’m not in a full OFF-mode either. After a short break for friends and family on Thanksgiving week, I'm already back to training. But now, being free from any self-imposed commitments, I can switch things up (or worse) to no regret. And somehow it feels like fun for a moment, and not like an endless, daunting grind.

... and the thorns

But hey, it’s not all pink ponies and sparkles. Self-reflection ruthlessly reveals everything, and the dark side found its way out.

Even though Mt Herman Rd begins pretty much in my backyard, in the years prior, I’d ride it up maybe 3 or 4 times a year. In 2025, I did that climb too many times to count. Sometimes it’s a necessary effort to earn the turns. But it’s not always that way. When I got there once again in the middle of October, one of the fellow HS coaches asked me what I was finding up there. Serenity, I replied, sincerely. But the nature of serenity implies solitude, doesn't it?

Overabundance, when applied to the things you love the most, can be a curse in disguise. As calm and peaceful as it is, loneliness can be painful too. And it hurts the most when you pause numbing it, voluntarily or not, and admit its existence.

Hoosier Pass is only ten miles south of Breckenridge, and it’s infamous for terrible weather conditions all year round. And the nature couldn’t care less that today is the one and only, July 4th, when the entire country is set to have a good time and have fun, each of their own kind. When I crossed the pass around 8 o’clock in the morning, it was grim and foggy. This was a warning, the last moment before the race when I should’ve made a note for myself. A note that I have written, if not engraved all over my brain multiple times, and yet sometimes I miss it when I need it the most. It comes in many different wordings, but essentially it sums up to “they are the mighty mountains, and you are a pitiful bug, so don’t be stupid and respect the authority.” But I rolled through in the comfort of a modern SUV, as if nature’s actions didn’t apply to me.

Here should come a picture of an empty pocket of my jersey. Yeah, I didn’t bring a rain jacket with me. Would it make a difference if I did? Frankly, no. But illustrates the point. I came with an expectation of “how bad a 50-mile race can possibly be”. And I had two reasons to think that way, which did look absolutely compelling to me at the moment.

First, I’ve done a few races before. And 50 miles is about the lowest distance I’d even consider signing up for. Less than that wouldn’t be worth the drive. A nerd inside me wants to crunch all kinds of numbers here, such as elevation gain, gradients, technicality, and so on, and then compare them to past races. It won’t take long before I lose your attention, so take my word for it: on paper, Firecracker 50 looks… normal.

Second, I had a classic Plan B: if I don’t feel like it, I’d back off and enjoy the ride. Dead simple, isn’t it? Hmmm… Now, when I said it out loud, typed that, it occurs to me that maybe this whole plan B idea was, in fact, the root of all the misery that I went through. I’ll have to save this thought for the end of the story, when I come to the self-reflection part of it.

Parade

As I whined multiple times already, we, amateur racers, often get what we deserve when it comes to attention from the crowd and staff. Which is none. No one ever wrote my name on a paved road climb. No one ever begged for my sticky, dusty bottle. Sadly, no one ever held a printed photo of my pretty face on a stick. I hope it’s obvious enough that I’m being sarcastic.

Firecracker is different. At last! While hundreds of mountain bikers were warming up their engines, sprinting chaotically up, down, and across every little street in downtown Breckenridge, local families were walking down the sidewalks all in the same predictable direction — down the hill and towards Main Street, where the Independence Day parade was about to begin. And we, riders, are between the tapes on this one. We’re the entertainment, not the entertainees. Which is pretty cool in my opinion, regardless of which side you are on. I haven’t seen the parade in Breck, but the one in my hometown isn't especially captivating and could definitely use something different than the same 1983 DeLorean rolling down the same street year after year after year.

If I were the one in a folding armchair, with a tumbler of coffee, I’d very much enjoy scrutinizing such a mixed crowd lining up on their same but different contraptions. Wanna bet whose tires won’t survive the course? Or would you like to put a wager on the fact that this guy in aero socks will say “enough of me” after the first lap? Have at it! Our steel, titanium, and carbon fiber horses are happy to bring something new to your annual candy-grabbing routine.

But being on the inside of the fenced starting chute, I did my part by giving a high-five to every single stretched-out kid’s hand I could reach.

Lap 1

I’ll keep this part short (and lap 2 will be even shorter). As many YouTubers often do when they give you a 30-minute-long pre-race run up, and then say “oh, and my action cam battery died two minutes before the start”. So, yeah. Here it is: frigid, hail, sleet, mud. A lot of mud.

At the end of the lap, I was a hair short of throwing the towel. And right there, the sun finally showed some mercy. Fingers thawed, and a Boreas Pass Rd climb seemed like a good recovery interval for the legs. Alright, I'll stay in it for a little longer, as it’s almost never too late to turn around.

Lap 2

Hero dirt everywhere, but it’s a little bit too late to the party.

So, what was so hard about it?

This report was long overdue. I wrote the beginning sometime in the summer, and I’m finishing it now at the end of November. A few days ago, I did a workout that, although hard physically, was more about mental strength. The focus was to practice a few different self-talk techniques over six intervals. I was sceptical at the start, but by the end it grew up on me. I’m now considering putting more effort into this kind of non-physical self-improvement. I’m mentioning it here because I believe that it was not the adversities themselves that defined my experience. It’s the mindset that became the straw that broke the camel’s back.

If you set yourself up for success, you might get what you’re aiming for or not. Depending on all the factors you control and the ones you don’t, it might even be a one-in-a-million chance to have a good day, but as Jim Carrey would say, “So, you’re telling me, there’s a chance”!..

But if your strategy starts with the words “if I don’t feel like it”… you must know that it’s not an IF anymore, it’s a WHEN now. And my “when” didn’t take long. 50 minutes into the race, when we were approaching a spot closest to the weather gods on a Y-axis, they threw everything at us. And I wasn’t prepared to suck it all up as an aspired athlete (if I can call myself that) should. I kept riding for another five hours, occasionally even trying to do my best, but in fact — this early moment was when I gave up.

It does not mean you (and I) can’t treat a bike race as an adventure. At the end of the day, how many of us are fighting for the top spot? But the key is to make that choice before getting to the start line, and then stick to it. Attempting to stay flexible will make you fragile.

The race I did in 2022, although it goes all the way to the summit, starts only at the midpoint of the road. But if you begin from downtown Manitou Springs, that doubles the distance and elevation gain, and that’s what’s considered a whole climb, making it a total of 38km long with 2360m of elevation gain. And even though I had the full ascent on the bucket list for a while now, I wasn’t very eager to make it happen, mainly because there was a missing piece in that puzzle. A truly fun way to get back down hadn’t been on my radar until maybe a month ago.

Over the past four months, my priorities have shifted. The enjoyment of conquering big climbs didn’t go anywhere. The longer and the steeper — the better. But ever since I’ve got a proper trail ripping machine, which is my beloved Dawley T16, I finally learned to appreciate downhill riding just as much as its uphill counterpart. And that’s arguably what makes the Pikes Peak a full treatment experience — you can get all the climbing you want (and then some, literally, I’ll talk about it), and then reap (with an i) the benefits of all your hard work on a long and diverse single track down the mountain.

Now, I can earn my turns and have all my efforts reimbursed immediately. 95% fun, 5% of you gotta do what you gotta do. Not a bad ratio.

Up

It makes sense to break up the climb into three main sections. First, you have to ride about 3 miles on Highway 24, which was quite busy this morning. With barely any shoulder, but an abundance of tight blind corners. Luckily, most of the drivers were courteous. But it still sucks; there’s no reason to sugarcoat it. Next time, if I want to challenge myself with a road climb, I’ll start at the toll gate. But if you’re doing the whole thing and taking it seriously, please have a god damn car, and a big one, following you, blocking the lane from behind.

You aren’t even warmed up yet, barely awake, and you’re already challenged with an existential question: Is it worth it? My answer here: It does not. But as the day goes on, the same question will arise again and again, becoming a leitmotif of the story.

The second section goes from the toll gate to Elk Park trailhead. There’s not much to say about it. Just a grind. At least, it’s a pretty one.

And when you get to the trailhead, you have the final and steepest stretch of the road to ride up at your leisure. It’s completely unnecessary because you’ve already made it to the point where you’d start the downhill. What for then? Bragging rights, I suppose. But when you’ve already made it so far, it’s kinda silly not to finish what you’ve started 3(ish) hours ago. Just one little push and you’ll be there soon. Like, 60 more minutes soon, haha.

Down

For the fun part, we met up with my son and his friend, who were shuttled up by my wife. Kids were fresh, ready, and eager to send. So they took the lead, and we followed as best we could.

When I’m doing intervals on my trainer, I often watch Drive to Survive. I’m still on season 6 now (racing year 2023?). Yeah, I know, I don’t do enough structured work outside of wintertime, and I intend to fix that. Anyway, a 34-year-old Daniel Ricciardo just dropped a truth-bomb a few episodes ago. Speaking about pushing the limits in tight turns, he said, “You're beginning to ask yourself a question: is it worth it?”. And comparing himself to a 23-year-old Tsunoda, he added, “They don’t ask themselves that question.”

As soon as we start going down the Elk Park Trail, that difference strikes me. That millisecond that I spend challenging myself with the riddle of a risk-to-reward ratio is all it takes for me to lose sight of two teenagers. Even if my answer is yes, that moment of hesitation is momentum lost, a flow interrupted, and the dust cloud ahead is only getting bigger. Fascinating, sort of.

And on top of that, I could literally feel how slow my brain was from fatigue accumulated over four hours of climbing prior to that. The hesitation above multiplied by reduced neuron conduction equals struggle. Sure, a full loop looks cool on Strava, but it comes with a hefty price tag. The one I can easily afford, but not necessarily willing to pay again. Too much fun can be an enemy of quality.

The Big Bang

Our whole Universe was in a hot, dense state… Sorry, not that one. That Big Bang was the beginning of the Universe’s life. The one that happened this time created a black hole in my soul.

About 10 miles (16 km) in, I heard what my son would call “an expensive sound”. But I didn’t think much of it, suspecting that a rock had hit the frame. Even though there were no rocks in sight on a mellow, flowy climb up to the lake. So I kept going, and a few seconds later, I heard something rubbing my rear tire very heavily. I stopped, examined things a bit superficially, had not found anything, and thought there was a stick stuck for a moment that just fell out by itself. Even though there were no sticks in sight… So I moved on one more time, just to hear and feel the rubbing again a few seconds later. Stopped. Looked carefully. Holy crap. My seat tube has snapped in half. The steel frame is the last piece of the bike that you’d expect to fail. Any other component is a commodity: it wears out, it breaks, it gets replaced. Wheels come and go like running socks. But a frame? Made of finest British and Italian steel? I’m not even sure what I felt. I was just… sad, I guess. It’s a strange way to feel yourself in a moment like that. Anger, frustration, disbelief — those would be more appropriate emotions for the given circumstances. But I became truly emotionless. Emptied. The thing I loved the most in the last four months of my life suddenly passed away. One shot, one bang, and it is gone.

I told Mike and the kids to keep riding. They listened, because I had a plan. The trail we were on crosses the forest road in a few hundred meters from where we were. I texted my wife the spot where she can pick me up, hoping I might even be able to catch a ride and escape faster on my own. I hiked up to that road, calmly took a sip of water, looked around, and thought to myself: Oh, shit.

There were road signs in both directions saying “No public access”. Yeah. My plan was no good anymore. Had to come up with something better. And the thing is, when you’re in the mountains, you'd better think and act quickly. What options do I have:

1. Hike 10 miles back up to Pikes Peak Highway. Well, that’s just straight-up unrealistic.
2. Hike 10 miles down Jones Park Trail (the same way I was supposed to ride down). More sensible, but equally unpleasant.
3. Hike only about 4 miles back to Barr Camp (but it's mostly uphill), spend the night there, and hike down Barr Trail in the morning.

All these plans had the same issue — the “what if” factor. On paper, options 2 and 3, as unpleasant as they look, aren’t that crazy. But both would take two to four hours, and if shit happens while I’m somewhere deep in the woods alone, getting out would be a lot harder. Sure, it would be a much cooler story to tell. But going back to the same question, and asking it for the third time on the given day: is it worth the risk? Mind you, I can more or less properly assess that risk now from the comfort of my room. But anything I’d say back then couldn’t and shouldn’t have been trusted.

So, I made my choice and called 911. Luckily enough, I was in a rare, if not the only, spot on the trail where I could get some cell service. Phone calls with the operator broke up multiple times, but I was able to explain the situation and give my exact location. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve got the text: “Tim from Search & Rescue. Please reply.” Help was on the way.

Waiting game

Some rider came through. We chatted, but there was little he could do to help me, and I pretended to be in high spirits, because I thought the rescue team was “right around the corner”. A few minutes later, two trail runners came the opposite way. As they learned about what happened, they offered me as much help as they possibly could. They were planning to set up a camp for the night, half a mile down the trail. And they told me that if the storm comes in or anything else goes terribly wrong, they’d be there for me. I could tell by the backpacks that they were obviously on the lightest possible, single-person setups. And yet, I can’t overstate how much this meant. Just knowing that I have some backup kept the panic at bay.

Meanwhile, help was taking quite some time. The team kept updating me that they were on route, but it was a long way to get to me. All I could do was trust them and wait patiently. But I was getting nervous. Figured, it won’t hurt to get ready for the unplanned. So, I even hid the bike in the bushes, in case I need to take measures into my own hands (or legs, really).

Then Chris rolled up. I asked him if he had a power bank because my phone was below 5%. He did, but no lightning cable. Frankly, he had something more important. A big heart. He didn’t ask if I needed help. He didn’t explicitly offer one either. He just… stayed. We (I, really) just talked a lot for the next two hours, until the SAR truck showed up. And I couldn’t shut up. I bet he was tired of my brain diarrhea more than he was from the hours of climbing he just did. Chris was probably finishing his descent in the dark.

I will be forever grateful to this dude. And I hope one day I’ll see him on the trails again. Obviously, not under any similar kind of circumstances. But I can’t really put into words how much his company meant to me in that moment. If not for him, I could’ve been typing this story from the nut house.

Found and Rescued

Clay and JT rolled up in a pickup truck. Both are avid mountain bikers and backcountry skiers. They totally get it. I overheard they were supposed to be playing soccer that night. I’m sorry. But it’s important to understand that El Paso County Search and Rescue is a non-profit organization, composed entirely of non-paid volunteers. There is never a charge for their service, year-round, 24 hours a day. Whenever you are, please support your local public safety crews.

This was the third year I've done this race, except that this time I opted for the longest possible distance: 113 miles (as opposed to the 70ish miles I had done previously). Here’s how it went in 2023. Last year, I wasn’t in the mood to write about it, nor am I right now in 2025. Normally, I’m trying to talk less about pacing, nutrition, and all that typical midlife-crisis bullshit. Can’t completely avoid that, especially when your biggest mistakes or best results directly depend on these boring details. But instead I’m trying to paint a picture of myself out there, which tells some story, big or small. There’s barely a story in this one, so I came up with the idea of a “rapid fire” race report. I’ll try that now because it’s something new and different, and we’ll see if it sticks.

Start. I absolutely destroyed myself in the first five minutes of the race. On the warm-up hill, iykyk. On all three of them, actually. Well… No, I think it only took the first two. On the third, I already started seeing people passing me by. Going hard from the gun to stay with the lead group made sense for me in a 70-mile race. But I shouldn't have done that with the big boys and girls. What was I thinking?

Pain. In the next thirty minutes, more than half the field passed me. I was the 100th out of 150. And I couldn’t hold any wheel rolling right by me. Can’t remember being that far back ever, except at my very first one. I kept thinking that I should turn around. I can probably get back to the hotel before the official checkout time and chill in the pool while my friend Brian finishes his race. Last year, I found myself in a similar situation, albeit to a much lesser extent. What helped then was to remember that “sometimes even if you’re having a bad day, you can put together a good race”. Nothing like that went through my head this time. I just kept rolling along on some mental inertia.

Canyon. Things were getting a little better. Thanks to the dude on a dark green Crux. We worked together. Only two of us for a while, but we were drilling. Caught a few more, which made a group of seven. Some pulled, some sat up. No one was able to keep the pace when the gradient rose by 1% from the average, making it evident that the group would not last very long.

Attack 1. Right before the aid station, the road gets steeper. I opened the gap, but they quickly closed in on me once we reached the flat, paved section.

Attack 2. Half a mile, 7% average and up to 10%, very chunky. Two of us survived. I never saw the rest of the group again.

Refill. Had two bottles waiting for me in a drop bag at mile 43 (70 km) aid station. Took me 24 seconds to swap them out. That’s pretty fast for a non-assisted stop. And that was my only one on a day.

Climbs. Here comes the grind. 45 miles (75 km) split into three climbs — nothing steep, all gradual. CR 48.8 is nasty, but dry and therefore not nearly as bad as it was in Spring 2024. I passed 21 riders on this segment. And then five more while they were taking their time at the aid station nearest to the last summit. While at it, I also smashed my PRs from 2024. In all this time, only one racer zoomed by me, but it was a lady, so as a gentleman, I let her go ahead.

Return. As glorious as I was on the climbs, I bled a shit ton of time on that false downhill back into town. Homie Jaron was only 5 minutes ahead of me at the beginning of the home stretch, and I finished a whopping 20 minutes behind him.

Almost there. At the last aid station, some dude hopped on my wheel. I don’t know if he caught me or if he popped out of the aid station. But I’m glad he happened to be there; that gave me something to race for. I did not want to let him sit, so I hammered hard on every single hill left. Luckily, we still had a few to go over.

Overall. Solid mid pack. Objectively, if that's the official result, then this is where I belong. Suck it up, buddy. But it's far below my expectations, I could've done better. Only one way to find out, but I will have to wait until next year.

PS: This was my first race with a powermeter, which I installed only four days earlier. I’m not really sure if it helped me with pacing, but I definitely learned a lot from the data collected. Weaknesses have been identified, and the remediation work has already begun.

This one is somewhat tough to write about. The race itself on my part was so immaculate that it now feels like there’s no story in it. However, there was one that defined the race plan and helped with its execution.

No wrong turns have been made (which happens to me quite regularly, with Pony Xpress being a good example). The farthest point of the out-and-back course is 30 minutes away from my house, so I know these roads like the back of my hand. As it turned out, the organizers had messed up the race route they posted online, but even that didn’t derail me, since I wasn’t even looking at the map.

The weather, as sketchy and unreliable as it looked on the radar, was as perfect as it gets for a bike race. All day in the 60s (15-20 Celsius), no sun, no precipitation, no nothing. Like clean air — something you don’t even notice or think about, unless it deviates from perfection. And if that wasn’t enough, as we climbed up to 2879m (9445 feet), thick clouds covered the valleys below us, eliminating any potential visual distractions. “Phenomenal views,” promised to us by the race organizers, were not delivered in 2025, along with announced but nonexistent chip timing, single-track sections, or a live music after-party. Terrible food provider could've been a cherry on this amateur-baked cake, but there was a bit more to it.

At the end of the day, it’s a race, not an all-inclusive cycling adventure for tourists. And the most critical part of it, if not the only one, is the results. Well, race promoters aren’t very good at that either. There is no live results link, and no printed sheet that everyone can freely access. I’ve found my official time and place later that night… in someone else’s Strava, because the guy found a way to take a sneak peek at the paper and posted a picture of it.

This was my second attempt at this race. The registration price went up from $25 in 2022 to $85 in 2025; however, the (dis)organization of the race hasn’t changed a bit. And I fully anticipated that to be the case. Then why did I even sign up?

The why

I named this ride on Strava “Redemption City, CO,” and there’s a little story behind that title. Back in 2022, Rampart Rager was my first-ever gravel race. I didn’t even have a gravel bike back then, so I rode my full-suspension XC. And as much as a disadvantage that bike was on such a course, it was a marginal loss compared to my relatively poor fitness. Well, everyone gotta start somewhere, you might say. And a local, cheap, low-key event should be a perfect place to get your feet wet, you’d think. And so did I. But there’s a thing about locals in my area — most of them are savage. I vividly remember the start of that race. We were cruising through the Garden of the Gods in a group of about 30 riders, and the promoter shouted, “Game on”. In a matter of a few seconds, everyone disappeared around the very next turn, leaving me, if not ashamed, then at least humbled. Not that in any of my wildest dreams I saw myself winning this thing (or any other thing for that matter), but I didn’t expect to be dead fucking last straight out of the gate either. That pretty much defined the rest of the day for me. I leapfrogged with one or two other riders who were taking extended breaks at the aid stations, but then they would catch and pass me later.

By the time I crossed the finish line, the lady who was filling the result sheet (with a stopwatch and a pen, nonetheless) didn’t even care that I came through. I asked her to put me in, but we shouldn’t have bothered. The 2022 results were lost in oblivion, and there’s no publicly available proof of my horrible performance that year.

In 2025, I was ready to prove to myself that I had come a long way. I look back at the Firecracker 50, and I firmly believe that a lack of one good reason or goal like that there in Breckenridge is what tipped the scales from having a properly hard day to a miserable one. Here, on the other hand, I was fully committed to pushing hard and suffering as much as it becomes necessary. Letting off the gas wasn't even an option.

Rollout

The neutral rollout is a full loop on the paved roads of Garden of the Gods. It’s a great warmup, and I appreciate that it’s there. I was at the front of the pack for my own safety, and at some point, our group of 50+ riders was going through a right-hand turn on this single-lane road, moving fairly quickly due to the slight descent. Signs along the road clearly indicate “no stopping”, but you wouldn’t think it would prevent a random SUV from standing in the middle of the lane, admiring a deer in the bushes. It’s an early Sunday morning, and the roads are empty. I can understand that. Would that be so hard for the promoters to send a leading moto for the first 15 minutes of the race, until we get out of one of the busiest places in the entire Colorado Springs? Again, no big deal, but it kinda adds up.

Section 1/3: The Climb

The start of this race is an 18.34 km (11.4 mi) long, steady climb with a grade of around 5-6%, featuring a total elevation gain of 970 m (3,180 ft). On a race day, it took me 1 hour and 17 minutes to complete it. For reference, three years ago, my time was 1 hour and 43 minutes. And add to that the fact that this time I wasn’t falling apart after the summit, but instead kept pushing hard for three more hours.

Pacing was simple. I was planning to sit right under my threshold heart rate for the whole length of the climb. Looking at the numbers now, I think I could have pushed myself 3-4 beats per minute higher, but with a 1-by drivetrain, it’s easier said than done. You either go one cog up and grind a lot harder, or you stay where you are and ramp up your cadence above what’s comfortable for you on the climb. Neither is easy, and both might blow you up. This thought brings me back to the start of the race, when a friend asked me about my pacing strategy. My response was sincere, but perhaps not 100% precise: “Go hard from the start. If I blow up, I blow up. I don’t give a fuck.” It accurately reflected my mood, but, of course, I know my limits. Here’s a thing about the limits, though: they are not exactly constant. One day, you stay at your threshold, and as long as you don’t cross it, you’re golden. The next day, you get there and you keep it for a few minutes, but then the legs fall off. Fortunately, this time it was the former.

Fueling-wise I had a bottle of water and a gel flask with 150g of carbs to get me over the top.

Section 2/3: The Rolls

If you ask anyone who rode this course, in a race or not, to describe it in one word, the word will always be washboards. In some places, they are truly atrocious. But again, nothing I wasn’t prepared for. Not that there’s a lot you can do about them, but I certainly thought it through and decided to race with a hydration pack. Definitely outsmarted my friend Brian on this one, who’s got one of his bidons ejected into the thin air of the Colorado high country.

Other than that, it’s pretty simple. Push, push, push. With so many ups and downs, heart rate becomes largely ineffective. So it’s all a mental game now. Go as hard as you think you can, but once in a while, try to pedal even harder than that. Once or twice, I felt like I was going to puke, which I took as an indicator of a proper effort.

This section ends with a climb where you’d think it makes sense just to give it all, leaving nothing behind, because it’s all downhill afterwards. And I thought of sprinting to the top, but I was legitimately spent. Made a note to myself that if I feel that way, then perhaps I did everything right over the past 3 hours and 45 minutes.

Section 3/3: The Descent

30 minutes of wrist-thrashing and back-killing torture. Those who possess the necessary skills to thrive here truly enjoy it. To me, it’s like a dark tunnel that I know I must get to the other side of and be done with it. In TdF they sometimes switch mid-ride from a TT contraption to a road bike. Wish I could quickly hop on my dually at the top of that segment and send the hell out of it. But it is what it is. The main goal was not to crash, and fortunately, I kept the rubber side down.

Final thoughts

I achieved what I came for, and I don’t see myself going back to it. There are better ways to spend your day, especially if you have $85 to spare, which sounds a bit rough, if not mean. But it's always better to underpromise and overdeliver than the other way around. I can afford to pay the modern-day overinflated registration prices. I just don't like being ripped off, that's all.

Fun fact. I went full on with lightness and aerodynamics: new Rule 28 aero-socks and aero-gloves, brand-new shoes that saved me 50g per pair, a number plate cut to the minimum and secured on a foldable mount, and no unnecessary equipment (i.e., no tube). Finished 17th. Whether it’s a curse or a blessing, it’s certainly not a coincidence. Praised be our prophet DJ. Haha.

I’m struggling to come up with a plan for this one. Because I can hardly imagine a more uneventful day than this, and if I stay on point, then the whole story will probably fit into a single paragraph. But I’m gonna do my best to inflate it a little.

In a nutshell, I pulled my inner Dylan Johnson, in a sense of executing a nearly perfect race, but then finishing in the same Nth place as the day before (8th and 7th are the new 16-17th). The struggle is real.

Eating wins races (maybe, eventually)

I’ll skip the morning dump routine and go straight to breakfast. Finally, I’ve figured that one out. Kudos to the shithole we were staying at for presenting me with a challenge I needed so much. See, I’m not a picky person. I laugh when I say that. No, I’ll take it back. I’m extremely demanding and hypercritical. If things don’t match my highest standards, I’ll be bitching about them all day long. But I’d still work with what I’ve been dealt and will be perfectly fine. So, I'm grumpy, yet low maintenance. Breakfast is no exception.

In a perfect world, a hotel should serve hot oatmeal. And in my experience, that’s already high above the average. So, I can hope for it, but can’t really expect it.

In a solid second place would be quick oats. Put one in a bowl, pour hot water, and we’re golden. This winter, we were staying in Kremmling, where they had all that, but no bowls, only tea cups. See what I’m dealing with here?

Digging further down the virtual rating of bumholes that I tend to spend my nights at when I travel. The third option would be bringing my own quick oats, so that all I would need would be a few ounces of hot water. Which is a fairly minimal thing you can expect, given that it’s necessary to make a cup of tea anyway. Right? Well, the word “tea” in this highly rhetorical question is a clue.

Well, what used to be a rock bottom now has been smashed by the Econo Lodge. No hot water for you! Shocking (is it though?). At least they had shitty toast bread and crappy smucker’s. Whatever, carbs are carbs. But from now on, I’ll start bringing my own bread and jam. Because I have a hunch that a worse place exists, and one day I’ll find it.

Madison

After the Saturday stage, I had no chances moving up overall, because the gap to the top of the field was a whopping 20 minutes. But I had a few things to prove to myself (which I think I did, despite finishing behind all the same guys once again). And I was really looking forward to the second day of racing. Legs were on board with that.

We rolled out in a big front group of… I don’t really know, 30-40 riders, I suppose. First 26 miles (42 km), we just rolled like that. Fun, right? Pace was decent, but nothing crazy yet. You’d still want to stay close to the front in case any punches are being thrown. That's what I did, and that's why my estimate of the group size might be off. But apparently, the writing was on the wall where the first big attack was meant to happen, I just didn’t do my homework.

After rolling through the little town of Madison, we hit the short (by CO standards), steep, cobbled climb, where people started to put their hammers down. Stuff like that is right in my wheelhouse, so I had no issues making the first selection and staying with the front group of a dozen riders.

Road M

Between Madison and Olpe, it would probably be a dumb idea to make any moves. First, because there’s still plenty of miles to go. Second, there’s a good chance of being slowed down by the cross traffic when you go through the town, and losing everything you worked so hard for. Hence, everyone’s staying “chill”. Chill enough to keep the gap from the chasing group wide open. Until we hit the M road, and that’s where racing starts. Guys were attacking left and right. Two dudes in some green team jerseys were trying to play a team card and timing their attacks one after another. In 15 minutes of havoc, we’ve lost half the group. Six of us survived. I was hanging on for my dear life, but still in the mix.

But I was absolutely on the limit. And that perhaps was the key factor in what happened next. I’m not saying it wasn’t a skill issue as well, but the utter fatigue was what got me. With 6 miles (10 km) left to go, we hit a 90-degree turn, and I fuck everything up. When I had already passed the apex and was exiting the turn, I lost my front wheel and hit the deck. Not too hard, so I got back up like a bouncy ball. Just like the day before, the whole stop didn't even take long. I twisted my left hood back to where it should be and got back on the bike so quickly that my wahoo didn’t even auto-pause the recording. Like, three seconds?! But that was enough. The train was gone, and I was left behind. “Three seconds that destroyed three hours of hard work” could make a good title.

Rolled in solo in 7th. Could’ve sprinted for 2nd. What can you do? Rest, switch to mountain biking for a while, relive the experience by writing a blog post about it, train, try again. Now that step 3 is complete and coping is over, I’ll go for another ride. It’s Friday after all.

A Russian soccer coach once said at the post-game press conference: “We played better than the opponent today, but sometimes in sport, the team who scores more goals wins”. And the greatest journalist and commentator of all times, may his soul rest in peace, did not miss the chance to make a good laugh out of this, pointing out that it’s not “sometimes”, it’s always this way, every single time. And this funny banter will be a perfect epilogue for today’s story.

La Grind is a two-day gravel stage race in Emporia, KS. Saturday is 100 miles of relentlessly undulating roads, south from a gravel capital of the world, and Sunday is another 65 miles of the same medicine. We’ve been blessed with practically perfect weather: dry roads, cool air, and moderate wind. And I personally got to experience a princess treatment throughout the weekend, courtesy of my incredible friend Brian, who did all the hard work of planning and driving, leaving me with only one thing to do: enjoy riding my god damn bike. But paraphrasing the quote above, “I had a wonderful ride, but sometimes the guy who comes to the finish line ahead of you wins”. Duh.

5 seconds

40 minutes into the first stage, B and I were still in a big leading group when we hit an infamous “D Hill”. In subpar weather, this road is a total disaster (google up The Unbound 2023). But on a given day, it was fairly rideable, and the only thing it demanded from the riders was a little bit of patience. A few minutes of just staying in a pace line and not doing anything stupid. And even that was a bit too much of an ask for some. A “racer” tried to pass my friend by jumping out of the rut that everyone was going through, his front wheel slid right back in, and slashed my friend’s rear end, sending him into the ditch. Stupid jerk.

I stopped for 5 seconds. To check on my friend, to make sure he’s alright. Literally five seconds. Time distortion in a bike race is a real thing, so I checked that with my gps recording. He said he’s okay, and I kept going. Five seconds were more than enough for the group we were in to disappear behind the nearest hill. Could I or should I have waited for him any longer, so that he could sit on my wheel to recover from what happened, and then help with the chase that was about to begin? Maybe. Now that I know that he had to stop multiple times to fix his jammed brake housing, I can say that it wouldn’t have helped any of us. I believe I was a good buddy given the circumstances. Or at least I tried.

For a couple of minutes, I was confident that I’d reel that group back in sooner or later. Every few hundred meters, I was picking up people who fell off the bunch, and that was giving me a feeling that I’m making some progress here. Well, it couldn’t be further away from reality. As we discovered after the race, the moment when that crash happened coincided with the moment when riders at the front lit it up by throwing a massive attack, and separated themselves from the rest. And in a nutshell, for the next five hours, I was on my own against a solid group of five working together against the headwind. The 20-minute gap that they put on me at the finish line does not even sound too bad, given such a massive difference in numbers.

Dangling carrot of hope

Not much happened in those five hours, really. After I passed everyone who didn’t make the selection (and that didn’t take long), I was living up to the name of the race. The Grind in its purest form. Imaginary target ahead, real wolf pack behind. You can’t win nothing, but you can easily lose it all. So what can you do? You put your head down and you do what you came here for — you keep fucking going.

Photo by Aaron Davis

It’s also not our average course somewhere in the middle of the Colorado Rockies with breathtaking views, blazingly fast and technical descents, and Routt County ranchers out on their porches ready to shoot you in the nuts if you take a wee in the corn field. 15 minutes away from Emporia is more than enough to get a pretty good idea of what the landscape around you will look like for as long as you are out there. Mind you, it’s not as desperately daunting as the prairies south-east of Pueblo. But not very diverse or entertaining either. There’s one thing that does bring memories of those training rides east of Greenland… the soul-sucking headwind. It’s no better down there than it is here at home. Sucks just as much, and never gets tired of it.

I had no carrot. I was one. For a good 30 minutes (give or take, not gonna go and check, sorry), I had a group of four riders chasing me. Two dudes and two leading ladies. All that time, they were only 10-20 seconds behind, but couldn’t quite close that gap to the rider in their plain sight. And I couldn’t quite figure out what would be the right thing to do. The most obvious line of action would be to ease off for a moment, let them catch me, and then work together so that we all can go faster. Sounds like a no-brainer, but I had all the time in the world to overthink this, which was a somewhat welcomed mental distraction. They’ve got numbers, what takes them so long? I came up with the theory that they only go that fast because they have me dangling up the road. And if they don’t — they would naturally sit back and begin soft-pedaling. At some point, I figured that it’s worth “losing” 20 seconds of time to try and see what would happen. So, on the next hill, I shifted into “Kansas granny” gear (it’s different from “Colorado granny” by having quite a few teeth less) and waited.

Soon after hopping on this train, I realized that I couldn’t be any closer to the sad truth of what was going to happen. Pace dropped down. I took a couple of good pulls, hoping that it would set everyone’s intensity level back to where it used to be. Sadly, that didn’t spark an inspiration. I did get a good amount of rest, though, and started to think that it’s time to make some changes. Luckily enough, the group came to a sharp turn, the formation was no more, and everyone was on their brakes. I can’t even say I attacked. I just kept the momentum and rolled away. But I had no interest in letting them catch me ever again.

Inner motivation

Well, as disappointing as the outcome of the “catch a carrot” game was, it was a good time killer. But from this point in time, and until I crossed a finish line, actually nothing happened. Nothing you could see with the naked eye. But deep inside, the angels and demons were awake. The red guys were sneaky. They didn’t try to bluntly say “what’s the point, just go easy”. They knew I’m not dumb enough to listen to that. But they’d rather go like “hey, this gear is not sustainable, you’ll blow up and bonk, go lower”, or something along those lines. They somehow know how to make it sound reasonable, don’t they? And it plants the seed of doubt.

Why aren’t angels such vocal creatures? Why don’t they just keep cheering on you, telling you all the motivational stories that they watched on youtube in abundance? I feed them with content relentlessly, but when I need them the most — they are all Leslies the low talkers.

Only one came to help. And this will all sound corny AF. But I’m not writing this as a script for Netflix series. I’m just telling my little (very, very small, that no one would ever even read) story, and I have no reason to be insincere. I thought about my family. What would my boys say if they had a chance to be right there, on the side of the road, just a few hundred meters ahead? Would they like to see me cruising along with a big smile? Would they say: “Hey, Dad, hop off, get a beer, and give us a hug?” Did my beloved wife take time off to stay with the kids and let me leave the house for three days so that I can leisurely ride my bike around? I could do that right here in CO, and then be back home for dinner, couldn’t I? So, literally with them and only them in mind I told myself: man, get your shit together! Well, maybe with a bit of hope that someone can flat, too.

The end (of the day)

Came in 8th overall. In any other race, I’d be stoked about being in the top 10 (and I don’t think I’ve ever been in top 10 in a gravel race ever before, so what am I even so stingy about). But for no objective reason, my appetite was bigger that day, and I felt like I wasn’t where I deserved or capable of being. Chilling in a hotel room, I was looking at the results table. Hold on, I know this guy who came in 6th! We met at the Austin Rattler last year. I was racing on a single speed and he was on a “normal” bike, and I beat him (I checked that a few days later, and no, he was in fact 20 minutes ahead of me, but in the moment I mistakenly thought I did beat him there). I should be able to keep up with him tomorrow!

And I couldn’t help but steal the highly strategic plan that Brian had for the Saturday stage and make it mine on Sunday. Quote: “I’m gonna suck that wheel, like there’s no tomorrow.” And boy, I did, but that’s the story for the next installment…

Earlier this week, I was hit by a time truck. It's like a time machine, but bigger because it's from Texas. It hit me twice to ensure that I got the message.

Monday morning was challenging, in the usual way of body and mind begging for recovery from a fun weekend. Two days of skiing and dealing with two teenagers — give me a break. On top of that, the driveway was covered in snow, the living room looked like a refugee camp, and you can never give your skis too much care, can you? Oh, and don't forget to check the mail! That's another five minutes of justified procrastination. What's in the mail? A toll road bill. From three months ago, when we hit an express lane in Austin. That brought back some sweet memories of seeing our good friends who we went to visit in November.

But there was a second half of that trip that had something to do with riding bikes. And funnily enough, this Gestalt was still waiting for closure, too. Coincidentally, to the extent that it almost raised a conspiracy theory in my head, the very next day, I got another piece of mail with a Lonely Star™ stamp on the envelope. Alright, alright, this time, it was a UPS package with no stamps, and it even came from Chicago, so what? Life Time logo and heftiness were just as good to give it away — my precious is here! Look at her:

It says 2nd. It’s not a 2nd overall, but still a hard-earned one. Because if you only have one gear — it’s never the right one, you know what I mean? Yeah, here I go again. And every time I do it — it grows on me; it makes me reach for more of that self-harming nonsense. Not that I perceive it that way, but that’s how other people usually see it. Because it’s hard to ride in the wrong gear, right? Well, depends on who you ask and when. Suppose you ask me while we are enjoying a pint. In that case, I can give you a nerdy answer to that question, presenting a pseudo-scientific proof that single speed is objectively more effortless and results in a lower intensity factor. But leaving math and physics aside, the answer that resonates with me the most is that it’s easier because it’s simple. Duh. Fast or slow, just go. Another motto engraved on the top tube of my El Jefe. So true.

But The Nerd inside me is still strong. The Nerd wants to find the optimal gear ratio and tire pressure (those can’t be found, but the act of searching brings confidence). The Nerd needs to see the course. The Nerd is out there on Thursday morning while the family and friends are still asleep. The Nerd needs to cut the zip ties so they don’t stick out, giving away their nerdiness. So he asks a man who just came out of his trailer for a cable cutter. Man’s name is Mike. Apparently, he’s the myth and the living legend. With the emphasis on the word “living”.

Mike hosts his own show with the noble goal of helping average boys and girls (like myself) to get ready for the most coveted race in a country that he happened to love the most: the Leadville MTB 100. We chat about that until he leaves for groceries, and I’m off to the trails.

That time truck, I’ve seen it somewhere before. First week of December. I caught a flu or something. Felt like a bag of shit for a few days straight. Headache so bad that I had no desire to stare at any screens, big or small. No YouTube for me. That’s like a clinical death condition in my book. So, I was binging podcasts for hours and hours. I don’t have a lot of them on my fav list. So, I was just scrolling those few deeply back in time to see if any title catches my attention. One did. With Mike’s name on it. Play. Holy guacamolly! I won’t give you any spoilers, but I’d encourage you to listen. And here’s one teaser slash inspiration alert I’ll give you: Leadville 100, with no exaggeration, saved the man’s life. If stories like that don’t make people get out there, my brain farts here certainly won’t either. Not that I ever had any illusions that they will…

Alright, back to Texas. What did we learn from one lap on the race course? The average gradient of three major climbs was 6.1%, with the steepest parts going above 10%. With the aim for sustained power output of 240W at 60-75 rpm cadence on the uphills, the optimal performance can be achieved by running 51.56 gear inches, or 32/18 front/rear. Nah, I’m fucking with you. See, that inside nerd is pretentious, but in fact, he has no idea what he’s doing. So, when I ask him, “What do we do for the race day?” he replies with a timeless piece of wisdom, “If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it,” and hides in the bushes. Well, as trivial as it is, he’s not wrong. So, I leave my bike alone in my friend’s garage and go spend the night with the folks because that’s what I came to Austin for in the first place (if I’m lying about that to myself, that means I’m telling you the truth I believe in, get it?).

The morning of the race day can be described with one and only one word — shitshow. I don’t even want to write much about that. I was on track to get there 1 hour 15 minutes before the race, and I barely made it to the start line 2 minutes before the gun went off. Many others weren’t that lucky. Some runners (there’s a running race, too) were jogging along the highway if they were fortunate to have someone else sitting in traffic for them. Thanks to that, my fueling plans A, B, and C went out the window. There’s one strategy that always works, though. In a way, it’s the pinnacle of training the furnace to be hot enough to burn anything. Eat trash, ride fast. Two cans of coke chugged with a good old beer bottle swirl from the 90s (don’t ask), some disgusting drink with more colorant than calories in it, and at some point, there was a serious mind battle about picking up someone’s bottle from the side of the trail (I didn’t, but in hindsight — I should’ve).

With about a half-lap to go (out of 3 total), I passed Tyson on a short climb. He was the first and only other person on the single speed I saw that day. So, naturally, we had some proper cat-and-mouse game to play for the rest of the race. It turned out he was aware of my presence all this time because he passed me at the aid station. That swirl might’ve been a winning move after all, eh? Either way, we kept each other honest to the line, battling for the 2nd place. Justin Holle took the dub, obviously.

One thing kept bugging me. For days, if not weeks or months, going into the race. Austin Rattler is a Leadville 100 qualifier. But do I want to do Leadville again? Umm… I didn’t know. I still don’t. But if I did, I had two chances for a spot there: get high enough on the podium or through the lottery. If the former didn't work out for me, I had to decide whether I wanted to throw my name in the hat. And that morning, when I was driving on State Highway 29 from Austin to Reveille Ranch, “In The End” by Linkin Park was playing. You know, “I tried so hard and got so far, but in the end, it doesn't even matter.” And that's when I decided that if I earn the entry, I’ll take it. But if I don’t — I’ll save my luck for another occasion. So, these lyrics stuck with me for the rest of the day. For 6 hours straight, I kept thinking that there was a chance (a pretty big chance, to be honest) that none of that would be enough. And guess what? (holy crap, I hate when my kids ask me that question) It wasn’t. No coin for your witcher. And so be it. Just like a single gear — you can’t change it, you do your best, and at the end of the day, it is what it is.

It’s a lot harder to write about the event that you’ve done and written about before. That’s why my race reports from this year’s Lake City Alpine 50 and RAD are still due. Can’t quite find an inspiration. And the longer I procrastinate, the harder it becomes, as the memories fade and are replaced by new experiences. Grassroots Gravel 2024 took place 2 days ago. I don’t have a plan for this story, but I’m gonna try to go with the flow and see where it takes me. At the end of the day, it goes along well with my plan for the race: my pacing strategy was not to think about one (too much); and part of the fueling tactic was to go with the “Flow” who was a fueling partner of the event (what a clever wordplay, huh?). Let me prove that to you right away...

Days before the race

Yep, that was my reply to a friend’s text four days before the race. With two long and exhausting rides over the last two weekends and the third one (arguably the most challenging) coming right up, all of them together, in my perception, morphed into the same, mundane and indistinguishable “just ride your bike for hours to get back to where you started” kind of a thing. I mean, it’s not that far from what these races really are for those who are not fighting for the podium.

But even within a single week of training/riding, I always find it necessary to switch things up now and then. One day, I’m going on a long road ride, and I get bored. The next morning, I switch to my mountain bike and hit the trails to have some fun. But then I get all beaten up and the next day I can appreciate another long(er) and smooth(er) gravel mini-adventure. And going back and forth between these two helps avoid burnout.

But, in a few weeks leading up to this event, the variability was at all times low. High-volume gravel, day after day. Hence the mental exhaustion. However, it didn’t mean I was going to half-ass the race. In a way, it made the first 30 miles of the course a little more fun for me.

Rollout

Last year, I was all upsetti-spaghetti about the truly neutral (too slow!) rollout that we had through the town of Pueblo. So, complaining about it being too fast this year would be pretty silly of me, wouldn’t it? Fortunately, I don’t have a problem owning my own mistakes. I like it more this way, and it’s my own damn fault that I wasn’t ready for it. Another lesson learned the hard way. The lead group of 32 riders got away, and even though I tried (not too hard, though) to put a chase on, that gap only kept growing. And a few people around me had zero desire to help. I don’t blame them. Yet, haha.

I never had a single complaint about my Wahoo Elemnt, but this was a day it gave me a little bit of a headache. Once we crossed the timing mat where the race officially begins, it just… turned off! What’s funny is that it did not go full brick mode with a black screen. It actually displayed a message “Turning off” with no way to cancel it. Well, thanks for the heads up, I guess. And, of course, it dropped the recording of those 15 minutes we rode so far. Even my old, cheap, and ugly Lezyne would never lose a recording, even when it glitched.

First 30 miles (50 km)

We’ve got a solid group of five, with three dudes and two ladies. My GPS unit was back in business, informing me that we were going just a tad faster than I was going last year when I was cold and alone. That didn’t seem right to me. There was a substantial headwind this time, but on the climbs, we were even losing ground. What the hell?

I’m not out there to teach people how to ride their bikes. As a matter of fact, I’m learning the ropes nowadays by watching races and paying attention to what my more experienced friends are doing on a group ride. So, even if I were willing to give people advice, I don’t feel like I’m the one they should be listening to. Even with all that in mind, at some point, I’ve lost my shit and told two other dudes to rotate from the front! They listened, they rotated… and on the next pull, one of them kept riding in the front forever. The last straw that broke the camel’s back was the moment when we caught up with two riders who were dropped from the lead group. By that time, we had the power of 5 dudes, and what did the guy in the front do? He sat on their wheel!

Photo by Scott Tribby @s_tribby

Remember I mentioned that the absence of goals or expectations for this race made my first 30 miles more fun than they could have been otherwise? Well, that’s where it all started. I’ve had enough and decided to put on an attack. It didn’t last long. So, I attacked once again. Have been able to open a substantial gap this time, but got caught once again. The third time is a charm, right? Went for it on a climb. It almost stuck because I bridged to two other riders ahead of us, but unfortunately, they were cooked from trying to stay in the lead group earlier and weren’t helpful. We’ve got caught again. Damn. But at least time flew by, and we were almost at the first aid station, which indicated the end of the “flat” section. Any group formations didn’t matter anymore. It’s all up and up and up from here for the next 12 miles (18 km).

Fueling plan (aka the most boring part, feel free to skip it)

Back to the “go with the Flow” thing. The last time I did a hundred-miler at FoCo Fondo, I tried to stay self-sufficient and avoid any stops at the aid stations. Unfortunately, it was hot enough for me to start craving pure water five hours into the race. With that experience in mind and considering the big climb we were going to tackle, where total weight definitely matters, I’ve decided to hyper-optimize my setup for the day. The idea was to run smaller bottles (something I never really do), and a hydration pack. By the time we hit the bottom of the climb, the bottles should be empty, and there should be just enough left in the bladder to get me over the “hump” to the aid station in Rye. There I’d get a refill of Flow hydration mix, and since the concentration of that thing is always a mystery, I just need to complement it with a few gels along the way to stay on top of the calorie intake. Yeah, I did ask the volunteer if they knew how many grams of carbs per liter it was. Not that I expected them to know it. And they sure didn’t. Maybe next year, I’ll reach out to the orgs beforehand and ask that same question. Not to be a jerk, but to bring awareness for things that matter to me and my “community” of like-minded middle-aged overachievers. Joking. Kinda.

12-mile climb

I love climbing. I also think it’s the strength of mine when it comes to racing, somehow despite me being a tall guy. (Note to myself: don’t forget to talk about the weakness of yours when we get to the last few miles.) But this one… haha, almost tricked you, no, I love this one just like every other road or trail that takes me closer to the stars and further away from the oxygen abundance. There’s just one thing about it: when you are doing it, you’re not in control. The road controls you. It’s so long and steep that you can’t play games with it. There’s no recovery. You’re at your limit throughout, or close to that. If you see another rider up the road, you don’t chase him. You must be humble and keep grinding. If you do any kind of silly business — you’ll pay for it dearly.

In a way, it’s more a spiritual than a physical journey (assuming you’ve got at least enough to make it through). If you find zen in suffering up the hill — this is probably the pinnacle of such an experience. As opposed to Marco Pantani’s joy of looking at the contorted faces of people you’re passing because even if you’re going slightly faster, your appearance won’t be any better.

Old San Isabel

This road is always a highlight. It’s a well-deserved and much-anticipated downhill, picturesque as heaven and fast as hell if you can handle your bike well. I blew two or three turns at the beginning of it, but then yelled at myself out loud, commanding to get my shit together and focus. Helped a lot. Dropped another rider who was trying to follow me. In the end I went two minutes faster on this 25ish-minute-long segment compared to last year. It could be just better fitness, but I want to believe that my bike-handling got a lot better. The necessity to keep up with my friend Brian on twisty roads of Elbert County makes me push myself in the corners when we’re riding together. I still have to compensate with accelerations out of almost every turn, but there’s noticeable progress.

And this is not just what I’m thinking now, post-mortem. That’s exactly what was going through my head while I was in it. And sure enough, the universe decided to be a humbling party-pooper once again. Like, “Yeah, dude, good job, but look how far you still have to go.” And the guy comes flying by me, skidding through turns like Colin McRae. It was a pleasure watching him, which obviously didn’t last long. But I’ve got my revenge lined up.

Aid-station

Quickly in and out. Left it right behind the guy who just showed me how it’s done on the descents. We rode together for a while, turned out he’s got a cool accent. It seemed like Scottish to me (I’m hardly an expert, though), so hopefully, the comparison to Colin McRae will be a double honor for him. But sadly, Davis Rd split us apart. I knew very well how these last miles are gonna feel like, but as much as I’d love to have someone to ride with, not gonna take it easy on the climbs. Sorry.

Drag

Yeah, there we go again. All alone for an hour and a half, give or take. Pushing hard, yet having no idea if this is hard enough to keep the chasers away. Constant anxiety that they will make a train and eat you alive two miles before the finish. There’s also a chance to catch someone. It makes you want to push harder, but some part of your brain tries to be a smarty-pants and keeps reminding you that there’s a chance it’s absolutely pointless. A reasonable yet destructive thought.

Uh-oh. People!

When you turn to Burnt Mill Rd, you merge into the 70-milers’ party-in-the-back kind of crowd. I’m passing one group after another. But then there’s this guy up the road, who I’m definitely about to catch, but then he jumps on my wheel, and sure thing — we’re in the same race with about 15 miles to go. He offers to work together, and of course, I agree, but he ramps up the pace, and I start hurting a little. But we’re rolling! At some point (with only 3-4 miles to go), it became clear that he was doing more work than I could match, so I was being nice, and I told him that I was going to sit up more, but I won’t sprint him to the line.

With 500 meters to go, Jess says, “You wanna go?” Like a broken record, I repeat that it wouldn’t be fair for me to sprint him (which is silly, he already heard that twice from me and still offered a battle). He insisted, I got him by five seconds. And there’s nothing to brag about here. There are two reasons I’m telling this part of the story.

First, Jess was a good sport, and respect points go out to him for being true to the Spirit of Gravel [racing].

Second, why am I giving up so quickly? This wasn’t the first time. Was I hurting? Everyone’s hurting. Did he pull harder? I didn’t ask him to. Was I doing my best at the front? I was giving it all. So why am I such a softie? It’s never too late to lose a race, dude! Stay in it, see what happens.

Conclusion

The lead group that got away at the start was 32 people (I didn’t know the exact number, but my rough estimate of 30 turned out to be quite close). Sure, I caught and passed a few, but I thought I was somewhere at the bottom of the top 20. When I met my aforementioned friend Brian at the finish line, and he told me I was in 12th place overall, I couldn’t believe it! It’s the highest I’ve ever got, and given some of the names in the top 10 — a great performance on my part. Not to mention that I was 30 minutes faster than in 2023.