Cheese Triangle Counterclockwise

Because apparently, twice in one twelve-month period wasn't enough (and one might have thought this abomination in particular would have cured me). It was good to get the yayas out after the Trans Iowa fiasco, but I won't be doing this ride on anything less than a 2.2" tire ever again. Ever.

Picture party here.

With a Bang and a Whimper

The third time was supposed to be the charm, but the weather had other ideas.

In a nutshell, Mother Nature won this one 94-1. The course started out generally northeast, and that morning there was a 20+mph ENE wind, it was maybe 42dF and it started raining about an hour into the race. I will remember this event as 4 Hours of Drowned Rat.

----------

Neither of my fellow Madisonians signed up for Trans Iowa the Eleventh, but my postcards went in the mail at the appointed time and I got in. My dad agreed to be my support crew, and we drove down Friday morning by way of LeClaire (with a brief visit to Antique Archeology).

The Meatup on Friday night was great. Saw quite a few people I knew, and the pre-race was a little long but lots of fun. Back in the hotel room, everything was set bike-wise, so I laid out my kit, took a shower and laid down to pretend to sleep. There was a brief thunderstorm, followed by a wind that howled and moaned at the window all night.

Got up at 02:50 and looked at the radar on my tablet. A huge pinwheel of precipitation colors spun slowly over the state, complete with what looked like an eye on the Missouri border. East winds at 15, gusting to 22.

Ate a bit and dressed, putting a rain shell over my hydration pack. Rolled out of the hotel parking lot toward downtown and had trouble getting my body to follow my plans for a big ride. It wasn't raining yet, but it was cool and the crosswind was unmistakably strong.

There were 95 of us at the start out in front of Bikes To You, and the feel was tense compared to the previous two years. My dad had driven down and we said our goodbyes just as Mark stepped up to make the final announcements. A couple of minutes later he tooted the horn and we were off.

It was a real problem finding my rhythm that morning. I was just gassed for the first five or six miles (which were directly into the jaws of that wind) and fell mostly off the back. Distant flashes of lightning added to the consternation. Eventually we turned north and then west for a bit, so I was able to rally and get the diesel started somewhere around mile ten. Right about that time, droplets of water vapor began to swirl in the beam of my headlight, and by mile twelve it had begun to drizzle. The roads were already saturated from the previous night's rain, and I found myself pushing pretty hard even on the downhills. Maybe twenty minutes later, the rain began in ernest and a couple of bright flashes of lightning lit up the landscape. I stopped briefly to eat and put on my waterproof glove shells.

North again, then west, then north, and then there it was: the cue to turn directly into that headwind for eight miles. Though not visible, the sun was up and had turned the landscape into the storm at sea scene from many an old war movie. Recently graded, this road had a pretty good surface, but still required constant attention at the tiller. No eating, no photographs, no clothing adjustments. Just pedaling, cranking up the hills and rolling like a lumber wagon down the other side, as if waiting for the cold, sodden amber to harden.

A guy with a MPLS cap was on his phone in the lee of a couple of pines, so I pulled over to have a bite and touch base. My feet were soaked at this point because my rain pants turned out to not be impermeable. The rain had also run down my sleeves and gotten my inner gloves wet. I would find out back at the hotel that my dry pair had also gotten wet inside my frame bag. Eavesdropping on Edward's phone conversation revealed that he was dropping out and arranging for a ride.

This made me admit what had been obvious for at least the last hour—I was not going to make the checkpoint within the time limit. Not even close. I thought at that point that maybe the top third of the field would make it, but found out later that only one person would make 54 miles by 08:30. I got back on the bike and started up the next hill, starting to think about where I would drop out. I sort of wanted to see the B-level (dirt) road at mile 34, still ten miles away. I stopped to move my phone from my pants pocket to my jersey pocket (under my rain shell) to make sure it wouldn't drown. Edward passed me, wishing me safe travels.

Right about that time, two riders came over the hill in the opposite direction.

"You going home?" I yelled.

"Yup, all the way back to Madison!"

Turned out to be Chris and Adam, a couple of past Trans Iowa finishers, on their way back to Grinnell via 16 miles of pavements. It took me all of five seconds to decide to drop out right there at mile 24 and join them. Chris was cruising along in good spirits, but Adam was on a mission. He gapped us off within the first five miles and disappeared over the horizon soon after. Chris and I had a pleasant conversation about his recent move to Madison and hope to meet up for a bit of riding soon.

Disappointment? Yes and no. No, I was not disappointed to miss the cutoff. So it was a whole springtime of training—so what? If you aren't enjoying your Trans Iowa training for its own sake, you're probably doing it wrong or should just find something else to do. Yes, I was disappointed to not be able to ride all day, shooting the breeze with friends and meeting challenges out in the boonies. That seems to be Trans Iowa though. You just don't know what's going to happen, and that's part of the attraction.

Next year? Yeah, probably. If it happens.

(2014 report, 2013 report)

Sunup to Sundown Three, Last of the TI Training

Saturday was my final long training ride for TIv.11, and a beautiful day out. The start was chilly, but still and quiet. Tyler, Jacob and I met at the Jenifer St. Market, rolling out at 05:00 on the dot to collect Utah Steve and Harald as we crossed Commonwealth at 05:20.

The cruise down the Badger was pretty easy, and the sun broke over the horizon just about the time we reached Belleville. We rode around the ice stalagmite in the tunnel and Utah Steve peeled off at Monticello to hit New Glarus and points west on his way back to Madison.

After hitting the Kwik Trip in Monroe for some eats, we turned off onto the roads headed west and mostly south into Illinois. The wind wasn't much of a factor at this point, coming out of the west-southwest, but made us hopeful for a tailwind on the way home.

I lagged quite a bit for the remainder of the ride. I knew I was riding a heavy (TI-equipped) bike with people who were faster than me, but I think I also wasn't fully recovered from the Hall of Elms ride.  I could definitely feel it in my legs. Though I may have been a little frustrated at first, I hadn't advertised this as a no-drop ride, so I hold no ill will. It also occurred to me that it was good practice for resisting the temptation to push outside of my pace and take the long view.

We all stopped in Freeport and Brodhead for resupply. Somewhere north of Brodhead, Harald and Tyler pulled away for good, and Jacob and I were left to finish it off. The anticipated tailwind made matters easier, with one more stop at the KwikTrip in Oregon for a slice of pizza, which really hit the spot!

Finally, this was probably the last of the Trans Iowa training for good, since I'm pretty sure this will be my last Trans Iowa. Barring some unanticipated turn of events, I think a third one will do me.

So begins the taper; next weekend is the Dairy Roubaix, and the following week it's on to TIv.11!

More photos? Over here.

Cheese Soup, Served Cold

"Oh look, stars," Steve said, pointing overhead, and sure enough, the inky night sky was full of them. I was a little surprised, given that it had been foggy or overcast since before sunrise. We all groused and joked again about the soft conditions, knowing that we'd be underway again soon. This was the longest wait yet, and I was beginning to wonder if we should backtrack to look for him. I grew impatient and walked back up the trail and into the box culvert. Maybe halfway in, the other end took on a pale blue glow, and ten steps later, the point of Brian's headlight appeared. I turned and walked back toward my bike, not eager to get back on.

—

I had posted a concept for a ride both as a blog and on social media with the idea of traveling the only mostly-gravel loop from Madison, sometime around the winter solstice. Long Ride, Short Day.  People have done this route before both as solo efforts (as I did this summer) and as group rides with names like the Big Ass Long Loop Shindig (BALLS) and the Militant Badger, but never as a group ride in the winter. It follows the Badger rail trail south to Monroe, connects to the Cheese Country ATV trail west and north to Mineral point, then goes along some paved bike path and road to Dodgeville, returning to Madison on the Military Ridge rail trail. Just over 130 miles, 110 of which are not paved.

The first attempt in 2013 was a solo ride for me that went only to a point just south of the Stewart tunnel on the Badger. Four inches of ice-crusted snow proved too much to bust through for that kind of distance.

This year had seen early cold, but with not a whole lot of snow, and with only minimal precipitation for the 3 weeks leading up to the ride. The forecast called for mid-forties and fog on the day of the ride. My guess had been that there would be patches of mud on the low spots along the route, but that most of it would be reasonably dry and firm.

The Start

It seemed that I was mostly right for the first half of the ride. Steve, Nick, a newcomer named Brian (who had done the Militant Badger) and I met up at the trail kiosk in Fitchburg at 06:00. Steve was a little late thanks to a non-functional taillight, but we soon enough struck south on the paved section of the Badger. When we reached the limestone, it was covered in ice and snow. This is not unusual, since this first section is in a groove cut through a hill that sees precious little sunlight, so we pressed on in our optimism and were soon rewarded with fast sections of exposed limestone.

I hadn't finished an important part of my morning routine, so we made an early stop at a C-store in Belleville. At this point, the ambient temperature was just coming up to about freezing.


The approach to the tunnel was also through a cut and covered in ice and snow. Nick and Brian both fell, fortunately with no harm done. Icy stalagmites had already formed on the floor of the tunnel, along with several loose chunks of limestone from the ceiling.

The Cheese

Further south we rolled through Monticello and on to Monroe, where we left the Badger and picked up the Cheese Country ATV trail. Though the surface is a larger aggregate mixed with more sand, the going was still pretty good despite some long icy stretches.

We stopped for lunch at a c-store in Gratiot, filling up on wedge sandwiches, pizza and chocolate milk. Upon returning to the trail, we found that it had begin to get soft and the spray was beginning to make a mess of the bikes. We made another brief stop at a Casey's in Darlington, which, disappointingly, was out of pizza.


Nick had a brake problem out near Calamine (the spring on his rear caliper somehow got caught in the rotor) and I decided to inspect my nonfunctional rear brake while we were stopped. Turned out that the grease I had used in my rear hub is not waterproof and had leaked its grey matter all over the caliper and rotor on one side, the cassette and chain on the other, and all around the inner circumference of the rim. There was nothing to be done but rely on the front brake. Brian, being the slowest of the group, decided to forge ahead to Mineral Point, and I did the same a couple minutes later.

By this time, the temperatures were in the forties and the trail has turned to soup. The most effective strategy was to ride the narrow margins where roots made the going spongy but rideable. Steve and Nick caught me in short order, and it was clear that I was still not fully recovered from the flu I'd had the week before. We found Brian in Mineral Point, and pressed on after a brief break, wanting to clear the ten miles of road to Dodgeville before it got dark.


The Stretch

Rolling north up Shake Rag St., the fog started to get pretty thick, and stayed so all the way to Dodgeville. Fortunately, there's a separated bicycle path for most of the way that runs parallel to, and then crosses the four-lane US Highway 18.

A mile or so south of Dodgeville, the path dumps out onto state Highway 23, but we chose the option of crossing onto a short section of gravel named Lover's Lane. It was immediately obvious that it doesn't get much traffic, and still had snow drifts stretched across it that were weeks old. Dusk was almost over and the lights came on. There was more falling on ice and slogging through gravel slurry. I got off and pushed my bike at one point and declared that I could drop out and call my wife right then and there for a ride and be done with the whole thing. Steve gently reminded me that we'd soon be taking a break and to let him know if I needed anything. We rolled onto a Dodgeville pavement just as the daylight was giving its last.


Right about mile 95, we rolled into the KwikTrip parking lot soggy, tired and covered in limestone. We stalked the good provisions aisle by aisle and I remember thinking that this is about as lousy as I had felt at the very end of some of the longest, most difficult rides I've done. We did our best to eat, rest and rally, but concern about the 40 miles of unpaved rail trail ahead was clearly weighing heavily on our mood. I said I was concerned, which was sort of an understatement. I bought some string cheese, a banana, some chocolate milk, jerky, and chips. We were there for maybe 45 minutes, and somehow we rallied.

The Darkness 

It was dark when we left the store. We started out riding north on the main drag but quickly opted for back streets. We found the trailhead easily enough, but as we had suspected, most of it was soupy. There were a few stretches of snow or dry surface, but we mostly had to ride on the vegetation at the edges of the trail. There was a stretch of paved trail before Ridgeway we got to ride at speed, but it ended too soon. The parts through Ridgeway and Barneveld were the soupiest of all, and we rode the parallel streets where we could.

All of us were miserable, but Brian, riding a regular mountain bike with 2" tires and narrow drop bars had it the worst by far. We found ourselves waiting for him at regular intervals for increasing lengths of time. He told us a couple of times that we should just leave him, but no way would my conscience allow me to leave somebody alone after dark, in the middle of nowhere, on a trail with no other traffic. No way. As we rolled up on Riley, there was some joking about stopping at the Tap for a beer, and I suggested that we could also call and ask how much a cab back to Madison would cost. Brian vetoed the idea:

"I've come this far. I'm not quitting now."

So we slogged on. The low section of trail between Riley and Verona might not have been as bad as we had expected, but it was still some of the worst. The wait between the box culverts was probably one of the longest, but the last section before hitting pavement was also long enough to cause some worry. Steve and Nick and I were clearly past our Bike Fun freshness date, but I really have to hand the prize for raw determination to Brian. I honestly have no idea how he did this ride on the bike he had chosen.

The pavement was a major relief. There were some icy stretches, but forward progress was suddenly much easier and faster. The last miles rolled by in some kind of daze as the fog returned. We parted ways at the Three Trails, and I was the first to cross the bike counter at six minutes past midnight.


I pulled in the driveway at 00:28 on the morning of the 14th of December and the wife was still up. She fed me and I took a shower before falling into bed. I was so exhausted, wired and mentally shattered that restful sleep refused to visit me. Taking the burden of others' well-being upon myself had taken a real toll on me—something I have to learn to deal with more constructively. I took it really easy all day Sunday, doing laundry, washing the bike and watching a couple of movies, finally sleeping well Monday night.

Afterword

My hubris needs a check after this one. Frank and Tyler had both tried to warn us that the warm temperatures in the forecast were going to turn the trail soft, and it turned out that they were mostly right. It's sort of a shame that this is the only trail loop to which we have access from Madison, because it's really a little too long. Either that or my motivation is too short.

Pics on the Flickr.

The Gravel Rig

(Trans Iowa 2014 configuration)

This is Woody Anne, my 2000 model year Surly Cross Check. It's the bike I've been riding the most for mixed-surface adventure rides and gravel events, including Almanzo, Dairy Roubaix, Trans Iowa, Heck of the North, Gravel Metric and more recently the Ten Thousand.

Really, she's nothing all too special. My parts choices are mostly based on wanting high functionality and durability at a reasonable cost. This usually means simple, yet effective. A full component list is available below for hardcore bikegeekery, but in a nutshell it's a 2x8, drop-bar cross bike with a good wheelset.

Anybody who knows me knows that I like this bike quite a bit. It's stable but lively, I've been fitted on it so that it's very comfortable, and I have little doubt about its durability. Even though I originally ordered the dark blue frame with the 1" headtube, I've really grown to like even the color of this one.

Here she is, all set to make our first attempt at Trans Iowa:


Note the custom headlight mount, which replaces one of the headset spacers.


No plans to replace this one for the foreseeable future. Might switch out the bars for a set of Salsa Cowbells at some point. The current spec:

Frame: Year 2000 Surly Cross Check, TIG-welded double-butted Reynolds 631 cro-moly steel.
Fork: Matched, with lugged crown and 1-1/8" steerer

Wheels: Shimano 600 8-speed hubs, Velocity A23 rims, Wheelsmith stainless butted spokes

Crankset: Shimano SLX touring 170mm arms, RaceFace 38t single-speed ring; 29t granny
Bottom bracket: Shimano XT external
Cassette: Shimano 12-30
Front derailleur: Shimano Altus top-swing, top-pull
Front Shifter: Shimano stem shifter mounted on a clamp on the left side of the seat mast just below the top tube. Cable runs directly to the derailleur.
Rear derailleur: Shimano SLX short-cage with alloy pulleys
Rear shifter: Shimano 8-speed bar-end mounted on a Paul's Thumbie on the top section of bar just to the right of the stem.
Chain: Sram PC-851

Brakes: Tektro CR-720 with salmon pads
Brake Levers: Cane Creek BR-5 and Cane Creek Cross-tops

Headset: Chris King NoThread Sotto Volce, silver (recent addition)
Bars: Ritchey WCS, 42cm, 26.0, ergo.
Stem: Bontrager 100mm, 25˚ rise
Seatpost: Ritchey WCS alloy 27.2
Clamp: Surly Constrictor with Surly cable stop
Saddle: Currently a Brooks Cambium

Typical gravel loadout: Medium Relevate Tangle bag, Relevate Mountain Feedbag, Planet Bike Lunch Box, Planet Bike seat bag, Garmin 500 or Touring Plus, Lyzene HV mini-pump, Zefal bottle cages, Banjo Brothers map case.

Ten Thousand

Went to the inaugural running of Axletree's Ten Thousand down in Freeport. Grant and I got up early and took off on time, but missed an exit in Monroe and ended up getting there about five minutes before the start. Went to the pre-race before we took the bikes off the car and ended up starting a couple minutes behind he field.

Meh. So what? We were in it just for the ride anyway.

It rained on us pretty good starting maybe 20 minutes in, fogging glasses and covering us in slurry. Rode with a fat biker and leapfrogged with Kierstin and Dan, who would all ultimately do the short route.

This was the maiden voyage for the roll chart, and I was really glad I made it shed water. Speaking of maiden voyages, Grant had built up his new Soma Wolverine the week prior and put the finishing touches on the night before. There were a number of stops for adjustments.

The route ran north and west into the Driftless area, and some of the hills were just about steep enough where a person had to walk. The rain quit eventually and we swung back and forth between gravel and pavement; occasionally, in the middle of nowhere, the pavement would just start or end.

There was one checkpoint and one c-store, both with ample water. Good thing, because we got a couple peeks of sun and it warmed up and got good and humid. Grant and I mostly rolled and talked but also took occasional turns at dropping or lagging.

There was some very pretty scenery on route, and a B road that couldn't be beat. Came upon some good ol' boys parked near the end of the B, drinking and having a good ol' time with the laughing and the bullshitting. They asked whether we were the sweepers, and well, we said no but knew then that we were at the back of the pack for the long route.


The joke then became that we would welcome some rain to cool us off a bit. Nearing the finish, we passed Pearl City and I agreed to the rain, but only if it hit after we got back on the pavement. Within a few miles of the finish we got our wish and it poooouuuurrrred. Rolled into Krape park as the second to last group to find only Chad and a couple of others still there. The last group came in as we were changing into dry clothes in the parking lot.

Had a lousy meal at a hotel restaurant in downtown Freeport and drove home in a huge thunderstorm.

Great day, all in all.

Pictures are in the album.

Cheesehead Triangle

Took a day off from work, left home and picked up the Capitol City bike path to the Greenbush and Southwest paths, got on the Badger headed south and rode through the tunnel to Monroe. From there, I rode the Cheese Country ATV trail to Mineral Point, grunted up Shake Rag Street to the bike path along US151 to Dodgeville and caught the Military Ridge trail back to Madison.

Sounds simple, but was by far the longest I've ever ridden all by my lonesome. Three counties and 17 towns.

Even on a 29er with really big tires, the ATV trail was no joke. Hard work. Hot and humid.




Still, 147 miles in under 14 hours on that thing? I'll take it.

Pics on the Flik.

Gravel Metric 2014

Drove down to DeKalb with Nate and Steve to ride Axletree's Gravel Metric, the ride with the clever videos. Grant skipped this one because apparently there was some kind of dispute on their ride while I was at Almanzo.

Pretty big field of locals, Chicagoans and Sconnies took the start. Rolled out of the NCC parking lot, onto some pavements to get us out of town, and turned the dogs loose on the gravels maybe 5 or 6 miles out. Pace lines held until maybe 25 miles in where we did a long stretch of turf grass trails through a state park. Interesting at times given that some folks obviously don't spend a lot of time on surfaces other than pavement. It was pretty hot and quite a few people would run out of water as the ride went on, but we were smart enough to stop at the park and top off.

Peeps were feeling a little low at the halfway checkpoint, so that slowed us down a little, and we took another longish break at the water crossing around mile 45-ish. Couple of really fun B roads on this one. Ended up taking a little longer than I might have liked overall, but we had a good lunch afterward in good company.

Word has it that the next running will be the last, so make it if you can.

Pix over on the picture site.

Almanzo 2014

Drove down to Preston with Handyman the night before the Almanzo. Got a bit of a late start and stopped in LaCrosse and had dinner at Qdoba. Lots of talk on the way down about riding in general an how this would be his first century.

The Trailhead Inn Resort in Preston is recommended. Clean and sufficiently appointed. We didn't get in until 22:00, missing the grass track race and registration. Even the hotel office was closed and our key was in a note taped to the room door.

Decent breakfast but nothing special, after which we lost track of time a bit and I had to urge the Handy to trim his toenails later and omygawd, we gotta be to Spring valley in about 20 minutes to check in! We rolled into our parking spot on the edge of town with maybe 7 minutes to spare, so I grabbed our waivers, left Handy at the car to get ready, and rolled into town to get our numbers. As I laid my hand on the door of the community center, the megaphone dude barked:

"One minute to registration closing! One minute left!"

I think I got the last pair of numbers before the start.

Handy and I worked our way up at the front, sang Happy Birthday with the crowd, and we were off.

He hung on my wheel all day, frequently asking me to check pace. In retrospect, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. This was the Almanzo where the horses ran with the riders, but we missed that.


It was Trout Festival back in Preston.


The water crossing was great.


We had fun.

Dinner at a decent pizza place in Fountain (the Village Square of Fountain) with good pie after. Quick tour of the former jail behind the butcher shop now a slaughterhouse. Then the drive home.

I drove to the Wisco border, and we switched drivers and I got coffee at a c-store in LaCrosse. Handy drove to Castle Rock where we switched again, which was good because he was out right after we got underway. The Prius had a CD player, but the only disk I could find was a badly scratched Rush album.

So we got home on caffeine, Limelight, Tom Sawyer, about half of Red Barchetta that ended in garble and Handy's occasional half-awake attempts at conversation. We made it, though I wouldn't say I was perky. Pulled into my driveway just after midnight and I managed to stay awake through my daughter's dance recital the next day. So, success.

Pictures over that-away.

Trans Iowa 2014

Well, that was sort of a bust, but at least it had a silver lining.

Training didn't go so well this year. About 6 weeks out, I came down with what I'm pretty sure was Norovirus, followed about a week later by a stubborn, flu-like respiratory ailment that kept me home from work for 3 days and hung on and on. The combination blew a huge hole in what was supposed to be the most intense period of training, and despite my best efforts, the miles just didn't get racked up.

Then there was the anxiety that normally precedes a big ride, exacerbated by the visceral memory of last year's meltdown. In retrospect, I'm pretty certain that what happened in 2013 was really a massive bonk. I just didn't eat enough during the overnight or in the morning for my body to be able to finish the job. The memory of that feeling, combined with frustration over having been sick for so long, did not put me in a good frame of mind for the task of finishing.

The trip down to Grinnell was similar to last year, except that it had rained a little over the previous week and that Grant wasn't racing this time. Nate had tried to get in, but the growing popularity of TI had crowded him out. The four of us arrived an hour or two before the meat-up, settled in to the hotel room, prepped the bikes, went to the pre-race dinner meeting and then to bed.

I'd had TI brain for weeks. It felt like I was in sort of a fog, stressed out and scatterbrained. Grant even mentioned that Steve and I did not seem our normal selves. I'd had no idea it was that obvious, but now there I lay in the hotel bed, unable to tame the monkey brain. I got a couple fitful hours of sleep, but nothing restful. I was already awake when the alarm went off at 02:45.

The Start

The start was very similar to 2013, but pointed the other direction on High street. I chatted briefly with fellow Madisonians Kristin and BJ, and we had our photograph taken by the representative of the Wisconsin Gravel Syndicate. Mark made his announcements, including a repeat of the previous night's warnings about some nasty rail crossings a couple miles in.

Trying to find a rhythm near the back, I have to admit that I really felt like crap. I was able to hang with the moderate and steady Slender Fungus crew for a little while, but fell off of that pace too. Decided it would be best to just bide my time and see whether I would perk up as time went on. Chatted briefly with early TI vet Sprocket, and was with him when we came to the first minimum-maintenance B road, still wet from the previous day's rain.

The Cross Check was sporting a set of full-coverage SKS plastic fenders, and I learned about 100 yards onto the B why almost nobody else had them. The soil in this part of Iowa has a high clay content, and sticks to everything, especially bike tires. Even walking the bike, they jammed up to the point where substantial effort was required just to push. I tried staying on the grass at the edges, and that helped, but there were also places where it was mud all the way across. At the end of the B section, I spent a lot of time scraping with my "B Road Buddy," a modified plastic putty knife made for just this purpose. Steve had it worse, since his Handsome Devil had less fender clearance, especially under the fork crown.

Full fenders were permanently scratched off the equipment list right then and there.

After the mud scraping, we were genuinely at the back of the field with a few other stragglers. One rider had both of his lighting systems fail long before the sun came up. Another had had a flat tire. 

Just as the sky began to lighten, I watched Steve's blinkie light recede up a hill past the turn he had just missed. He was too far away to hear me yell, so I just continued on, missing the next turn myself by reading the wrong line on the cue sheet. Looking down at the road and seeing no bike tracks, I turned around at about a half mile and stopped the timer on the GPS. About a half mile after getting back on course, I re-started it and was remarkably close to having the GPS odometer and the cues back in sync.

Within a couple of miles, about the time the sun was breaking over the horizon, I caught up with Steve, now back on track. He told me that he had caught another rider's wheel and a rut, causing him to crash, and that he was in doubt about whether he would continue beyond the first checkpoint.

As we rolled along, the course turned from the southwest to the southeast, then primarily east, and the wind began to build out of the east. It hadn't really been noticeable until this point, but it had come to a very steady 10-12 miles per hour with some slightly stronger gusts. Nothing to write home about, but a factor.

Checkpoint One

We made the first checkpoint in Lynnville at 8:25 or so, over an hour before it closed. There was a convenience store right before, and Steve encouraged me to ride past the store and check in, mistakenly thinking we would otherwise not make the cutoff. So I did, happy to see a couple of familiar faces from the Slender Fungus and WGS.

Jake, Agatha, and Derek were just leaving the c-store as I arrived, but Steve, Giggles and a couple of other familiar faces were still there. Suddenly I realized that I had forgotten my wallet back in the hotel room. I knew exactly where the damn thing was too: in the back pocket of my jeans goddammit. I talked to Steve, and he had decided to drop, so he lent me a pair of twenties and called the boys for a ride. I went into the store and got water, a slice of breakfast pizza and a small candy bar, determined not to repeat last year's mistakes—I'd be leaving this stop with about 100 ounces of fluids. When I came back out, I refilled, said my goodbyes to Steve and headed out. Stopping briefly at the CP to reset my odometer, I chatted up and thanked the volunteers again. Overall pace for the first section was just over 10 miles per hour.

Completely forgot my plan to change from the Garmin 500 to the Garmin 200.

Then I was alone. Rolling out of town, it was obvious that the wind had already gotten stronger and steadier. It was a nice day otherwise, with the sun shining brightly, but that wind resisted every turn of the pedals. Now came a long grind though open spaces, with hills arrayed to the horizon. Fortunately, the gravels were in great shape with a nice smooth hard-packed track over the vast majority of the course so far.

Not too far west of Lynnville, I came across a rider (in Rassmussen kit, I believe) struggling against the wind across a broad river valley. I offered a pull, but he declined saying that he would be too slow.

A short while later, just before the second B road, I turned south and uphill along a cut in the road, lee to the wind. There, among the weeds in he cut, lay a rider and his bike, enjoying a full-on ditch nap in the sunny calm. I felt bemused and a little envious.

The second B was much better than the first. The clay had dried leather-hard, and following the track of the 80- or 90-some riders ahead of me was cake. Stopping in the shelter of another cut to eat a bit, remove my shoe covers and adjust my errant front shifter, I was soon approached by another rider.

"Ay, you wanna work together a bit?"

"Sure thing. I'll get packed up."

Dave was from Winnepeg, an area he described as conspicuously devoid of hills. This made efforts to draft...well, interesting. It didn't help that his bike wasn't really geared for Iowa rollers either. If I recall, he was running a 38t chainring with maybe a 28 or 30 large cog in back. Flatlander gearing. I'd pull him on the flats, but he'd lag up the hills and outrun me on the downhills. Still, it was good to have somebody in league against that unrelenting wind, and his company was pretty good too.

After a little while, we took a break in the wind shadow of a garage right next to the road to eat something. Remarkable was the sensation of not having the wind noise in our ears—it was like closing the door on a noisy machine. A woman came out of the farmhouse to chat with us, asking what kind of ride we were on. She seemed relatively unsurprised and entirely Midwestern nice, asking whether we needed anything. We thanked her and continued on.

80-some miles into the race at this point, and I had begun to cough regularly. I hadn't really managed to kick the respiratory ailment from a couple weeks back and I was beginning to feel it, especially in the face of what was now a constant 20 mile per hour headwind. There wasn't much to do but put our heads down and push against it.

"Aw shit!" Dave called out at the crest of a hill.

"Dave, what is it? What's wrong?"

"There's another hill up there."

"Dave. This is gonna be your day now. Better get used to it."

We actually managed to reel in a few people at this stage, including Troy from Dubuque, making his second attempt at TI. He was in good spirits and gamely tried to help with our sporadic attempts at making a pace line. He ran out of water around mile 100, but found an understanding farmer willing to offer him some. Dave and I left him at his request and pressed on.

We also came across Mick from Nova Scotia (which spurred a lively discussion about transporting bikes to the states) and a couple of others including a guy on a fixed gear. We stopped at the top of a hill around mile 100 to eat and drink and shoot the malevolent breeze.

I ran out of water just as we rolled into North English, about a mile shy of our next stop. Almost 100 ounces in 52 miles. The wind was just sucking it out of us.

The Casey's General convenience store at mile 115 was busy. Busy with people dropping out of the race, phoning to throw in the towel, and with support vehicles and crew picking them up. John from Nebraska, one of those who had witnessed my meltdown the previous year, was there, sitting against the wall and waiting for a ride. The wind had done him in. Taco Sam was holding court on the sidewalk out front, chatting with the drops. Dave and I went in to buy refreshments. Water, pizza and chips to start.

Back outside, I lent my phone to a racer who had no cel service. I talked to John and Sam for a while, and Dave lay down on the sidewalk and fell asleep using the brick wall for a pillow. I considered my options. Our average speed for the second leg had been about 9.4 miles per hour. As always, I had watched my GPS closely right before the 100-mile mark, which had been crossed at about 13:48. Almost ten hours to go 100 miles. No time in the bank. After refilling my water and downing an entire Gatorade, I went back into the store, where I had a pretty serious coughing jag in the candy aisle. I held the lugi in my mouth while I paid for my candy and granola bar, hocking it into an out-of the way corner once back outside.

Troy pulled in and said that he was ready to drop. He called his wife back at the hotel. Checkpoint two was still over 50 miles away, it was pushing 16:00 and I had no idea which direction the course went from here. Not that it mattered, since the crosswind was almost as bad as the headwind, and I was pretty sure we wouldn't  be going west for a while. I felt my resolve ebb as I went back into the store for an ice cream bar.

The Drop

Troy's wife and daughters were having fun in the hotel pool, so he decided to just start riding back in the direction of Grinnell, and I agreed to go with him. There seemed little point in riding further out on the course if I had no intention of pushing hard to make the 21:30 cutoff. Why make the inevitable decision farther from my support? I called the boys and let them know I was out, then Mark to let him know that Troy and I were both done. In one way, it felt like I was giving up too easily, but in another it just seemed like this year was not meant to be. For a lot of reasons.

The only map Troy and I had was a highway map of the state, which showed only the numbered paved highways and none of the gravels. We rolled west out of North English on the pavements, with the intention of getting picked up in Montezuma, maybe 20 miles out of Grinnell.

The tailwind was heaven itself. On one of the paved highways we averaged one 3-mile stretch at over 27 miles per hour. Then we hit the gravels and actually followed part of the course backwards for a while, this time with the wind's blessing. Troy was good company, and I found that I was truly having fun for the first time that whole day. We rolled and talked about Dubuque and the Triple D, family and friends, jobs and bikes and life in general. We were in no hurry but we were making great time. Navigation was a little bit of highway map pavement and a lot of seat of the pants guesswork. Mostly west with a little bit of north thrown in, we used water towers as waypoints. One turned out to be just a water tower, alone in a cornfield, not Montezuma.

We stopped at a c-store in Montezuma and were feeling good, so we decided to press on to Grinnell. There were no county maps to be had, so we asked a series of cheerfully curious locals what the best route might be. Nobody had an answer we much liked, so we decided to wing it.

We called support again to update them and rolled west on F57, a pavement with a paved shoulder and signed as a bike route! We turned north on a town road just before Lake Ponderosa and almost immediately came upon a gravel, marked as a B road running off to the west. Neither of us had to even pretend to convince the other, we just took it.

Slaying Demons

This area had been looking very familiar, but not 50 yards after making the turn, a wave of recognition washed over me. The farmstead on our right was the very place that last year where I had seen a family out mowing and failed to stop and ask them for water. Along this stretch ran the very floor of the meltdown, less than 10 miles from where I threw in the towel, only this time I felt great.

Unloading the burden of not finishing either year felt great. We zigzagged north and west as the sun set, knowing that if we came to highway 146, we'd be due South of Grinnell. Two more B roads later, we crossed I-80 on 100th and could see the lights of a town off to the northwest. We picked up the aptly-named Diagonal Road, where my GPS died and then north onto a westbound gravel toward town.

Just as it was really getting dark, we rolled onto pavement. A couple of dogs ran out from a farm and challenged us in the roadway. The younger was not vicious, but quite enthusiastic about not allowing us to pass. Then a bit of mistaken northbound travel to the GAR highway and finally, into Grinnell itself.

We had strayed quite a ways north and had to ride two or three miles south once in town to get back to the hotel. Members of the Slender Fungus were there to greet us at the entrance. As stories were exchanged, we noticed the first few flashes of distant lightning. We were going to miss the storms. 

Trans Iowa 2014: started in the dark and finished in the dark, with big, hairy demons slain between.



Photos are over on Flickr.

Dairy Roubaix 2014

This is a fun one down in Grant County, Wisco. Starts in Wyalusing state park near the confluence of the Wisconsin and Mississippi rivers and goes south along the Mighty Muddy through the driftless. Not all gravel. Mighty hilly.

Photo photos over on the Flix.

Epilogue to TIv9

It's been a long time, I know, but I wanted to have some perspective before I published this. It's changed a lot since I first wrote it last year. There have been a lot of rides since, including another TI. Thanks for waiting.

----

Having the phone cut out was worrisome, but I figured the boys would be smart enough to find me. I got back on the bike and rode a half-mile, turned right on 60th and climbed the remaining half-mile to F-46. All they had to do was drive the route backwards, and boom, there I'd be. I laid the bike down in the grassy ditch and commenced the wait. "Re-trace the route," I muttered over and over to myself. I took the caps off all three bottles and managed to consolidate a couple ounces of water, which I drank immediately. 

It was a huge relief to see that VW top the hill on the other side of the highway. I stooped my stiff old cowboy body over the bike and removed the computers and lights, then slowly rose back to a hunched-over stance. Steve would later tell me that I looked about fifteen years older when they picked me up.

The car wheeled around and Grant, Steve and Nate piled out. Steve asked:

"Now, before we offer aid, you're sure you're done?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

All at once there were smiles, laughter and pats on the back for the smelly old dimwit. I was so relieved to be done. I might have been moved to tears of joy,  had either joy or tears been in stock, but all of my cupboards were pretty much bare.

They hadn't brought water, but there was Gatorade, which might have been better anyway. I put my lights and computer in the back of the wagon and sat there while they loaded my bike. Another rider approached, looking rough too, but asked if everything was alright. I replied that it was. I don't know who it was or whether he finished. I don't think he did. [We think this was Dave. He was found wandering in the road a few miles away, out of it. He did not finish.]

Once underway, the talking began. I don't remember much of it, but I'm told that I had no filter between impulse and mouth. I may well have told them that I was not going to ever do TI again. Ever.

Back at the hotel, there was water with electrolyte, food, beer, a shower and two beds to choose from. Re-acquaintance with food and beer was clearly going to take a while. I managed a little of both, but more food than beer.

My first real encounter with my smell happened as I disrobed to shower, and I washed everything twice. Shorts included.

After putting on clean clothes, I laid down to take a nap not expecting that I would be afraid to go to sleep. I was afraid that if I went to sleep that I would die. Lose control and crash, perhaps.

We went to dinner at a restaurant in town. We saw some other TI racers and their crews, had a nice meal and rented a couple of movies from a Red Box. This is 40 was funny in fits and starts but mostly lame. Argo was excellent, at least judging by the parts I was awake to see.

-------

It took at least a week to feel normal again. Large parts of my intellect went on hiatus. A few pieces would return each day, and I think most of it was back within a week.

Physical soreness was mostly gone in a couple if days, but I had night sweats for about a week. Electrolytes and hormones, most likely. My saddle area grew new skin within a couple of weeks, but would not be the same for most of the summer. My power on the bike returned in mid-May and  I felt pretty good racing Almanzo a mere three weeks later, though I did fade substantially near the end. (There were a couple of flashbacks as well.)

-----------

I had gone into Trans Iowa thinking maybe there would be some kind of big epiphany out there in the wilds, which seems pretty unrealistic in retrospect. There did turn out to be big, obvious lessons, including:

- Ultra endurance racing is hard.

- Details (like hydration and nutrition) are always important. 

- Positive thinking is essential.

- Seldom does anyone do anything like this in isolation.

Much of this I knew, but now understand more fully. 

Also learned were some things about cycling:

- Everything is going to hurt at some point, and easing off to work through whatever it is usually helps. 

- Staying seated while climbing keeps a steadier heart rate and seems to conserve energy. 

- It pays to have your rig in top shape, and to train with the setup you intend to use.

- Within reason, gear is just gear and physical training only goes so far. Mental proficiency counts for much more than I had thought.

----

Sean Mailen said in 300 Miles of Gravel:

"The season of my life is good. I've got...I'm getting ready to get married, and a lot of things are going on, and it's just, like, that level of endurance you learn you have physically, it also translates into mentally...and like you know what, I can handle this."

Yeah, I guess, maybe. I had been through most of that (and some more interesting stuff) before TI, and frankly, none of it as clear-cut as dirtball bike racing. Maybe it is of profound help to some people. It'd be interesting to hear what Sean would say a decade from now.

For me, the most profound lesson has been that life's little annoyances are now more likely to be identified for what they are. I've got a little more courage to face the unknown. I'm a little less passive and a little less inclined to just muddle through. Not much more than that, but I'll take it. Every little bit helps.

I sent in a postcard and am on the roster for next year. Iowa gravel and I have unfinished business. I'm just about finished with overhauling the bike. 

I had an exchange with singlespeeder Matt on Twitter:

Me: Also, will be taking another whack at #transiowa at the end of April.

@mdub71: Best of luck

Me: Thank you. Wait. You're not on the roster...

@mdub71: I got my three, and that shit is hard. You will see me around.

That shit is hard.

Yup.

Heck of the North 2013

It was supposed to be Nate, Kierstin and I, but Kierstin dropped out about a week before the event. Nate and I made the long drive in his car with the bikes laid out in the back. That worked really well, preserving the aerodynamics and allowing his Focus about 38 miles per gallon. Grant and his family drove up separately.

Nate and I arrived a little early and met Duluth cyclist Doug for lunch at a restaurant. Doug commutes year-round and has also done the Arrowhead 135 on a bike. Conversation at that lunch convinced me that I was not really Arrowhead material, or at least would not be unless I upped my winter camping game.

We hit registration and got our numbers, where we saw Grant and his family briefly, got some dinner and took off for the cabin I had rented up in Silver Bay. It was quite rustic and some distance from the start in Two Harbors. It was just one big room, with two beds, a stove, desk, mini fridge and a sink with running water, but no shower or indoor toilet. At least it had electricity and gas heat.


The morning of the race we got up and mad a big breakfast, but I had completely forgotten to get any kind of coffee. We had packed most everything the night before, so we got on the road in plenty of time and took the back roads to the start. Fall colors were out in force, and we hit some local gravels, so it turned out to be most excellent.

We arrived just as the parking lot was reaching capacity, and ended up parking in the grass right at the entrance. Got the bikes out and did the usual pre-race rambling around and meeting people we knew, found Grant, dropped off our drop bags and got lined up. Jeremy made the final announcements and released the hounds just a couple minutes past the hour.

It was a stampede out of the gate, a full gallop down an arrow-straight former railbed. Softball-sized and larger stones mixed into the aggregate sent riders to the margins with flats starting maybe 100 yards into the race and continuing periodically for the first mile or two. i realized that i would be nursing a caffeine withdrawal headache for some time to come, and Grant and Nate went well out in front of me. Passing under a railroad bridge, the course eventually came out onto some gravels and pavements. The sun gamely made an effort to show its face, and we were having a grand time pacelining off to the south. 

Then we came to the snowmobile trails. It had been wet, and besides being rough, they were swampy too. The fat bike crowd cruised through this section but the rest of us struggled. I tried to ride through what looked for all the world like a puddle but turned out to be a hub-deep hole. I vaulted the bars and landed hands and knees in a bed of wet sphagnum.

After a steep run-up, the higher ground was more rideable and we soon came out onto a doubletrack.


Somewhere around mile 40, it began to rain and the wind picked up. As we neared the north end of Duluth on a pavement, we spied a group coming toward us at speed. We thought we were lost, but it turned out these were the leaders, already on the return leg.

We rolled into Duluth, up the Seven Bridges Road and into the checkpoint. We were there quite a while, eating, refilling water and changing into drier clothing. Upon leaving, we discovered that the wind had picked up a bit more and the rain was falling in earnest. Soon soaked again, we headed back off to the north in a swirl of blowing leaves.

A guy on an orange Vaya followed us through the stream crossings and passed us shortly thereafter. As soon as we turned into the wind, the three of us dropped him like a bad habit.

Closer to the finish, I passed on a Coke handup. Nate shared a bit of his, and I learned never to pass on a Coke handup so close to the finish.

The last couple of miles consisted of chugging along a couple of miles of ATV trail strewn with big rocks and puddles. Fantastic stuff. The finish saw us covered in slurry and ending up somewhere above the middle of the pack. The rain stopped and the sun peeked out. Several riders with disk brakes, including Orange Vaya Guy, came in with no brakes—the wet sand had apparently worn the pads to nothing.

Heck has a fantastic variety of surfaces, from paved and gravel roads to forest trail to stream crossings, doubletrack, railbed and city streets. Beautiful scenery and a great crowd too.

Dinner at an understaffed restaurant in Two Harbors, ice cream and then back to the primitive cabin in Silver Bay for a good night's sleep. Back to Madison the next morning.

I loved it. I want to do it again. 2015, I hope.

Pix on Flix.

Trans Iowa, Part the Third

(Continued from Part the Second, which followed Part the First.)

The gloaming sky was clear and the wind had died off by the time we turned on our lights and rolled away from Checkpoint Beta with 150 miles of gravel to go. Just a short stretch down the road, a very large, white, newer crew-cab pickup came up from behind and slowed to our pace. The passenger window was down and a young man leaned out. I tensed a little, waiting for confrontation or ridicule.

"Hey, is this a bike race?"
"Yes" replied Grant.
"Where you headed?"
"Grinnell."
"That's a ways."
"Yeah."

They pulled away in a cloud of dust.

Numerous farmers were still out on the land in the dark.


The next 8 or 9 miles were uneventful but for the anticipation of the next convenience store. We followed the cues through a little town whose name I did not know (Gladbrook, as I later found out) and pulled into the flourescent-lit parking lot of a Casey's General.

Kansas Singlespeeder Matt and his crew were preparing to leave and offered us the remaining three slices of cheese pizza from a cardboard box on the sidewalk adjacent the store. It was one of the best things I had ever tasted.

There were a lot of other racers here. Matt, Matt and John; Chad, Ari, Special K, HB, Pete, Ben, and quite a number whose names I can't remember. The store was actually pretty busy because of us. I bought water, Fritos, a granola bar, and put on more chamois cream in the restroom.  Back out at the bikes, we refilled bottles and did a little housekeeping and traded stories with the other racers. Then it was time to go.


Rolling back out onto the route, the air temperature had dropped noticeably.

"Shit," Grant said with quiet, matter-of fact resignation.
"What?"
"Here we go."

I knew the night was going to be rough. This was my biggest misgiving about Trans Iowa, and the reality was beginning to sink in. Apparently for both of us.

What came next really did not help. We turned onto a road that must have had fresh gravel applied just the day before—it was absolutely the worst surface we had been on so far. We tried to ride the grader tire track at the very right-hand edge of the road, but even that was slow going. After about a mile, Grant stopped at an intersection.

"We missed our turn."
"What?"
"We missed our turn. We were supposed to turn on 160th and this is 150th. We have to go back."

A quick check of the cue wasn't really necessary, but it confirmed my fear—we were a half-mile off course according to my odometer and would have to go back.

We later discovered that one of Grant's LED headlights, the bright one that he turned on only for downhills, was interfering with his wireless bike computer, causing it to read incorrectly.

"I can't do this."

With those four words, Grant was done. He pulled out his phone to call Nate.

"Hey, could we at least ride back to the course so I  can watch for other riders?"

I knew some of other riders we had seen in Gladbrook would be along soon. He replied that he wanted to catch Steve and Nate before they headed back to Grinnell, hoping arrange to meet them back in Gladbrook. I started riding back while he placed the call.

Headlights appeared near the horizon. LED bicycle headlights. Grant was a good hundred yards behind me and appeared to still be stopped. I kept riding. At the intersection, I waited. Three riders passed, we greeted each other, and they continued on. Grant was approaching but still hundreds of yards away. Embarrassed though I may be to admit it, I was pissed at him for being so poky, since there was no way I could ride through the night alone. Then I got mad at myself for being so selfish. Three blinking red taillights receded to the east. I didn't know what Grant's plan was, and more importantly, I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye. I was torn.

So I called him.

"Hello?"
"What's the deal?"
"It's good. Go."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah." 

He was close enough now that I could hear his voice on the phone in one ear and without in the other. I hung up.

"You sure?"
"Yes. Go."

Memory fails regarding the exact words, but I said goodbye and good luck, stood on the pedals and launched the bike east down 160th, red taillights barely visible on the horizon.

---

The night was clear but at 22:30 the moon was not up yet. The gravel was pretty smooth at this point, so I figured I could make some speed for my bid to catch the three riders.

There was a rustling sound and movement in the tall grass of the right hand ditch at about two o'clock. A large, tan animal burst forth and leapt across the ditch and onto the gravel at my heel, and the barking began as I stood up to put the hammer down. His guy was a ninja, and it was immediately clear that there was nothing to be done but stomp on the pedals. As fate would have it, the flat terrain and packed road surface saw me doing 25mph in very short order. Big Fido was a little too lumbering to maintain that speed. Luckily for me.

Not a half-mile down the road, farm buildings stood close to both sides of the road. A large, dark farm cur stood in a pool of sodium vapor light in a driveway to the right, barking a challenge and holding his ground. I didn't slow from my cruising pace, stood up, charged him and bellowed my standard "GO HOME!" as I veered left around him. I swear I could feel his hot, canine breath on my right ankle as I passed, but he and his shaggy white buddy turned out to not be all that interested in chasing me beyond their borders. Luckily for me.

The three taillights disappeared over the crest of another hill, so I stepped up the pace. In retrospect, catching them was inevitable, but sooner seemed to be far more desirable than later. Coming within 50 yards, I hailed them to no effect. Finally, I caught up.

HB and Ben were from Pennsylvania. HB was a big guy, in his forties at least, a veteran of Dirty Kanza and numerous other adventure races, riding a Fargo with fat tires. Ben was younger and riding some kind of geared cyclocross bike with skinnier tires. Neither could remember the lead rider's name, so I rode up and introduced myself to Pete; a slight, middle-aged guy from South Dakota astride a single-speed Cross Check.

From here on the memories are cloudy, but I rode with HB, Ben and Pete through the night. I gamely pretended to help navigate for a while, but Pete was on it and he was flawless.

Conversation was sparse, but we did talk a bit. Somebody asked whether we would see the moon, and I replied that it wouldn't rise until later. Pretty soon it poked its big head, all melted off on one side, over the horizon.

It was hilly. Really, really hilly, and there were long stretches of fresh gravel. Frankly, it was hellish. No scenery to speak of but the bit of light in front of the bike, illuminating that constantly-approaching patch of gravel. Sometimes the blinking red lights of radio towers or wind turbines would create a phantom bike on the horizon ahead of us. Ben and Pete both wore helmet lights, and their sweep often created the illusion that things were moving in the ditches. At one point, I thought I saw a large horse next to the road that turned out to be a bent-over tree trunk.

It was cold. The tops of the hills were not so bad, but the sweat generated while climbing them made for frigid descents into pools of cold, misty air in the valleys.

Maybe around midnight, we stopped for a food and nature break. I put on my jacket and repeated my newfound habit of peeing right in the middle of the road without bothering to get off the bike. Suddenly, there was a lot of barking. I turned on my helmet light and spotted a very large dog about 30 yards off the road; two points of light stared back, trying to figure out what I was.

"This was not a great place to stop."
"No kidding." 

If I kept the dog in the beam of my light, he would stay more or less still, but when I looked away for a few seconds, he took the opportunity to slink closer. We finished our business and began to move out. The dog deemed his job finished and turned to trot, still sniffing the air, toward home. Good boy.

I started coughing, and HB offered me a cough drop. Surprisingly, it worked really well.

At about 02:30 on Sunday, we came to a stretch of pavement and rolled through the sleeping town of Montour, Iowa. When I say that it was asleep, I mean that it was really asleep. We saw not a single waking soul. I don't remember seeing so much as a light through a window. Just outside of town, a single car passed us on E49 and we soon returned to the gravel.

Ben seemed to be new at this, and I got the impression that he may not have had a good idea what he had signed on for. We came to another stretch of really thick, fresh gravel, and we tried the old trick of riding in the grader track at the very edge of the road. Ben fell down and rolled into the deep ditch on the right-hand side. We were going slowly, and he got up right away, saying he was alright. Still, I was concerned.

There was talk of a truck stop at mile 80. We all began to look forward to a respite. Guitar Ted had told us before the race that we needed to carry enough supply with us at all times to make 100 miles or risk becoming pig fodder. Now I clearly understood why.

More hills. Big hills. More deep, fresh gravel. We walked up some of the steeper hills, but HB would bomb down all of them, blowing past us like a freight train, trailing a cloud of dust.

After a nature break, I crested a hill to find Pete and HB waiting at an intersection with a paved road. Ben was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Ben?"
"Behind us."
"Where?" 

I looked back across the valley at a huge hill about a mile behind us. Maybe a minute later, a pinpoint of bright, blue-white light appeared over its crest and began to descend the hill. I picked some food out of my bag and stuffed it in my face while we waited. Within a few minutes, Ben rolled up.

"My chain jammed between the big cog and the spokes. I had a hell of a time getting it back out."

More gravel and darkness. More hills. Ben fell down again. He was frustrated. We were working for every mile and for every line on the cue sheet. I was concerned about our speed, because my GPS was showing an average of only 8.5 mph since CP Beta. We really needed to make more like 9 or 10.

We caught up to a group of riders. Singlespeeders Matt, Matt and John were chipping steadily away at the course. I think Chad may have been with them as well. The groups intermingled for a few minutes. I turned to a young man on a cyclocross bike and said:

"Hi. I'm Michael."
"I know. We've met," Ben replied.

Clearly, my cognitive abilities were not improving as the night progressed.

---

That thing about things being darkest just before the dawn isn't just a metaphor. Ben fell down again, and not having grasped the enormity of this race was playing with what little was left his resolve. He was supposed to be on a plane back to Pennsylvania at 16:00 on Sunday, and his mention of this was a telling indication of where his head was.

We carried on, with Pete in the lead.

The birds began to sing and the sky began to brighten for a second time. We walked another hill. Pete and HB pulled ahead, but I stayed with Ben as his mood continued to deteriorate. Shortly after dawn, Ben and I came upon HB waiting for us at an intersection.

"Our navigator is gone."
"Where is he?"
"I dunno. He took off."

I was thinking of doing the same, but the battery on HB's GPS unit was just about dead. I offered what was left of my auxiliary battery pack, and we got it connected. We were off again, almost to mile 80 and a respite.

Less than an hour later, my GPS ticked past the 80-mile mark, but we were clearly still in the middle of nowhere. HB seemed a bit defeated, and Ben clearly so. They decided to drop out at whatever town came along next. I asked HB whether they would be able to navigate from there. He thought so and returned my battery pack. I wished them good luck and took off at a swift pace. It was 07:00, I was 70 miles from the finish, and had to be there by 14:00. We had only managed an average of 8.5mph since Checkpoint Beta. The math was not encouraging.

It's remarkable what daylight can do for the spirit. I looked over at the shadow of my spoke cards making its brisk pinwheel mark on the gravel and was pleased to have picked up the pace. Unfortunately, I felt like crap. The caffeine that had kept me awake during the night was wearing off, and I was more than ready for a cup of coffee. What had been gas was turning into an urgent need to poop, but doing so in the field without a means to wash my hands and still having to eat was not an attractive prospect. My body was tired and beginning to get pretty sore. Desperation was setting in, and I remember passing a farm, yelling at myself,

"You. Are. Not. Giving. Up!"

Loudly. Not in a joking manner. I was also really beginning to question my motives for doing this thing in the first place. Why was I here? For a notch in my quiver? To prove something? If so, what? And to whom? Was I being tough or just irretrievably stubborn? What does it prove to face fear in a situation that you've created yourself?

It also occurred to me, that finish or not, I had come and had the Trans Iowa experience, and resolved I would never do it again. There are, after all, lots of things to do in life, and this particular thing was a big, risky time commitment. The weather could not have been more favorable. What would be the point? Never again. No way in hell.

The miles ticked slowly away under a cloudless blue sky.

Finally, around mile 92, a water tower appeared over the crest of a hill, proclaiming "BROOKLYN" in plain block letters. I navigated carefully through town and found a Casey's General occupying a building that had originally been built likely for Texaco or Mobil. I leaned the bike against the wall right next to a couple of half-full gallons of water left by other racers. I went inside and used the restroom to unload some solid waste and reapply chamois cream; I washed up a bit, and then did some shopping. I took a liter of water (after debating whether to get two), a cup of coffee and a breakfast biscuit out of the warmer up to the counter. A little punch-drunk and smelling like a farm animal, I chatted with the clerks. Having seen a number of other races by then, they seemed more amused than bemused.

I went outside and drank my coffee and refilled two of my three water bottles. I poked at the third and thought it looked to be about two-thirds full. Wanting to get back underway, I didn't use either the sports drink mix I had along or bother to drop in an electrolyte tab. I had gotten sloppy.

Just as I was about to leave, Matt, Matt and John showed up on their single speeds. They seemed tired but in a pretty good mood. We exchanged pleasantries and I saddled up and rolled out.

On the way out of town, I remembered that I hadn't lubed my chain in a long time. Stopping at a bridge, I did that and snapped a photo of Little Bear Creek. Less than six hours left to go 60 miles. Close, I thought, but I could do it.



Then I was pedaling again, but things went off the rails with surprising quickness. The cue sheet read, from 160th St.:

R on 410th,
L on 145th,
R on 420th, then
R on 155th.

I made the turn on 410th just fine, but then read the wrong line on the cue sheet, looking next for a right on 155th. I passed the left turn on 145th and panicked upon reaching 140th, thinking I should have turned left on 410th instead of right, thinking I was well over a mile off course, when I was in fact less than a half-mile off. Confused as you may be right now, I turned around and headed back east toward 160th. The single-speeders came along shortly, and I flagged them down. They quickly convinced me (over my objections) that nobody was lost and that I had just misread my cue sheet. I felt a little foolish.

So I joined up with them. They were businesslike in their approach, methodical and calm. Matt from Lincoln is an eight-time TI veteran and three-time finisher. They were a good crew to fall in with.

I was miserable and slowly but certainly losing my marbles. Somewhere in this stretch, each cue began to matter less than each mile, and I was struggling mentally for each one.

Things were going even worse physically. My left quadricep had begun to burn with every pedal stroke right above the knee, my right Longissimus Dorsi muscle had begun to cramp, and my triceps were beginning to waver. Worst of all, my lack of attention to my hydration was beginning to catch up with me. I discovered that my third water bottle was, in fact, mostly empty.

I told Matt from Lincoln:

"My hydration status is in question."
"We were planning to just roll it on in."

Calm and businesslike. Positive thoughts. He offered me some water, and I replied that I still had some. I did mooch a gel.

With about 40 miles left, the sky was still completely clear, and the sun shone on us with a relentless glee. I realized I was still wearing my arm warmers under my long-sleeve jersey. I wanted to stay with the singlespeeders, so I decided to take them off while riding. Unfortunately, I was sweaty enough by now that they wouldn't slip off just by pulling on the cuff. So for several climbs, I worked the left warmer down my arm by pinching and pulling at it through my jersey sleeve. I finally got it completely off at the next stop sign. My right warmer would stay on for at least another hour.

Matt from Lincoln and I chatted off and on. He told me that he had been to Madison once and had liked it quite a bit. That Lincoln and Madison had some things in common—they're university towns, seats of government, more liberal in their politics than surrounding territory. I thought I should visit Lawrence. Or Lincoln, maybe. The diversion worked, at least until the next huge hill.

I was becoming concerned, as the miles crawled by, that my control of the bike was becoming sketchier. Especially on the descents. Despite having focused on core and upper-body strength over the last six months, my triceps in particular were beginning to feel rubbery.

We passed a family out doing yard work around their home, which was right next to the road. I passed on an opportunity to ask for water without it even occurring to me that I should do so.

With less than 25 miles to go, I stopped to urinate. I stopped not for any normal bladder urge, but because my lower abdomen felt really bloated. Sure enough, I had to go. It was difficult to tell what color it was in the midday sun, but I thought it looked dark.

I got back on the bike and began catching back up with the group. In the process, I ran through what little I knew about the symptoms and effects of dehydration. My mouth was getting dry at this point and my tongue felt thick. I wondered if dehydration could cause brain damage, then thought about what I was doing out here and concluded that it was too late—I already had brain damage (Finally, some humor...big laugh!) And then, how would I explain all of this to a medical professional, should fate find me at an ER?

Eventually catching up to Matt, I took him up on his offer of surplus water. He gifted me maybe 6 or 8 ounces from his Camelbak. An exceedingly kind gesture. Too bad it was already too late.


Around 14 miles out, the heat had gotten to me (even though it wasn't really all that hot) and I really began to slow down. I watched the three singlespeeders pull slowly away. The tide closed over my head.

Questions about my motivations came back. New questions about my responsibilities and my obligations arrived. I thought about my wife, my daughter, my family, and even my dog. How far away were they, really?

My smartypants self had looked around the internet for a bit before Trans Iowa, in search of quotes about fools. In the process, I read a bit of Homer by accident. Suddenly I found myself playing Euphorbus to the formless Menelaus of this thing. From the Iliad, Book XVII:

[... Menelaus said:] Even so shall I make an end of you too, if you withstand me; get you back into the crowd and do not face me, or it shall be worse for you. Even a fool may be wise after the event." 

Euphorbus would not listen, and said, "Now indeed, Menelaus, shall you pay for the death of my brother [the] time is come when this matter shall be fought out and settled, for me or against me." 

As he spoke he struck Menelaus full on the shield, but the spear did not go through, for the shield turned its point. Menelaus then took aim, praying to father Jove as he did so; Euphorbus was drawing back, and Menelaus struck him about the roots of his throat, leaning his whole weight on the spear, so as to drive it home. The point went clean through his neck, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground. His hair which was like that of the Graces, and his locks so deftly bound in bands of silver and gold, were all bedrabbled with blood. [...]

Unlike Euphorbus, I decided to go back into the crowd and skip the whole part with the spear in the throat.

I crested a hill at mile 312 and saw two dark blue pole sheds standing blank and dumb, baking in the midday sun. The bike rolled to a stop.

---

About 314 miles in 32.5 hours; 21,000 feet of elevation change.

Part One
Part Two

Epilogue, at long last.

And then there was the attempt in 2014.