I've been a
fool for physical adventure my entire life. Long bike rides, hikes and
cross-country ski outings, multi-day bike touring, backpacking, wilderness
canoe trips -- I love them all. My adventure lust is most often satisfied by
long, hard bike rides, and I spent the evening of May 29th, 2015 mentally
preparing for the coming day’s Dirty Kanza 200, which promised to be the most
challenging one-day experience of my life.
The 200-mile event has been described by many as the world’s hardest one-day gravel bike race. The race is run on rocky gravel and dirt roads, many of them unmaintained, in the Flint Hills of Kansas, land of rugged topography and the largest intact tallgrass prairie in the United States.
The 200-mile event has been described by many as the world’s hardest one-day gravel bike race. The race is run on rocky gravel and dirt roads, many of them unmaintained, in the Flint Hills of Kansas, land of rugged topography and the largest intact tallgrass prairie in the United States.
Physical preparation had been going on since I fell in love with biking as a 10-year-old in 1968, and included lots of touring, a little road racing, and decades and many tens of thousands of recreational miles. It had gotten more serious since the fall of 2012, when I took part in my first 100-mile gravel race, the notoriously difficult Heck of the North, and was bitten by the gravel-racing bug. Between the 2012 Heck of the North and this year’s DK200, I had ridden over a dozen other 100-plus-mile gravel races as well as a number of 50- to 86-mile races. All were grueling and challenging, with many of them taxing me to what I thought were my limits. As it turned out, I was to learn a thing or two about my limits at the DK200.
As I
reviewed and discussed the route and strategy for the coming race with my hotel
roommate, friend and Northfield riding partner Scott K, we agreed that the
stretch from 107 miles to 175 miles was sure to be the hardest portion of the
race, with most of that section going primarily north into what was forecast to
be a strong and gusting north wind. Although the area had received flooding
rains in recent weeks, and we knew the course included some stream crossings,
we assumed that we would be routed around any hazardous crossings. Little did
we know that Mother Nature would throw far greater challenges than headwinds or
stream crossings our way well before we reached the “hard” point in the race.
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Scott getting his game face on |
The race
started with a whimper, as the massive peloton was halted by a freight train
crossing Commercial Street less than half a mile from the start. When the train
passed, we left town on blacktop at a controlled pace, crossed the ominously
flooded Cottonwood River, then turned onto gravel at 1.7 miles, and the race
was on. The pace picked up immediately on damp but firm and very rideable
gravel, and I found myself thinking that conditions might not be too bad after
all. I was soon to find out just how delusional that kind of thinking was.
Scott and I
picked our way through a sizeable group and were soon at the head of a double
line next to another rider on a Salsa Warbird (the bike I ride). Striking up
the first of numerous enjoyable conversations for the day, I learned Bregan was
a Brooks England (as in Brooks saddles) rep from Berlin (as in Germany) who,
along with several Brooks mates, had been flown to Kansas for the event by
Brooks, one of the DK’s major sponsors. As I was riding next to Bregan,
alarming noises began emanating from my bike. I thought that my bottom bracket
was acting up, and as the clicking, grinding and shrieking noises grew louder,
I feared that serious trouble lay ahead for my bottom bracket and my chances of
finishing the ride.
At this point we
were approaching the first unmaintained section of road, and all thoughts of
the noisy bottom bracket were banished as we turned a corner and saw dismounted
riders in a muddy scene reminiscent of a Civil War battlefield stretching out
to the horizon, as far as the eye could see. I, along with everyone else,
dismounted and started pushing my bike through the mud up a long,
gentle incline. Within 20 feet, I couldn’t even push my bike, as the heavy, clinging mud instantly gummed up both wheels to the point where the wheels wouldn’t turn. I quickly cleared the worst of the mud, shouldered my bike (as everyone else was doing), and started trudging. Feet were immediately caked in large, heavy mud nests, and some of us headed for the tall grass on one side or the other of the road when there was room between the mud and the roadside barbed wire, where it was sometimes possible to push rather than carry one’s bike. The crest of the hill was about a mile from the start of the death march, and as I approached it, I hoped that the end of the worst of the mud was near. These hopes were dashed when the hill was crested, as the muddy marching throng once again stretched ahead as far as the eye could see. With remarkably good cheer, all carried on, until we finally reached rideable road surface once again after three miles of mud hiking over about an hour’s time. Quickly cleaning the worst of the mud off tires, frame, shoes and running gear, it was back to actual biking, which was a joy after what we had just cleared. I had lost contact with Scott on the mud hike; thinking he was ahead of me (I later learned he was actually behind me), I pushed on alone. The death march had blown the field apart, and I rode primarily solo for the next 25 miles or so.
gentle incline. Within 20 feet, I couldn’t even push my bike, as the heavy, clinging mud instantly gummed up both wheels to the point where the wheels wouldn’t turn. I quickly cleared the worst of the mud, shouldered my bike (as everyone else was doing), and started trudging. Feet were immediately caked in large, heavy mud nests, and some of us headed for the tall grass on one side or the other of the road when there was room between the mud and the roadside barbed wire, where it was sometimes possible to push rather than carry one’s bike. The crest of the hill was about a mile from the start of the death march, and as I approached it, I hoped that the end of the worst of the mud was near. These hopes were dashed when the hill was crested, as the muddy marching throng once again stretched ahead as far as the eye could see. With remarkably good cheer, all carried on, until we finally reached rideable road surface once again after three miles of mud hiking over about an hour’s time. Quickly cleaning the worst of the mud off tires, frame, shoes and running gear, it was back to actual biking, which was a joy after what we had just cleared. I had lost contact with Scott on the mud hike; thinking he was ahead of me (I later learned he was actually behind me), I pushed on alone. The death march had blown the field apart, and I rode primarily solo for the next 25 miles or so.
I now once
again heard the awful noises my bike was making (which I was soon to realize
was my rear hub bearing assembly in the process of total self-destruction), and
had to deal with the daunting possibility that there might be other ferocious
mud pits, and the fear that my bike might fail before I did. All I could do was
pedal on, so pedal on I did.
At mile 19
we crossed Interstate 35 (which runs northeast to southwest along the edge of
and through portions of the Flint Hills) on a rocky, muddy minimum maintenance
road into range country and were now well and truly into the Hills. Beautiful,
rolling hills with rock outcroppings,
open cattle range (with cattle on and
flanking the road numerous times), cattle guards, muddy, rocky, perilous
descents to crossings of small, swollen streams, often with concrete spillways
washed out on both sides from recent flooding made for challenging and often harrowing
riding. I found myself wishing I had significant
mountain biking experience, as the course more resembled mountain biking than gravel
riding for much of the day.
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Feeling pretty good in the early miles --muddied but not yet bloodied and battered |
One small
water-crossing was a narrow pinch-point, and several riders ahead of me slowed,
rode past a rider stopped along the side of the trail, and passed through
shallow water without incident. I slowed, entered the water, and was pitched
over the handlebars when my front wheel disappeared into a hidden, deep hole. I
caught myself with my left hand, didn’t get too badly banged up, brushed off
the worst of the mud, and carried on. My hand started throbbing, and I feared that
I might have broken a bone, but the pain wasn’t bad enough to stop me. As it
turned out, soon I would be experiencing pain in enough other places that the
hand pain faded into the background.
I had hoped, with much of the
first 100 miles of the course having a side wind or tailwind, that the first
half of the day would be easier and faster than the second half, which promised
to be primarily side wind and headwind riding. This proved to be a vain hope,
as essentially all of the tailwind sections were muddy, often unrideable,
and/or so rocky that they had to be ridden with caution.
Careening
down a winding, rocky descent to a stream crossing at mile 43, I realized too
late that there was a huge washout on the far side of the concrete spillway. I
bunny-hopped the chasm, landed with a sickening bang on my rear rim, and
instantly knew I had pinch-flatted. Dismounting, I changed the tube in the cold
(have I mentioned that the temperatures, unexpectedly, never rose out of the
50s all day?), wet mud, my fingers stupid with cold and incipient fatigue. Just
as I was beginning to re-inflate the tire, Scott rode up, stopped and kept me
company until I was ready to roll again in a couple of minutes. My pump had not
been able to inflate the rear tire to the 50 psi I like to ride normally, so I
was back on the road with a somewhat squishy rear tire, a recipe for disaster
on the rocky roads we were traveling.
Within
a few miles I knew I had to try to get more pressure in my tire, so I
dismounted, bid Scott adieu, spent a couple of minutes laboring to firm up my
tire, and then jumped back on my bike.
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Conditions were brutal, with mud and rocks being the order of the day |
More mud, more rockiness, and I was
struggling to find a good cadence. Soon another rugged stream crossing
approached. Again I followed other riders through the water, and this time,
bang! – I hit a nasty rock shelf with my front tire. Pinch-flat number two.
Fifty miles into a 200-mile day, and I had already walked through about four
miles of mud, flatted twice, gone over the handlebars once, and pitched over
into the mud at another point when a rider ahead of me stopped abruptly and
unexpectedly on a rutted and rocky uphill goat path, leaving me inadequate time
to unclip from my pedals. Worse, I was listening to the sure and steady
destruction of the bearings crucial to being able to ride at all (let alone with
minimal rolling resistance). It was now crystal clear that all my physical and
psychological resources would be needed to finish Dirty Kanza 2015.
Fortunately, road conditions were more
manageable over the next 20-plus miles (though they included a river crossing
or two and a detour around impassable floodwaters) to the first checkpoint
in Madison, where I once again came upon Scott, who was almost ready to leave. I gobbled rice cakes and as much other food as I could (it was almost impossible to eat on the fly, with the sketchy road conditions and muddy hands, though I had managed to eat a banana and a few Hammer gel packets, along with drinking most of two bottles of Perpetuem en route), loaded up with food, fresh water and Perpetuem bottles, and used a floor pump to re-inflate both tires to 50 (rear) and 45 (front) psi. As I was doing this, I realized with alarm just how trashed my rear wheel bearings were. The wheel wobbled radically, and after a brief and futile attempt to finger-tighten and adjust the hub assembly, I made a decision to ride on rather than try to find a mechanic who might show mercy on me and attempt an emergency repair. As I struggled with the decision regarding what to do about my rear wheel, I told Scott to head out without me. We were not to see each other again for the rest of the race.
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Water crossings were a welcome relief from mud and rocks, and an opportunity to clean bike and body |
in Madison, where I once again came upon Scott, who was almost ready to leave. I gobbled rice cakes and as much other food as I could (it was almost impossible to eat on the fly, with the sketchy road conditions and muddy hands, though I had managed to eat a banana and a few Hammer gel packets, along with drinking most of two bottles of Perpetuem en route), loaded up with food, fresh water and Perpetuem bottles, and used a floor pump to re-inflate both tires to 50 (rear) and 45 (front) psi. As I was doing this, I realized with alarm just how trashed my rear wheel bearings were. The wheel wobbled radically, and after a brief and futile attempt to finger-tighten and adjust the hub assembly, I made a decision to ride on rather than try to find a mechanic who might show mercy on me and attempt an emergency repair. As I struggled with the decision regarding what to do about my rear wheel, I told Scott to head out without me. We were not to see each other again for the rest of the race.
The rest of my race remained a
struggle with my bike and the road conditions. Seemingly endless
miles of rugged four-wheel-drive minimum maintenance roads, interspersed with gravel roads that were almost all rougher and rockier than anything I normally ride in the Northfield area, and another pinch flat at about 100 miles left me just about drained of the will to continue. After repairing the third flat (a lengthy affair that required patching two pinch-flat holes, as I had only packed two spare tubes, and saw scores of riders stream by me, including Bregan from Berlin), and with my rear wheel now wobbling noticeably and alarmingly all the time, I rode a few miles, and, feeling emotionally bottomed out, pulled off of another four-wheel-drive section of minimum maintenance to sit by a beautiful stream and collect myself. I drank a Red Bull, ate as much trail mix as I could force down, and gave myself a stern talking-to. I reminded myself I was out here on a ride I had wanted to do through this beautiful country for years, there was nowhere else I wanted to be and nothing else I wanted to do on my 57th birthday, and I just needed to bear down and keep at it unless my bike became absolutely unrideable.
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A moment of doubt and pain after three flats and mounting mechanical difficulties, and nearly 100 miles yet to go |
miles of rugged four-wheel-drive minimum maintenance roads, interspersed with gravel roads that were almost all rougher and rockier than anything I normally ride in the Northfield area, and another pinch flat at about 100 miles left me just about drained of the will to continue. After repairing the third flat (a lengthy affair that required patching two pinch-flat holes, as I had only packed two spare tubes, and saw scores of riders stream by me, including Bregan from Berlin), and with my rear wheel now wobbling noticeably and alarmingly all the time, I rode a few miles, and, feeling emotionally bottomed out, pulled off of another four-wheel-drive section of minimum maintenance to sit by a beautiful stream and collect myself. I drank a Red Bull, ate as much trail mix as I could force down, and gave myself a stern talking-to. I reminded myself I was out here on a ride I had wanted to do through this beautiful country for years, there was nowhere else I wanted to be and nothing else I wanted to do on my 57th birthday, and I just needed to bear down and keep at it unless my bike became absolutely unrideable.
With renewed
spirit, and aided by the Red Bull’s caffeine, I managed to find a decent
groove, worked with a few other riders for short periods, had a good talk with
a couple of great guys wearing Outspokin Cycles kit (from London, Ontario, and
riding Salsa Fargos with beefy tires that I eyed with envy), apologized for
sucking a wheel for the first three-mile stretch straight into the strong north
headwind, and managed to convince myself that, by god, I was going to finish
this damned bike race!
I rolled
into the second checkpoint in Cottonwood Falls at 155 miles as the sun was
setting. My original stretch goal had been to make it to the finish line before
sunset at 8:42 p.m. to earn the coveted "Race the Sun" custom print – hah! After re-inflating my rear tire with a floor pump and again downing as
much food as my protesting digestive system would take in, along with a Coke and a Red Bull, I turned on my front
and rear lights and headed out of town back onto the open prairie for the last
45 miles or so of the course. I knew that at roughly 175 miles almost all of
the climbing and headwind would be over, so I felt my odds of finishing were
improving.
Reading my
cue cards in the dark was just the latest struggle. I would pull the
appropriate one out of the cue holder and hold it in front of my headlight as I
was riding, memorizing the next few turns, and play my headlight onto the road
signs as I approached the intersections of what I thought were my turns. I
fortunately connected once again with a small group of riders, one of whom was
a local and knew the roads, which gave me a bit more navigational confidence.
I was following
tail lights down what I fervently hoped had to be the last bit of really rough
four-wheel-drive road at about 170 miles, over the crest of a hill, and down yet
another white-knuckle, muddy, rutted, rocky descent when I saw the rider about
50 feet ahead of me go down in a particularly nasty bit of rutted mess. I was
committed to the deep, muddy rut, with no way to change my line, braked as best
I could, and as the downed rider was picking himself up and getting out of the
way, down I went too, hard, on my right shoulder. I had broken my right
collarbone on February 14th in a fluke cross-country skiing
accident, so my first thought as I was lying dazed in the mud was “oh shit, not
again.” I sat up and collected my wits, and realized with tremendous relief
that, while my shoulder was scraped and sore, nothing was broken. As this was
happening, another group of riders stopped and checked to see if I was okay. I
assured them I was, and one of them handed me my precious Dirty Kanza water
bottle, which I had been carrying in my back jersey pocket, and which had flown
out in the crash. I would likely have lost it in the dark had they not done so.
The rider handing it to me did a double-take and said “Bruce?” Once again, it
was Brooks’ Bregan from Berlin!
My rear
wheel was now rubbing almost continually against the rear stay of my frame,
making for even harder going (and even more maddening noise from my badly
abused Warbird). Onward, onward, onward. Other riders pulled away from me and
my damaged bike, and I settled in for a long, solo grind into Emporia as
blinking tail lights receded into the distance.
About six miles from
town, I saw klieg lights in the distance and realized they had to be coming
from downtown Emporia and the finish area! Re-energized, I rounded a curve,
upped my pace… and everything went black. My headlight, which I had
inadvertently put on the second of three intensity settings rather than the low
setting needed to conserve battery, had died prematurely. I could almost have
cried in frustration, as I would now have no way to read cue sheets or
intersection road signs. Just as I was resigning myself to having to ride blind
toward the klieg lights in the distance, I saw a rider alongside the road who
had been making some kind of mechanical adjustment to his bike pull out onto
the gravel with lights blazing. I quickly rode up to him and told him he was
going to be my guiding angel for the last few miles into town. Dan from
Knoxville, Tennessee was my rock and beacon for the next five miles, as I,
totally spent, rode in his wake to the outskirts of Emporia.

I may never in my life have felt a greater sense of relief and accomplishment than I did as I crossed that finish line. It didn’t matter at all that the ride had taken me over 18 hours and 42 minutes, or that I finished 290th out of 427 riders, well over five hours off the winning time. The winner, Yuri Hauswald, had ridden a truly heroic race, coming from 22 minutes off the lead at 150 miles to catch Michael Sencenbaugh on the edge of Emporia, and outsprinted Sencenbaugh to win by a bike length. My accomplishment was far humbler, but deeply satisfying nonetheless. Finishing at all under the circumstances was accomplishment enough as 455 out of the 882 starters, seasoned and hardened riders all, failed to do so under the brutally tough conditions and innumerable opportunities for ride-ending mechanical problems.
All finishers were
greeted at the line with a handshake and a commemorative pint glass, complete
with a coupon for a free beer at Mulready's Pub. I staggered the half block to
the pub, bike and body equally filthy and battered. As I walked in, mud-coated
and bloody, clutching my finisher's pint
glass, a huzzah went up among the assembled well-lubricated patrons. From well before the start to well after the winning finishers came in, the organizers of the DK200, a small army of volunteers, and the town of Emporia pulled out all the stops to make this a wonderfully memorable event. As I drank the hardest-earned and most enjoyable complimentary pint of beer in my life, I was exhausted, filled with satisfaction that I had toughed it out, and positive that I had completed the only Dirty Kanza that I would ever ride.
glass, a huzzah went up among the assembled well-lubricated patrons. From well before the start to well after the winning finishers came in, the organizers of the DK200, a small army of volunteers, and the town of Emporia pulled out all the stops to make this a wonderfully memorable event. As I drank the hardest-earned and most enjoyable complimentary pint of beer in my life, I was exhausted, filled with satisfaction that I had toughed it out, and positive that I had completed the only Dirty Kanza that I would ever ride.
After a week
of recovery and processing of the amazing experience, I’m not so sure. I know
there are more adventures to be had, and more lessons about myself to be
learned, and I may just have to test myself in the Flint Hills again next year.