Unbound 2021 – Redux
While I won't be at Unbound in 2024, one of my most memorable days on the bike came the last time the course pointed north. Here was my account of that day
This story first appeared in the Rodeo Adventure Labs Journal in June of 2021. I am reposting it here because there are lessons to be learned from my day in the northern swathe of the Flint Hills of Kansas.
My dad, a lifelong educator, has a favorite saying whenever he takes a group of his students camping: “There are two types of people in life, like in s’mores making, there are ‘Browners’ and there are ‘Burners.’ Burners play with the fire, while Browners have trust in their time.”
While that saying is predominantly about soft, goopy, pseudo-plastic desserts, the debate applies perfectly to an event like Unbound. In a world full of Burners, it can pay to be a Browner.
In an event like Unbound, the mystique quickly cultivates the drama. Looking back across the prairie, as a benevolent morning sun shines across the verdant fields of soupy humid mist, would be enough to paint a truly beautiful scene. Yet, that only scratches the surface of the surreal morning scene of Unbound. Amongst those rolling pastures, rumbles what can only be described as a convulsing, slithering gallop of a thousand fantastically fit humans.
From a thousand feet up, the masses and the turbulent cloud of their might would look shockingly peaceful. However, from the ground as you pedal through the lines of rank and file of the thousands of tires rattling over the crushed flint, the tranquility is replaced by the sporadic flying shrapnel of three-inch stones ominously floating by tense faces, waiting for something to snap.
Then, in what feels like an instant, chaos is all that remains.
When the peloton hit the first double track, our world exploded. First, it was my chain spluttering off of my chainring, and with the chain came flat number one. A chase followed, and a quick hello to @stevetheintern was followed promptly by the tragedy that is special to us who find solace in riding over small rocks in the quickest of fashions:
Pppppppapppsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhoooo!!!!!
Leg over the seat, plug out of the feed bag, thumb to the hole, oh that’s a big hole, plug the hole, pop the Co2 and hope to god.
I was lucky enough to complete this process, to a slower degree each time, four times as the tire remained petulantly air-free. Eventually, at mile forty, my front tire with its two holes and four plugs started to hold air, and in front of me was a mere 165 miles and half the discombobulated field, in front of me.
In the next miles was a process, an excitement, at the prospects of what was ahead. Gone were the expectations that came with riding with favorites, gone were the rough and tumble that came from the masses. What remained was a lonely road of redemption in the most tangible way.
It was time for me to brown that metaphorical marshmallow.
Entering the Northern portion of the course I got to work in the heart of the Flint Hills. Here were the rambunctious parcours of big gravel, double track rollers, and gnar that I love. It was chundery, hot, and windy in just the right directions. All the elements that I relished racing in, all the components that had inspired me to pour on the miles in the buildup to the race were in front of me. Meanwhile, the bad luck that was bound to come, was mentally in my rear view.
It was a shocking turn of optimism that could only come in the face of something so daunting. Up ahead I knew the Burners would push far too close to the flame. I had all the chance to Bronze my way to the promised land. With that gusto came a steady and unrelenting mindlessness to the effort, a proud and defiant return to the satisfyingly painful place of past odysseys. I quickly found a rhythm of accelerating up the hills and eating and drinking on the downs, finding dots in the distance to tether me forward.
One after another, I would pound my way across the rubble to another forlorn face against a backdrop of the rolling prairie. In the heat of the sun, I had a moment with each of these riders, whether it was a moment of weakness or a moment of strength, to see the full experience deeper. I was simultaneously a competitor and a spectator on each of their own journeys.
Of all the magic of that day, it was this dichotomy that resonated with me the most and was something that I will keep with me as I keep diving into the gravel experience. In this experiment we call mass-start, participatory-driven, “pro” gravel racing all the lines are fuzzy. In the end, we are simply bodies trying to finish as fast as we can. Going through the field showed me a story of relative glory, of countless battles being waged from within and played out on this communal battlefield of elemental hardship.
Men and women, old and young (well, mostly old), finding their own motivation from the sources that surround them. We all had the same distance, over the same rocks, fighting the same wind and heat. It is gravel’s greatest strength and a strength that only those who dwell in their own cocoon of competition can’t see. For me, I was able to live and see it all, through the lens of clear eyes and good legs.
Slowly but surely the groups got sparse, the gaps got bigger, and the forlorn faces were fewer and farther between. It was almost an unavoidable scene of irony, becoming more alone as I climbed higher on the leaderboard. Eventually, I found a partner at mile 130. He had crashed into a ditch and was on his way forward. In our wake were the detritus of pro road and mountain bikers who had burned their way to dust. In front of us was an unknown number of people we did not know we could catch.
In the devilish Kansas wind, my partner, Barrett and I, rallied our way to checkpoint number two where my amazing Rodeo crew was waiting. As I entered the little town, the 155-mile cover weighed on me in a silly little way. All around me, I had seen broken people. For miles and miles were empty stares and emptier legs, the ambition of the start fading fast. Yet, I was elated, like I had been there before, yet I was learning something new.
What I feared would be a long drawn-out march for home was again mollified by the recoil of the fate of the day. Instead of acting as a drag on my experience, the last fifty miles proved to be some of my strongest. Working with Eddie, or Shreddie as we call him, the wind was cut into digestible slices. Every time we turned away from the headwind, the inner Belgian in me would come out and the pace would heighten. Eventually, we reeled in another rider and I opened up a gap on Eddie.
After finishing, as I lay sprawled on the warm afternoon tarmac of Main St. Emporia, I found myself silent. Around me was my crew, my competitors, the media, and passers-by all with questions to ask. Yet, for thirty minutes I was quiet, with a dead phone and a crooked smile on my face.
It’s almost shocking how much life you can live in 200 miles of riding; I have now learned that lesson over and over again. With Unbound, that experience – that 200 miles where every rider is suspended in their own uncomfortable reality – is so perfectly individually communal. From the buzz at the start to the silent satisfaction of the end, the race is the perfect chance to come apart altogether. Really, that’s all we ever truly wanted.
Or, if you will, a perfectly bronzed marshmallow.