Leg Four 44.8 Miles (206.8 total)
Rolling out of Madison for the second time was a great feeling. I had a dry kit, and believe it or not, my shoes were not as soaked as I would have thought. Major kudos to Jacob Schwyn for the heads up about changing kits at each checkpoint. I had planned on just one change, but starting fresh after each stop was a little slice of heaven.
At some point during the first few miles here, I started to feel confident that I would make it in, as long as I didn’t do anything stupid like shred a tire on exposed flint in the dark. No, I didn’t worry about that at all. Nope, not me.
The miles were ticking down, and the gaps between everyone was larger than ever, but I could still see people up ahead and behind, enough to the point where I still had not yet had to rely solely on my own navigation. However, while I still had daylight, I thought it best to go ahead and fire up my iPhone just in case.
Just a few miles after that, I’m following a pair of flashing lights that keep straight while my navigation app says to turn right. Somehow my Garmin will only notify me in the middle of an intersection, and it says turn right as well. I pull up and do a double take to check the cue sheet. A woman pulled up behind me and started to question if I was turning when the other two riders had gone straight. Well, I was getting ready to clip in, and she says “My cue sheet doesn’t say we turn here” Huh, wait what? Then I realize that I never grabbed the cue sheets for the last two segments. Shit. No backup.
Then I see the other two riders turning around on the next hill. Just then three more riders come up and make the right turn as well. Ok, a near miscue avoided, I latch onto these three guys for a bit, but it’s pretty hilly and our group gets split up into singles once again, but then reforms, only to shatter on the slightest of grades. I’m feeling pretty good at this point, and I see two small clusters of people ahead of me, as they’ve just made a turn, and I think that if I bridge up to them, maybe we could stay together for a while. I ask the legs, they respond, and before I know it, I’m sitting last wheel in the group that was up the road. Ok cool, it’s flatter here, we’re rotating, the wind isn’t too bad, but we’re flying. Moving on at a good clip. Really good for being this far into the day as the sun is about to set. Possibly too fast.
Shit, we’re really flying now. Holding steady over 20, if not closer to 22-24. Jesus Murphy, did I just bridge to a group of assholes that are trying to drop me, even though I’m rotating through and taking my pulls? Not sure I can keep this up. I rotate through, latch on to the back, and then the two people in front of me start to get gapped. That’s not good. Three people can work together, but the other 8 up the road would be faster. I move inside to the left track as we make a left hand turn, bridge back up to the rest of the group as we bomb downhill toward a river crossing that thankfully has a bridge, and a shockingly steep but short climb on the opposite side. I once again ask my legs to step up, and they don’t let me down. I easily move up in the group on the climb.
t’s getting dark now, and people are starting to switch on lights one by one. I fire mine up on low, and it is pretty bright, almost blinding relative to everyone else in the group. Downhills toward water crossings are increasingly dark with the tree cover overhead. I keep wondering what the terrain might throw at me in the dark, and I once again begin questioning all sorts of things, protecting my tires, watching out for mud, not getting tired and making mistakes… and suddenly I’m alone. I’ve ridden everyone off of my wheel after the last creek crossing and climb.
I crest the hill and there is a T intersection and I see someone turning right, but I also see someone riding from the left and continuing straight. I catch just a bit of embarrassment on his face as he passes in front of me. Hey, no shame there, navigation is all part of the DK experience.
I continue my ride into darkness, and once again, my companions are no longer on my wheel and I’m alone. That’s strange I think, because I’m not riding any harder, yet I’m not riding any easier at this point. I’m just maintaining my pace that I’ve been metering for almost 15 hours.
This is the time that I’m truly alone for the first time. Ahead of me I see no lights, behind me, nothing. There are literally so many people on the course that it has taken this long to string out where no one is in sight. Wow. That’s both a testament to the number of people crazy enough to toe the line and the insane distance of 200 miles of Kansas gravel. It only lasts for a few minutes, an
There is a local Jeep club out on the side of the road, shining headlights on a wooden bridge and I ride over the middle board on the right side. I still have my wits about me, balance, technical skills, the legs are still moving and I didn’t slow down, just turned the legs over and kept it in the middle, steady as hell, thanks to riding rollers over the winter.
Rolling towards Emporia, I approach two more riders just before a stream crossing that was wet on one side dry on the other. I follow their line and instantly regret that decision. Mud so thick and sticky it’s known as “prairie peanut butter.” The section of mud isn’t even 10 feet long, but in another 10 feet, I’m abruptly brought to a halt as both wheels refuse to budge from the buildup of mud. Luckily, I was prepared, as the other two riders struggled to figure out how to clean and clear their bikes, I pulled out my spare tire lever (due to a complete lack of trees and therefore sticks with which to pry mud from my frame and fork) and after turning on my headlamp, I was able to see the massive carnage of mud clinging to my bike. “Holy. Shit.” This stuff is no joke. I worked feverishly trying to clear my fork, and was finally able to spin the wheel, scraping off both sides of the tire, and then the rear where it would finally turn. I pocketed the lever and was on my way, leaving my companions trying to figure out how to clean their bikes.
At this point, I’m pretty much riding/flying solo, and I begin to check my time and I start trying to figure out what time I’m going to finish. The legs feel good, so I continue to pick it up a notch, and I get down in the drops each chance I get. I spend the next 45 minutes trying to calculate my time and how long it’s going to take me to ride the last 25 miles, then the last 20 miles. I conclude that at my current pace, I will arrive 11 minutes before midnight.
Holy shit, I might finish this shit before midnight.
My goal was less than 18 hours, but 11 minutes was cutting it a little close. Then and there, I decided to empty the tank. I shifted down, and then flew past the next two people in front of me, prompting a “yyyyyeeeeeeeeaaaaa!” from one of the riders.
I clicked my headlamp up to its brighest setting because I knew if it burned out, I had the spare in my jersey pocket. I should have done that earlier, because I was no longer riding within the limits of my light, but I was flying. I couldn’t believe how well my legs felt, and how much energy I had left in the tank.
I’d been on the bike for over 15 hours. This was it. This is what I’d been training for. Not the first century, not the first 150 or 175. These last miles I was staring down. It was all about these miles. All of the time on the trainer and the rollers. All of those hours spent staring at TrainerRoad. The sacrifices, both mine and Allison’s. The agreement that if I was going to do DK, we both needed to understand that I had to be dedicated, and focused, and this would be the priority. All of the travel to gravel races in January and February. Hours spent in the car. The lack of beer. Yes, I enjoyed my last beer on New Year’s Eve, for this exact moment.
When this doubt starts creeping in, I knew this would be the hardest part. I had planned, through all of those cold hours in December, January and February, literally in sub-freezing temperatures after work outside in Allison’s studio, being a slave to the trainer. Completing every scheduled workout, freezing, and wearing long fingered gloves, still working toward this exact moment.
I wanted to be able to dig down deep within myself, when those darkest of doubts of both mind and body started to kick in. When I started to question each and every single thing that was happening on the road that could derail my finish. I wanted to be able to reach into myself, with absolute confidence and say “Fuck you Dirty Kanza, I did EVERYTHING I could to be here right now, and my preparation was perfect.”
Head down. In the drops. Absolutely flying. Riding harder and faster than I would have through possible. Picking off every single red tail light I could see in front of me. Riding hard enough as I passed so that no one would, or could even latch on for a free ride.
There were two young girls with their parents at a random interesection saying “25 miles to go” then one older sister whispering to the younger one, and the younger one says “20 miles to go!” It was closer to 25 miles according to the Garmin, but I’m sure the older sister was just trying to make us feel better about how far it was to town.
Unfortunately, my Garmin decided it wanted to turn off with about 20 miles to go. I had been using the LiveTrack feature that connects the computer to my iPhone and broadcasts my location and stats to anyone can keep up with me. Without this, Allison would have no way of knowing where I was on course, or how close I was to Emporia. Thankfully Chad Anderson was the third member of our support team that day, keeping track of me, and calculating finish times when Allison’s phone needed to be charged. Chad is the man, pitching in from 1000 miles away.
I crested a small rise and I could see the glow of Emporia in the distance off to my left. Not only the glow of the town, but I could have sworn I saw spotlights in the sky. A little while later, I was certain of it. Spotlights circling the sky from downtown Emporia. Almost instantly I receive a text from Allison “You’re going to love the finish.”
From seeing the map, I knew I had to go past the town, then cut over, and come back down south, so it wasn’t a straight shot. Once again, that’s DK. It’s longer than it looks.
The only person that passed me was a tandem just a bit before we passed under I35. I had tried to stay out front of it, but seeing that light approach closer and closer, was a mental mind fuck, as I had stayed away for so long, picking off riders one by one in the dark. Once they passed, I saw that it was a tandem, and everything was ok with the world. No way I could keep up with a bike with two motors, so it was good. Considering the fact that I passed someone right at the same moment, that made up for it.
Almost instantly I was off the gravel and on the pavement. Man, what a rush. I was under and out of the tunnel under the interstate and I was on the edge of town. A quick climb and a turn, and I was going through Emporia State’s campus. People in their cars were cheering in the parking lot as I crested that final hill. I followed the signs across campus and saw a group of college students that had been out enjoying the party downtown, and they just started yelling and cheering and giving me congratulations for making it back. Making it back. Holy Shit. I’m really going to do this. I’m well over 200 miles at this point. Actually, with the extra mileage around the checkpoints, I’m already at 206 miles, I’ll finish up with 207.2 miles total.
I can hear the crowd at this point, as I make my way across campus. The music is blaring, cowbells are ringing, and I feel that electric atm osphere that is Emporia. My legs are on total autopilot at this point, and I’m soaking it in. I cross the street and immediately I’m into the finishing straight. I high five some people on the left, and then on the right. So. Many. People. In this mayhem I swear I heard my name announced over the loudspeaker. Wow. Just wow. There is not better feeling on the bike than freewheeling over that finish line. I pull up to a stop, and I’m greeted by none other than Jim Cummins, organizer for DK. Over 17 hours after the start, Jim is there, greeting and shaking the hand of every rider that crosses the line. “Welcome back to Emporia.” Holy shit. Welcome back indeed.
A simple handshake, warm smile, a welcome back, and he hands me my finisher’s decal, and my midnight finisher’s award for making it back in under 18 hours. I never thought such a simple gesture could mean so much. (I later hear him on a podcast, and when questioned about greeting every finisher and welcoming them back, Jim simply stated that it felt like the right thing to do).
Allison runs up and we embrace, kiss, and she is just as excited as I am. 17 hours 25 minutes and 30 seconds later after rolling out, I made it. 200 sticker in hand to prove it. (She filmed a perfect finishing video of me by the way, in which the song “Shots” is playing.) She takes my bike and asks me if I want my beer now. “You’re damn right baby. Let’s drink some beer.”
Now that I’ve had time to reflect and actually process everything that made the ride a success, I say that never again will I do that. It’s too hard, too long, and that this was a one-and-done deal for me. I’ve said that all along, even before I started training. Before I knew I even had a starting spot. I won’t want to subject myself to that level of focus, preparation and stress again. Ever. Not in this lifetime. It’s just too much to do again.
Although, in the back of my mind, there is a single thought that I can’t shake. “I wonder how much faster I’ll be next year?”
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