Are you sure this is the right place?
Lined up at the start of the 2018 Railway Roubaix, I am the only one with a road bike and skinny, slick road tires. Are you sure about this?
I’d been wanting to do a gravel race for a long time, but I never mustered up the courage to do it. There was always an excuse: I don’t have the right bike/equipment/tires. It’s the off-season; I don’t want to go that hard, dig that deep. I’ve never done that race before; it’s too far away and I won’t know anyone.
No more excuses. I was going to get out there and get after it. No matter how clueless, how nervous, or how scared I was, I was going to do it. Getting outside your comfort zone is good for you, after all. It’s where you grow as a person, experience new things, and learn more about yourself and the world than you would by just staying at home.
So when I saw a Facebook post about a gravel race in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin – just an hour away from home – I got excited. But then I realized that the race was only 36 hours away. This made me nervous, because I like to prepare. Days, weeks, and months in advance, I plan logistics, travel, equipment, and everything else necessary to compete in a bike race.
You, on the other hand, might be the type who just likes to ‘wing it’ – but that’s not me. In less than two days, I had to figure out who, what, when, where, how, and why:
Me. A gravel race. Saturday. Fond du Lac. I don’t know. Because I’ve never done a gravel race before.
But the biggest question of all: What the hell am I going to ride??
I have a CX bike, but the last time I rode it, I crashed and broke the seat post. And before that, riding it was seriously hurting my knee – I was not about to tear up my knee by racing 63 miles on that bike. So how about a mountain bike? I have one, but it’s three sizes too small. The last time I rode it was probably in middle school. Gravel bike? Ha. I wish I had one. Road bike it is…
I found the biggest, beefiest tires I had and put them on my Storck – the same bike that I raced on at Gila, Redlands, and Green Mountain. The only problem was that these tires weren’t all that ‘big and beefy’. They were 27mm wide, and they were slick. Good for the road; questionable for gravel. BUT, they were basically brand new. I kept telling myself: Everything will be alright.
***
Another 6:00AM wake-up for a bike race. It actually doesn’t bother me anymore – I get up at 6:45AM on a normal day. So I had about 45 minutes to finish packing, throw everything in the car, make some oatmeal, and get on the road. I left two minutes ahead of schedule. Today is going to be a good day. I missed my first exit and drove five minutes the wrong way. Scratch that.
After a quick hour of driving, I pulled into the parking lot and spotted registration. I headed over to sign some forms, and grabbed my paper plate – bib numbers are for roadies. ‘Paper number plates’ are where it’s at. I spent 5 minutes trying to finagle the plate onto the front of my bike. After three zip ties and an exorbitant amount of physical effort, the plate was secured.
It took me 20 minutes to get dressed, which is normal for when it’s 35 degrees and windy in October. I rolled over to the start line and was immediately shivering. Almost everyone else was, too. At least we’re all on a level playing field. We received our final instructions, and at 9:00AM sharp, we were off. Close to 40 people on CX bikes, fat bikes, gravel bikes, and mountain bikes (plus one weirdo on a road bike) rolled out of the start area with 63 miles of gravel racing ahead of them.
***
A leading group of ten formed in the opening miles. I latched myself on to the back of the group, just so I could see what was happening in front me. I paid attention to the speed of the group and its cohesiveness (trading pulls instead of attacking), but most of all, to the condition of the trail. In just the first few hundred meters, I could feel my tires sliding across the gravel. It was NOT the level of grip that I am used to on the road, far from it. But I had to make due. I accepted the fact, and focused instead on the advantage I had– once on the road, I would have less rolling resistance because of my slick tires. That’s where I would make my move.
8 miles in and I’m at the back of the group (don’t worry, I had just finished pulling through). All of a sudden my tires are sliding deep into the mud. Mud?! Where did that come from?? There had been quite a bit of rain over the past week, and although the last few days had been dry, one section of trail was still in a puddle of water and mud. I didn’t have time to react, so I kept my wheel straight and prayed to the heavens. My heart rate spiked, despite a lack of pedaling, but I made it through without a scratch – mud doesn’t scratch; but now the bottom of my bike and most of my legs were caked in mud. I tried to wipe off the excess, and stop worrying about my bike. But then I remembered: the route was shaped like a chiseled lollipop, and this section was part of the stick. We would be hitting that same mud section again with 8 miles to go. Sh*t.
For the next 22 miles, we traded pulls, rotated through, and went hard but not too hard. A few riders had lost contact since the start, so we came into the Mile 30 feed station with eight riders. We pulled into a small parking lot where we received smiley-faces on our paper number plates, proof that we had completed the entire distance. Now, the real fun would begin.
The road immediately turned upwards; and this time it really was a road, not gravel. I was excited, because this was where I was going to make my move. When we hit the bottom of the second hill – a 3-4 minute effort – I got on the front and drilled it. I was solo with a 10-second gap by the top. So I put it into time trial mode, and prepared myself for 90 minutes of solo suffering.
I settled into my rhythm, and focused on just the next hill. Get over this one. Okay, now this one. Keep going. Get over this one. Keep pushing. After an hour of solo riding, I came on to a stretch of long, straight road. By the end, I could see a mile and a half behind me, or about 4-5 minutes of riding. When I looked back, I couldn’t see anyone. I knew the win was in the bag. But I was still nervous about the final section of mud. I was equally nervous about getting a flat; I was on slick road tires, after all. A crash or mechanical could see me lose 5 or 6 minutes in the blink of an eye. I needed that buffer in case anything went wrong. So I pushed on. The last 9 miles, I was really suffering.
My lower back was seizing, my glutes were on fire, and my face was burning with both the intensity of effort and the 35-degree wind chill. But I kept pushing. I am the type of person – with the type of personality – that never stops pushing, never slows down, and never gives up. I was going to go as hard as I could to the finish, no matter how far behind me my competitors were.
At 1 mile to go I could see the finishing tent up ahead. I accelerated into the last few hundred meters, checking over my shoulder one more time before the smile broke out and I could celebrate. As I handed over my paper number plate (you win by throwing your paper plate in a bucket, not by being the first across the line), I was greeted with smiles and cheers from the incredible volunteers who helped put on the day’s race. I told a quick war story of my efforts, which came nowhere near to accurately describing the pain, suffering, and introspection that I had experienced out on the road and trails. And before I knew it, they offered me a beer, which I politely declined, making me a Wisconsinite impostor (I really only like margaritas). I then turned my attention to the rest of the prize table, where out of the corner of my eye I had spotted the orange, yellow, and brown wrappers of my favorite disc-shaped candy: Reese’s peanut butter cups. Recovery food in the off-season consists of candy and chocolate bars; I’ll save the protein shakes for May.
***
I rode back to my car with an armful of prizes, everything from beer to movie tickets, a shiny flask and a new pair of sunglasses. But the day’s experience is what really stuck with me. The cycling community is unique and special in so many different ways. I’ve been to the depths of exclusivity in “pro roadie” culture, but that is not the whole of cycling – The cycling community is anyone and everyone who rides a bike, whether it’s a beat up Gary Fisher, a $15k Pinarello or a tandem unicycle. Regardless of how old, fit, or fast you were, every rider at Railway Roubaix was there to enjoy the ride, no matter how fast or slow.
I loved seeing the smiles on everyone’s’ faces at the start line. Did they know they had 63 miles (4-5 hours) of gravel roads, steep hills, and bone-chilling wind ahead of them? Of course. But that’s the reason they’re smiling.
The 2018 Railway Roubaix was an experience I will never forget, and one that I already want to have again. I can’t wait to be back. Maybe there will be more gravel racing in my future. Hopefully.