I’ll be DAMned … or not
BICYCLING
BY KIERSTIN KLOECKNER
Success
is not final, failure is not fatal:
It is the courage to continue that counts.
-Winston Churchill
I sit here licking my wounds – not the physical ones but the emotional.
I recently spent the better part of a year training my mind and body for the DAMn, a 240-mile gravel race short for Day Across Minnesota.
For those who know me, I’m very stubborn and determined. Although I hate the pressure races place on me, I still sign up for occasional events when I feel drawn to the course or the event organizer.
The DAMn was presented to me by several friends who had done it the past two years. Riding across my home state the year after I rode solo across my current state, passing between the two small towns my great grandparents owned farms in when their parents immigrated from Sweden and Norway, and being part of an event put on by Trenton Raygor, all sold me.
When in the dark, do not forget to look up, this is where the stars live.
-Ben Weaver, a musician and poet who performed at the first two DAMn rides.
I tend to be methodical, sometimes to a fault, in my preparation for big trips and events. I often lose sight of why I signed in the first place. I obsess about every little detail until I throw myself into a tizzy. My goal was to not do this as much for this event, and yet still show up to the line prepared.
However, sometimes Mother Nature gives you some big blows and makes training the body quite challenging. A spring filled with non-stop precipitation, wind and below normal temps, followed by a 180-degree switch to extreme heat and humidity, along with precipitation, forced me to be on a constant weather watch. This changed my big rides and forced me to cancel on my friends.
I completed three, 100-plus mile spring gravel events, followed by a 150, 200 and 140-mile ride (all including gravel and night navigation on little sleep) were completed bringing my century count to 16 this year. My body was ready, but my bike and head needed some work.
This spring, I got my new custom titanium gravel steed from Blue Steel Bikes. This bike was made for events like the DAMn, with dynamo lighting, clearance for wider tires and plenty of storage options for fluids, snacks and gear. Being my first custom bike, I didn’t realize how many little bugs needed to be worked out along the way. Although the bike fit me like a glove, those little bugs worried me deeply. I wanted everything bomb proof so I could focus on the task at hand – riding. The weather, road conditions and sleep deprivation would be enough to deal with. Finally, five days prior to the event when the bugs were calmed, I felt a huge relief.
“It is not through fighting the opposition that will win you dignity. It is when you fight the fear in yourself that asks you why you don’t feel you have it, regardless if you win or lose.”
― Shannon L. Alder
At 6:30 am, Aug. 2, a teammate and I, along with a close friend acting as support (you are allowed support at three checkpoints along the route), pulled out of the driveway and headed west to Buffalo Ridge Resort in Gary, South Dakota, for the mandatory team meeting and midnight start.
We’re not getting lost, we’re getting harder to find.
-Sonofmel, a musician from Hayward who performed at this year’s DAMn
Three hundred other souls signed up for this event, each having their own reason.
What was I thinking? What sane person decides to embark on a 240-mile gravel bike ride/race starting at midnight on the South Dakota/Minnesota border and ride to Wisconsin? Especially when sand, river crossings and less-than-desirable roads are promised.
But there I was – looking around the room, recognizing friends I’ve met along the way. We were all in this together.
To kill time, open up our legs and calm our nerves, we walked throughout the small town, stopped into a bar for snacks and talked to two prominent locals. They seemed more excited than us. As we listened to them, we learned about their own personal history in Gary, as well as how they viewed the surrounding area and those who passed through. The moments we spent with them made such a permanent mark on my mind – their kindness reminded me of how strangers could be to one another.
At midnight, we lined up in front of the fire station and began to move east when the fireworks were set off. The short distance traveled on pavement would be the last time I’d be clean until I returned home.
Somehow, I found myself in a fast group of guys moving at 18-21 mph despite the cloud of gravel dust enveloping us all. The miles flew by as we all took turns rotating through. I had no concept of time or space. All I could see was small red lights in front of me and dust that resembled thick fog all around. Once in awhile, I’d see kamikaze frogs trying to cross the road. I’d cringe and say a little prayer for them knowing my bottom bracket would be covered in frog bits once I stopped. I referred to these roads as the killing fields.
Mile 25 brought our water feature – an ankle-to-upper-shin stroll through marshland.
Some chose to ride through it, most chose to walk. I was laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. What else could I do? I stayed with the group and rolled into checkpoint one in a bit over 3.5 hours. Although I felt a little disoriented, I also felt great. Those 60 miles seemed far too easy, and I knew my favorite riding time was to come – the witching hours of 4 am to dawn. This is my favorite time to ride when pulling an all-nighter.
My first stop wasn’t long. I spent more time searching for the van and riding half a mile to it than anything else. My chant of “shove food in, guzzle liquids, shove off” was repeated, and off I went. I rode solo until sunrise and loved it. I could see shadows of the road dropping off beside me as we climbed. I looked for lights in farmhouses, wondering if they were awake yet for the first milking. I listened to crickets, frogs and then the mark of pre-dawn birds. I was so happy.
The sky lightened as several of us pulled into a convenience store at mile 80. I went in to use the bathroom and finally got a look at myself. Pigpen, the character from Charlie Brown, was all I saw.
I washed my face, trying not to make a mess. As I walked out, Cale, who has done the first two DAMn rides, was ready to leave, so I followed along. We chatted and worked together as the miles ticked by. I was convinced I could finish this, but then the sandy sections began to build. They started to come in sections high up on a ridge – a little fishtailing here and there, crisscrossing the road to find the best line. Then, there was no good line, and the roads began to resemble beaches.
Mile 100 came, and my drivetrain began to sound angry. Grinding and clunking noises coming from below is not what you want to hear when you’ve got 140 miles to go.
Mile 120 brought our second checkpoint. I was still all smiles, even though my drivetrain was making me nervous. We didn’t bring a sprayer and towels, so there was nothing I could do (note to self – always bring the two items mentioned from this point on).
I changed my socks, dried my pruned feet, consumed as much as my stomach would allow and pushed off once again after a 30-minute break. I was ahead of schedule with strong-feeling legs. I couldn’t believe I could finish in 18 hours.
The miles after checkpoint two gave me a reality check – sand, so much sand. My pace slowed, I worked to stay upright and my drivetrain switched from a whimper to a scream. Riders would pass me and make comments on how it sounded. I felt the vibration of the debris through my pedals up into my legs. I began to worry.
At mile 140, I made the call. The call I never thought I’d make: “Tim, where are you? I don’t think my bike will make it on the hills. I think you should pick me up in Henderson in 14 miles.”
My support couldn’t believe it. He was already at checkpoint three, ready to welcome us in. I gimped the bike into town, handed it to Tim and asked him to ride it.
I knew by him touching my bike, I would be recorded as a DNF (did not finish), but I wanted confirmation that I wasn’t a quitter out of mental weakness.
He could barely backpedal because of the resistance. I had him call my number in as I hung my head. It all felt so surreal. I was angry, sad and yes, maybe a little relieved, even though I knew my mind and body had the strength. My teammate pulled in 40 minutes later and also chose to DNF. For him, it was mental – he wasn’t having fun.
We packed up and drove back – Tim again pulling the load for us.
Once back, still trapped in a dream/nightmare-like state, we unloaded the bikes, cleaned them and went out to fetch beer. We sat quietly in the garage, a bit on edge and a bit tired, trying to make sense of it all.
There it hit me, I wouldn’t get to cross into Wisconsin by bike, and I wouldn’t get a hug from Trenton at the finish line. My friends were finishing as I sat there, and I felt lonely all of a sudden. I should have been one of the 117 to end in Hager City.
I slept that night. I slept later than I had in years.
I woke at 9:30, ate breakfast and rode 50 fast miles, a penance of sorts. I needed to feel a strong burn in my legs and lungs. I needed the pain from a hard push to erase my internal war.
It worked. I returned, did yard work and cleaned the van – cleaned it from all the gathered gravel dust that could act as a reminder.
Will I be back if the DAMn returns next year? Most likely not. Although I adore both the event and Trenton, I realize I need some space from set training. I want to ride/train because I want to, not because I have to.
You never know though, I’ve been known to take unfinished events on solo – on my own terms. Someday, I may be a DAMn finisher.
Many thanks go out to Trenton and his team of volunteers for putting the DAMn ride on.
Thanks also to Tim – I wouldn’t have DAMn without him.
More thanks to Paul who built my steed and Erik who did so much work on it. I carried you all with me for the miles I rode.