By Amanda
Amanda had her FIRST gravel experience this past weekend at the Westside Dirty Benjamin, a 100-mile gravel race in Chaska. It was a doozy! Over half of the field dropped out of the race due to winds that were blowing up to 68 mph, rain that made peanut butter soup out of the gravel track, and cool temperatures. Great story, Amanda!
70% Chance
I sat in front of my computer, at 6:15am, staring at the weather and sipping my scalding coffee. I studied the hourly weather for the rest of the day. It did not look good. I had about 10 minutes to make the call to leave my warm house, by myself on my first day off in 12 days, and brave the wind, the rain, and the mud that would characterize the Westside Dirty Benjamin. I was fighting an internal battle over whether I wanted this to be my first gravel experience. I bought a new saddle pack, and two spare tubes, an extra water bottle, nut rolls and Kind Bars and as much water as I could carry home from the Super America down the street. As I continued to stare nervously at the weather with 5 minutes to go, staring out the window at the clouds rolling in, I decided to put on my bike shorts and pack the car.
When I brought my first load outside, I noticed a ticket on my windshield. I drive so little I wondered how many weeks it may have been there, and for what reason. I pulled the dripping wet ticket from under the wiper and opened the envelope to learn that my tags have been expired. If my hesitation in the morning didn’t already predict what was to lie ahead, then this $100+ ticket sure did. I ignored the ticket and continued packing.
I make it to one of the parking lots of the race with 20 minutes to spare. The parking lot was much more packed than I expected, mostly of guys in groups of two getting their bikes and their packs ready. I quickly reassembled my bike, zip locked my candy and tools, and packed my saddle bag and fanny pack. Lastly, I carefully put my ticket back under the wiper, with hopes of deterring further punishment. I rode off to find the registration table and registered myself under the “single speed” category. I was using my Nature Boy, and had recently changed my freewheel at a Grease Rag shop night to make it more gravel appropriate. I pinned the number “108” to my bike shorts and sat down under a tree. Around me were mostly men on beautiful bicycles of all makes and models, single speeds to fat bikes. People were reminiscing about other gravel races and the weather that was to come. I ended up going to the bathroom twice in 15 minutes out of nervousness and as a consequence of hydrating profusely on the ride down. Five minutes before the start, I rode over the main parking lot where the race was to begin, about 2/3 back from the front line. The spirit was light and jovial. I was nervous as hell.
The ride began, and we quickly weaved our way onto a narrow paved path that lead us into the woods, a sort of intro before the gravel started. The trail started as mostly wet grass double track. As we weaved through the woods, over the ruts and divots and fallen branches, the grass quickly turned to, at times, ankle deep mud. I ended up walking my bike through the mud on multiple occasions. The mud caked on to my frame, my chain, and my brakes, but I didn’t stop to clean. The extreme conditions were serving to further inflate my competitiveness. The mud then turned into deep sand, and again I found myself walking my bike. My 28c rear tire wasn’t the best choice, for the day and I was envious of the fat bikers.
When the start of the gravel finally emerged, I was covered in mud, my socks were as wet as a used dish sponge, and I had walked my bike on at least 4 separate occasions. I was stoked. I quickly found myself with a pack of about 15-20 guys trailed out over about ¼ mile of each other. Many of them passed me up, most on geared bicycles. I told a couple of them this was my first gravel race, but most were focused and rode right past me.
Before the 3rd or 4th turn on the cue cards, the rain had started. By this time, I was riding with a guy named Dan, who compared to me was a veteran gravel racer. A light sprinkle at first quickly turned into a steady shower. Then came the wind. The ferociousness of the wind was extraordinary. I have done plenty of riding in the mountains around Los Angeles in the years I lived out there, and the wind made it feel like I was climbing to the summit of Mt. Baldy. With only one speed, I didn’t have the choice to downshift. Whenever the race turned into the wind, I felt as though my body was being pummeled with a BB gun. This was the most severe weather I have ever ridden my bicycle in. The morale of the group around me was fading. I passed a rider waiting out the storm using a line of trees as a wind shelter. I was sore, wet, cold, and scared a gust of wind would throw me off my bike. I didn’t know if I had the energy to get back up. I had to make a decision on whether I would bail around mile 27. Go right to bail, go left to continue. I came upon a group of about 10 riders at the bail point. They were waiting for someone to make the call for the group. I knew what I was going to do. I went right. “Ladies first” a guy yelled out, and the majority of the group followed. Here we were, cold, soaked, and exhausted, less than 1/3 done with the race, deciding to call it a day. “Well, it’s been better than watching cartoons all morning” someone joked. He was right, I guess. We still had another 8 miles to go until the finish.
As I rode back to my car. I saw a couple familiar faces and fellow quitters. One of them yelled out “I swear some of these are fun.” He laughed, and I laughed. I did have fun, and if it wasn’t for the weather, I suspect I could have successfully finished the race. But I was ok with quitting. I’ll be back to take it on again next year.