The Importance of a support team

I’ll do away with the suspense right away and let you know that I am not the gravel national champion for the 55-59 male age group. That worthy distinction belongs to a guy who lives in Missouri Heights, teaches skiing at Buttermilk, and is the outreach coordinator for RFMBA- the one and only Butch Peterson. Woop woop!

But. I rode in the same group as him (and the rest of the real deal racers) for the opening 15 miles, until I got dropped on the first serious climb. Fortunately I formed up with a group of eight, then 10 riders who chased hard for the next 20 miles, rotating through like a bunch of well-oiled Euro old dudes. On the fourth out of five climbs I imploded, cramped in most of the muscles in both legs, and limped the rest of the way to the line listening to old school rap, while marveling at the wonders of the Driftless area and it’s 20% grades, narrow valleys, and quirky farming habits.

I’m here to tell you all the pain and training, going out when you don’t feel like riding a training ride rather than a fun one, was totally worth it for one moment in the race that will forever be etched in my brain.

In the 67 mile race there was only one aid station. It presented a dilemma for all the racers- do you go with two bottles and a feed half way, or a vest with the two bottles and skip the feed. The smart move is definitely the two bottles and resupply, because it is less weight to carry; lugging 2-3l of water from the start is extra work that will cost you energy that might be saved by time (did I mention the 20% grades? It was Flandrian out there.).

My support team was three deep, headed up by the gorgeous Misti- my partner in mischief, responsible for making the world a better place, and all manner of magic facilitator.

My father made the trip; he’s 85 and a road warrior legend. He is mostly why I am a cyclist- if I haven’t already bored you with the story of him dragging my brother and I across the state of Iowa for Ragbrai when I was 12 and my brother was 11, then remind to give you all the details (in person). Imagine the lunacy of riding 80 miles with tweens every day for seven days, plus lugging the bags for three people from the truck, setting up a tent, and showering in public spaces … but, having such a good time that you go back and do it for the next 10 years. They don’t make ‘em like him anymore.

Alex is my brother’s son, a sophomore at Macalester College in St. Paul. He borrowed a car and drove the two hours down because he dabbles in cycling (like his father), but really likes it when he does. He rode Ride the Rockies when he was about 12 as well — kind of following in the family cycling coming of age tradition. This summer he was an intern in a Washington D.C. lobbying firm, and a camp counselor in Budapest. He has some grit and promise to him for sure, as long as we can keep him away from the lobbyists that is.

We came in hot to the feed zone, me at the front of eight determined geezers, taking a sharp left turn from pavement to gravely grass, on an old road the runs the length of the silos and co-op in Houston, MN. The zone was about 300 yards of a straight line of tents, thick with people all yelling and dripping with excitement. We were easily going 23mph when we came around the corner. I have no idea how fast we were riding when I saw my father’s face, clear as day, pop out about half way into the chaos. Without a word I chucked my bottles at his feet, and looked ahead to see Misti elbowing her way to the front of the crowd, holding out the first bottle with the message that “Alex is just a little farther on with the second bottle. You’re doing great!” How she spoke with such clarity and how I heard it perfectly in the maelstrom is part of our magic. I accelerated towards Alex because half the group was not stopping and getting dropped now would be a very bad idea; we still had 30 miles of chasing to do. I saw him; he’s pretty tall. He saw me and his eyes got big, “come on, come on, come on” he said as I reached out and snagged it (you know that whip you see the TDF riders do when they grab a bottle from a soigneur mid race; it’s legit).

Damn if I didn’t grab it perfectly, stash it on my bike, and blast off to catch the rest of the group as we launched ourselves back into the Gravel National Championships.

It was enough and everything.

Cheers