Flint Hills Grave Ride, as the name suggests, is less about racing and more about the riding experience. The event takes place in Americas, KS and as soon as you enter the town they give you a slice of pie, not even joking. I arrived about 9pm the night before with a borrowed Revel (thank you Sunflower). Closely behind me were the McCarter’s (Dallas and Severin), in their decked out VandoIt. There was a well-lit park off the main street: A time capsule into my childhood where the playground equipment fully exemplifies “fuck around and find out” with an aluminum slide as tall as a house and a merry-go-round that, as much as I tried, failed in getting Severin to experience any nausea. Oh, to be a kid again.
The morning of the race was relaxed and conversational. That is unlike big races where you can sometimes actually see, mid-sentence, the nervous poo boiling up in peoples eyes. About 250 riders were in “The Challenge” distance of 88.5 miles. The morning was just cold enough that I opted to cover my little roadie arms with arm warmers, which I shed about 25 minutes into the race and right before a fast downhill that transitioned into 3-inch-deep fresh gravel quickly followed by a left hand turn at speed on said fresh gravel. This saw the first split of the race that formed a group of about 12 of us. Not too long after, some riders missed a fast-approaching turn causing our little group to splinter. I hollered at a couple riders who successfully made the turn to hold up, which they did, so that our group could re-form before hitting the gas again. I don’t care to argue about whether some gravel spirit is dead or alive or dead but haunts those that look for aero gains or alive but only in the hearts of those with enough gear strapped to their bike to serve as a mobile bike shop. All I know is that this moment of suppressed kill or be killed mentality was heartwarming.
Our group of 12 motored on for the next 25-ish miles before a cross wind section with deep ruts fractured the group as if a grenade went off. I believe there was an actual fracture, of a collar bone, that is, of a rider at the back of the group that must have gone down hard. All this served as a reminder that shit can get real and we were still in a bike race.
The tailwind sections were fast. Fast enough that you were better served moving out of the nearly imperceptible draft so you could actually see the ruts and large rocks approaching you at warp speed that wished to ruin your day.
The crosswind sections offered almost no protection in the draft, where unless you could manage to ride in the armpit of the guy in front of you, you were in the wind. At mile 40, Kent found himself with a gap of a few seconds, which I bridged to with Michael on my wheel. Our group of about 8 was struggling to keep up, and only Mason was truly threatening to catch on to us, dangling about 10 or 15 bike lengths behind. I should point out now for anyone who doesn’t know that Michael, Kent, and I have been in dozens of break-away-suffer-fests just like this. These guys were my groomsmen at my wedding last year, road teammates for nearly a decade, and we’ve shared probably hundreds of long training rides together. I can identify 17 difference grunt sounds Kent makes on the bike and their various meanings. Michael’s suffering scale is based solely on how many teeth I can see of his. I know these guys well, and that served both as comfort that I could trust them and advantage us in our efforts to stay away. It took several painful minutes, but Mason eventually threw in the towel, outmatched by three riders working well together.
The three of us took even turns for the next 40 miles. See above for how well I know Kent and Michael. Based on those signs, I knew I was feeling the best out of our group. With about 20 miles to go, I sensed I could maybe attack and stay away, but I wasn’t certain of it. I was, however, quite certain that if it came down to a sprint, I could win. 10 miles to go and Kent started suffering from ass cramps. Yes, ass cramps. I felt bad for Kent, but it did make my mental math simpler. In my mind, I now had just one to tango with. Now only a couple miles to go, Michael attached, which was the first real test of my legs and a test I passed. We dropped Kent in the process, but the finish line was still a ways out, yet visible in the distance. I slow-rolled at the front. Kent caught up to us and promptly attached and I promptly followed. Kent resigned himself to lead-out-man with me on his wheel and Michael on mine. I felt my senses in high alert mode, listening for the first noises of Michael making a go for the line. With 200 left, I decided I needed to make the first move and jumped around Kent. I hoped to block Michael from being able to come around me on the draft side (my right) but found his front wheel in my derailleur. That awful noise of contact is usually followed by an awful-er noise of a crash, which thankfully did not happen. A quick pause and I continued sprinting full gas to the line. I had a peak power of 1,417 watts and a 15 second power of 1,107. Small flex I know. At the finish I apologized in earnest for moving over on Michael’s line to which he, to my relief, showed no concerns. I hugged the race promoter, Bobby Tompson, and he and staff ushered us over to where we could grab a cold can of Liquid Death, which felt like liquid life at the time.
Even on good legs, this race was a big challenge. For many, this race was their biggest challenge ever. It’s an honor to be witness to a couple of young rider’s who did this race at age 15, 14, 13, and 12! I’m continually impressed by their willpower, love of the sport, and appetite suffering.
Huge thank you to Bobby for putting on a really well-run event, Matt G for his support, Sunflower, Move Up, and my lovely wife Hayley who puts up with my obsession with training.
