Hard Things

Don’t get me wrong. I love Easy Things. I am experiencing a beautiful Easy Thing as I sit here this morning watching the recently risen sun sparkling on Lake Michigan, sipping coffee while the household slowly comes to life. I’m enjoying my first full day of a  family reunion at my brother-in-law Eric’s and sister-in-law Sue’s vacation home on Door County’s Whitefish Bay, and yes, life is good and most everything is easy at the moment.

However, I spent a lot of time a couple of days ago thinking about Hard Things, and why I so frequently intentionally subject myself to them. A lot of time. I was about five hours into what would turn into a long day of some of the most challenging biking of my life, and I began, as I often do during moments of doubt and pain during a grueling bike race, asking myself “Why? Why do I do these painful things to myself when no one is making me?” I would spend much of the next roughly 11 hours and 41 minutes meditating on Why I Do Hard Things. I’m not sure I have the answer(s) after all this meditation, but I’ll give you what I’ve got.

The Hard Things I was meditating on are the self-inflicted variety, best thought of as Hard Things I Can Control. Sadly, life is full of Hard Things I Can’t Control. This latter category includes many things that I, as a white middle class American male, raised in a relatively intact and functional nuclear family, have had the great fortune not to have to deal with personally. Racism, sexism, poverty, war, violence, abuse, neglect, Hard Things that bedevil so much of humanity, have never directly scarred me. I care about these issues, deeply, but they are not a part of my daily personal experience. I can engage in addressing these issues, but can’t directly control them. Other Hard Things I Can’t Control have directly affected me, however. All of us face many Hard Things during a lifetime: the untimely death of beloved family members, shattering physical or mental health crises, the dissolution of long-term relationships. The list, sadly, goes on and on.

The current Hard Thing was The DAMn (Day Across Minnesota) gravel race. The DAMn is the brainchild of Trenton Raygor. Trenton is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met, but The DAMn demonstrated that he is also an evil genius. The ride was scheduled to start in Gary, South Dakota at the stroke of midnight, August 5^th, and all riders had to complete the ride 241 miles later on Trenton Island (Trenton – really, can you believe that?!?), in the middle of the Mississippi River, just across the Wisconsin state line from Red Wing, Minnesota, before 24 hours had passed (making it, literally, the Day Across Minnesota).

I had been eagerly anticipating The DAMn since Trenton dropped word on November 12, 2016 that it was happening in August 2017. The anticipation built as August 5^th approached, and reached a climax when my adventure monkey partners Marty Larson, Dave Berglund and support crew mate Michael Lehmkuhl pulled into the venue for the event registration and opening ceremony, the Buffalo Ridge Resort, late the afternoon of the 4^th.

We hoped to squat on the campsite fellow cycling madman Paul Korkowski had reserved for his RAAMbulance, the ambulance he turned into a support rig for his first RAAM – Ride Across America – attempt earlier this summer. Paul and the RAAMbulance (re-dubbed the DAMnbulance for the day) were nowhere to be seen yet, but we set up our squatter’s camp of tents and hammocks on his site, grabbed some dinner at the resort bar and grill (connecting there with long-time cycling partner and great friend Joe Pahr, who had driven up from Lincoln, Nebraska for the festivities), checked in at the registration table, and returned to our campsite to get a little rest. As we settled in, Paul and the DAMnbulance, with ultra-endurance fatbike racer Balvindar Singh in tow, pulled in, making our group complete for the evening.

After dozing and resting for a bit, we all suited up, made last-minute bike and supply checks, and rolled down to the main hall for the opening ceremony at 11:00, to be held in one of the buildings of the beautiful venue, the campus of the former South Dakota School for the Blind. Trenton did his thing in a fun opening ceremony, accompanied by rider mini-bios and photos playing in a loop the whole time, musician and Salsa-sponsored rider Ben Weaver shared a beautiful poem about the upcoming experience, and then it was time to roll down to the Gary Fire Department for the midnight start.

Spirits were high when Trenton jumped in a car and led us out in a controlled start east across the Minnesota state line, with fireworks blazing dead ahead at the stroke of midnight.

When he turned us loose onto gravel, the usual hurly burly began, with a fast, large lead group charging into the darkness in a jumble of headlights and blinking tail lights. I’ve done a lot of night gravel riding solo, and with smallish groups of well-known friends, but riding double pace line on unknown roads in slightly moonlit darkness at 20 to 25 miles per hour is a different experience altogether. It helped to know that, surely, all the riders in the lead group were experienced and steady riders, but I found it a bit unnerving nonetheless.

The first hour passed in a rush. I was hanging out at the back of the lead pack, enjoying the free ride at high speed, and worrying only a little that I was going out a bit harder than I had intended, but feeling that the benefit of drafting in the large group at way higher speed than I would manage solo made it worthwhile. Early on I realized that buddy “Party Dave” Berglund was right on my back wheel. The average pace for the first hour was 20.4 mph. Rock ‘n roll!

Shortly thereafter, at mile 22, a familiar rider drifted back from the front of the pack, and I realized it was hard man Ted Loosen. Ted is a sweet guy (I got to know him a little when he caught a ride with me down to the 2016 Gravel World Championships in Lincoln), but put him on a bike, and he’s a natural born killer. I learned this last September at the Inspiration 100 (a wonderful gravel race in the Garfield, Minnesota area put on by Derek Chinn and Scott Sundby for a number of years, last year’s being the final running), when I was riding with the lead pack once again, where I really don’t belong. Ted did his drift back from the front routine at the Inspiration (at about the 15-mile mark that time), took a look at the pretenders, went back to the front, dropped the hammer, and shot a bunch of us right out the back of the pack. I sensed that this was about to happen again at The DAMn, and in a matter of seconds it did. Boom! Lead pack blown up. The group of perhaps 30 was whittled down to about 20, and I was one of the casualties, as I knew I couldn’t go into the red zone this early and have any hope of surviving the remaining 219 miles of riding. Fueled by adrenaline, this first 22 miles was all Easy Things. It was a real rush blasting through the prairie with the nearly-full moon to our right, the smells of the countryside only hinting at the beauty of the Buffalo Ridge we were dropping off down to the surrounding flatlands.

 Soon a small group of survivors from the lead pack coalesced. Party Dave and I joined forces with Todd from Minneapolis and Tim from Dallas, Texas. Working together well, we maintained a good pace and kept the lead group in sight for a number of miles before they finally opened a big enough gap that it was just the four of us riding through the vastness. Two hours in, we were still maintaining a ride average speed of 19.4 mph. Yeah, baby! I knew it couldn’t last, but the Easy Things dominated, and holding the wheel in front of me, taking turns at long, hard pulls, following the good line, were all I cared about and the doubt and pain were nowhere in sight yet.

At about 47 miles Minneapolis Todd looked over his shoulder after a moderate climb and said “Dave popped off the back.” I responded “It’s a war of attrition at this point. I know Dave wouldn’t hold it against us if we go.” I hoped this was true, and believe it was. Onward we went, and as I checked over my shoulder occasionally, I could see Dave fall a bit further behind each time.

At about this point my right knee started hurting. Badly. A few negative thoughts began creeping into my mind, and I had the nagging worry that my knee might act up badly enough to keep me from finishing the ride. We kept moving right along, sharing the pulls, and picked up a couple of other strangers in the night. The five of us rolled into checkpoint one at 65 miles at about 3:30 a.m. Though our ride average speed had dropped to 18.5 mph, we were way ahead of the pace I had expected to maintain for the first section, and I wasn’t even sure Michael would be at the checkpoint with the support vehicle.

Pulling into checkpoint one was a surreal experience. Cars, trucks, and SUVs were everywhere in the dark, and I could just make out what appeared to be the “official” checkpoint. I rolled up to the volunteers there, shouted out my number (58), then started calling for Michael to try to find him in the sea of darkness. In a matter of 10 seconds or so he appeared down the road out of the darkness and hailed me over to his Nissan Pathfinder, where I had a cooler full of food and Michael had a five-gallon cooler of ice water. He quickly re-filled water bottles for me while I hacked down two large homemade rice cakes. I had made a big batch of this vegetarian variation on Allen Lim’s bacon rice cakes from his book The Feed Zone, replacing the bacon with finely crumbled and sautéed tofu and chopped mushrooms. I wrapped six of them for eating throughout The DAMn, two per check point. After mixing Perpetuem (my powdered potion of choice for long gravel rides) in one of my three water bottles, I was back on the gravel within about eight minutes or so. I picked up Todd and Tim, who were rolling out just ahead of me, and the three of us soon got back into a good groove again.

In my experience, as long as I’m riding with others, I’m so engaged in watching my line and other wheels, gauging my effort to make sure I’m pulling my weight yet not overdoing it, and grooving on the group experience, that I don’t really begin to get into the kind of meditative state I experience when riding solo. I was also continually wiping condensing fog off my glasses, and working hard to ride safely in our three-man group in the dark, so it was all business at this point.

At mile 80 or so, Todd flatted and wished us well as we rode on into the darkness. Tim’s rock-steady and rapid cadence and strength on climbs made it clear that he was the stronger of the two of us, so I knew my solo time was soon approaching. It finally came at mile 85 when I dropped my chain at the beginning of a small climb. I was able to get the chain back on the chainring within 30 second or so, and I chased to close the gap with Tim, but was unable to catch him over the next seven miles until he missed a turn onto a minimum maintenance road, and he turned back after overshooting the turn by a few hundred meters. We turned onto the minimum maintenance road at 92 miles, which proved to be one of the steepest climbs of the day, coming out of the Minnesota River valley. I realized on the climb that Mr. Tim was stronger than me, and with 149 miles of riding remaining, I did the prudent thing and watched him ride away from me through the trees and into the heart of a gorgeous pre-dawn pink and salmon sky.

Although my right knee had miraculously stopped hurting at this point (temporarily, as it turned out – both knees would be aching badly by day’s end), Hard Things began at about this point. While it helped that it was a gorgeous morning, doubts began creeping in about just what in the hell I was doing out here. I can honestly say, though, that after the knee pain eased I never doubted I would finish from this point on.

Nonetheless, the usual litany of feelings I have on long, hard races began washing over me. Does this level of effort do my 59-year-old body more harm than good? Does the amount of riding necessary to prepare for an effort like this lead to imbalance in my life, leaving less time and energy for the people and things that matter most to me? Is there enough value in doing really Hard Things to justify both the pain in the moment and the true costs in other aspects of my life? Thus far in my life, I have always concluded that the value of doing really Hard Things (of the Hard Things I Can Control variety, such as choosing to ride The DAMn) actually helps in dealing with the myriad Hard Things I Can’t Control that invariably enter anyone’s life. For me, the sacrifices and pain are worthy. The incredible feeling of accomplishment, and the camaraderie that comes with doing these Hard Things with other like-minded folks, including many dear friends, makes it all worthwhile. As The DAMn progressed, my ruminations led to more or less the same conclusion: it’s worth it.

In addition, I re-confirmed my belief that dealing with Hard Things such as a really hard bike race ultimately help one deal with the truly Hard Things in life, the Hard Things I Can’t Control. I know that with perseverance and hard work, I can come through pretty much anything. This has been tested several times in recent years. For example, having my adult son crash and burn with serious anxiety, depression, and substance abuse disorder problems, and having to help him as best I can while knowing that only he, with help, can truly create his own path to health and wholeness from the dark place these life-threatening conditions put him in, is way harder than any bike race I will ever do. The inner strength I have developed at least in part from doing Hard Things on a bike, has helped me get through these Hard Things I Can’t Control.

Fortunately, as I rode along solo, as I have spent so many days and hours doing in my life, I pedaled my way back to equilibrium, found my groove, and kept making pretty good time. About seven miles out from checkpoint two, I spied support crew mate extraordinaire Michael riding toward me in the beautiful early morning light. He turned around and rode alongside me to the checkpoint at mile 120, and my morale soared as I realized I was halfway home and feeling good again. I’ve rarely enjoyed breakfast more than I did shortly after 7:00 a.m., pounding down two of my homemade rice cakes, a cheddar cheese and sauerkraut sandwich, and a 20-ounce bottle of Dr. Pepper. I took my time, and when I jumped back on my bike perhaps 25 to 30 minutes later, I was re-energized and able to really enjoy the ride again.

The rest of the day, while still hard, included many deeply satisfying moments. At about 160 miles, I started riding on at least some familiar home gravel roads. Checkpoint three was immediately after a series of often-ridden large rolling hills on 60^th Street West, and a small cheering section was a huge boost to my spirit.

Photo credit: Galen Murray

(Smiling at 183 miles as I pull into checkpoint three
with crew mate Michael, who rode out to greet me again, in the background)

It was great to see Melissa Hunter and her son Cole (“I’ll take a high five, Melissa – you really don’t want to hug me in the condition I’m in!”), Galen Murray (who also did a quick chain lube job for me), Jeff DeBo, and Claire Schmid. At about 200 miles I passed within 2.5 miles of home, and in spite of a fleeting thought that I’d have time for a shower, nap and change of clothes, and I could still finish well within the 24-hour limit, I pushed on. I was testing my outer limits, feeling good about it, and was hell-bent on an honorable finish at this point.

The last 25 miles or so, from the outskirts of Cannon Falls on, included the hardest climbing of the day, all on familiar roads. Highview Avenue, 335^th Street, White Rock Trail, one hard climb after another. Somewhere in here I was overtaken by Paul Carroll of Eden Prairie, and we leapfrogged several times, neither of us really able to work together as we would feel fresher and stronger at different times from each other. The final leg-breaking hills of the day, on 325^th Street, seemed incessant as we headed straight east, and Paul rode away from me as I simply was unable to push hard on hills anymore. I finally rode into Red Wing alone, only to see Paul riding back toward me. He thought he had gone off course, though he hadn’t, and we navigated the somewhat confusing (at least to our sleep-deprived and effort-addled brains) last couple of miles through Red Wing. The final push across the Mississippi River, with motorized traffic whizzing by on the Highway 63 bridge, meant we were ALMOST IN WISCONSIN. Just as we approached the turn-off to the finish line at the Harbor Bar and Grill, Michael pulled up alongside me in his support rig. I followed him around the corner, and Paul and I crossed the finish line together, in 16^th and 17^th places. All pain was forgotten in the euphoria of the moment, as I got a patented Trenton Raygor low five, and Paul and I had our 30 seconds of internet fame as we chatted with Trenton on Facebook Live.

Photo credit: Michael Lehmkuhl
Grain Belt trunk beer courtesy of Galen Murray

Sixteen hours and 41 minutes after leaving Gary, South Dakota (15 hours, 30 minutes and 18 seconds of riding at an average speed of 15.5 mph; the rest of the time at the three checkpoints, three pee stops, and a stop to strip off a base layer when I was overheating late in the morning), the satisfaction with completing this monumentally Hard Thing washed over me the next few hours. I watched friends Marty, David Weeks, Joe, Bal (first fatbike finisher!) and others cross the finish line. The two Grain Belts that Galen fetched for me out of his trunk were among the tastiest beers I have ever quaffed. I was sad to hear from Michael that Party Dave and Paul Korkowski had DNFed at checkpoint three, after 183.4 miles of hard riding, with mechanical problems (both had broken spokes and tacoed wheels), and later learned that only 88 of 117 starters had finished.

I’m pretty confident that, along with my 16^th-place finish, I had a podium finish in the 59-plus category (I may even have won in that elite group of grizzled veterans). At some point during the day I was nearly certain that this would be my last gravel race, and that I could feel good about going out on a positive note. I told Joe while eating and drinking beer that I was a big “maybe” for the August 19^th Gravel Worlds (another 150 miles of hardness). Today, enjoying some easy time on a hammock overlooking Lake Michigan, and after several days of reflection, I’m pretty sure I’ll be there.

I’ll likely do fewer Hard Things going forward than I have in recent years, as I want to make more time for other things that matter to me, including family, writing, and other creative pursuits. I also want to do everything possible to ensure that I can keep using my body for fairly physically hard things for many years yet.

However, if Trenton decides that the world needs another Day Across Minnesota in 2018, I might even show up for that one too. I still have some things left to learn about myself, and doing Hard Things is one of the best ways I’ve found to learn them.