Bite Off More Than I Can Chew Update
About a year ago, I started a thread on my decision to sign up for a brand new event, the CO2UT Desert Gravel ride that started in Colorado, ventured into Utah and came back again, all on winding gravel roads and trails in a stunningly beautiful part of the world. Although it was called a race, I figured that was nod to the fact it was timed, but assumed most would be approaching it as an adventure, not a competition.
As the website veered more into race mode, and started to mention gravel climbs over 20%, I started to get second thoughts on a one-armed guy bombing across the washboard, ruts, soft sand and potholes on a Trek Domane fitted with 40mm tires, with a low of 34 - 30 as a granny gear.
When I posted, I'm sure I mentioned that: (1) I have never been in a bike race, but knew, from a life of sports competition and coaching the difference between pretending to dance (fast group rides and training programs) and actually dancing; and (2) Before the big tire set-up for the Domane came in, I had spent literally no time off the beaten path.
The responses on this site ranged from gentle cautions ("maybe you should rethink"), sound technical advice, and outright encouragement, each wise in their own way.
After a year of Covid 19 postponements, the event was rescheduled to last Saturday. With the rampant component shortages, I was not able to address the gearing issue without changing the road bike character of the Domane in a way that seemed excessive for a one day ride. Need be, I could walk up the steeps. More concerning was the the lack of time I spent learning to ride off road - at best 20 hours of gravel, dirt, and the like.
When the rumors started a week ago about the abysmal road conditions that awaited, which caused a number of riders with suspension bikes to choose that for their ride, and the weather service followed that with a high wind forecast, I took the option of dropping down from the 100 mile to the 75 mile version of the ride, still uncertain on whether I would show up. But call it stubborn or intrigued, I was there Saturday morning at 7, rolling out en masse with the other 75 mile riders through the seven mile neutral zone to the start of timing.
For the next close four and a half hours, I can't think of a moment when my senses were not tingling, at the attitude and camaraderie of fellow riders, the technical challenges of washboard descents, the potholes left behind by cows walking on muddy roads, the need to pick lines through ruts and soft sand, and the seemingly never ending series of ramps that had my front wheel lifting off the ground with every pedal stroke. Every descent that ended rubber side down, every little stretch of smooth at the side of the road, then the middle, and then the left, and every one of the hills crested, and there were dozens, was a victory to be cherished for only a moment and then the next challenge was in front of me, all the while marveling at the beauty of the surroundings.
It never occurred to me that this was a race. The racers were on the longer courses or so far ahead that I had not seen them since the parking lot at the mass start. I lingered at the aid stations, chatting with those I had seen out on the course. They were much like the the wonderful riders I have met in countless group events - adventurous, determined and humble. I measured my effort on the course. My GPS was not there for me - early user error by the blind squirrel I have become - so I never knew what was left, except that it would be hard.
At the end of the day, I came in safely, 5th among the group of 33 riders that should have been old enough to know better, and somewhere in the top third of the 122 riders on the 75 mile course. When I saw the results, I had this momentary thought of where I might shave time next year (maybe not spend so long at rest stops) and then laughed at myself. If I needed a prize, I would simply declare myself the best single-handed rider in his 60s to head out that year (at least I didn't see another one), and try not to pull a muscle patting myself on the back. No, next year, I'm looking for someone to join me and take the same leap of faith I did, an old dog trying a new trick and gaining an experience we will never forget.