DAMn 2021 - The Last Day Across Minnesota (14aug2021)
MINNEAPOLIS, United States (GNN, the Gravel News Network) -- Gerasimos G.
"A pilgrimage is a journey, often into an unknown or foreign place, where a person goes in search of new or expanded meaning about their self, others, nature, or a higher good, through the experience. It can lead to a personal transformation, after which the pilgrim returns to their daily life"
My feet swung over the side of the bed and are now on the floor. It's somewhere between 3 and 4 in the morning and the crickets' hum pulses outside my window in Minneapolis, inhaling and exhaling, just the same as two nights ago, as my feet were locked into the pedals of my bike, flowing and pressing, rolling smooth tires over a long string of gravel roads, following the subtle traces of the riders ahead of me.
The meteors above brushed fiery white lines fast across the night sky, blazing pathways between stars. Beneath them were the riders, snaking across channels of crushed stone laid square between rows of crops, connecting farms and small towns.
The crackling of gravel had started like thunder at the western edge of the state of Minnesota, settling into a steady hum, alive in the darkness, moving toward the rounded lip of the Earth where the rising sun awaits.
Deep inside each meteor, there is silence beneath the glowing flame outside. Few words are spoken amongst the riders moving eastward. The stars lay in witness to it all, logging their pilgrimage in cosmic memory on this final Day Across Minnesota.
The Last DAMn
This is the Day Across Minnesota -- the fifth and final year as an organized event. It will be my fourth time lining up next to the steel doors of the fire station on 1st Avenue just a block or so over the border from Minnesota in Gary, South Dakota.
[Links to my "reports" from 2017, 2018 and 2020]
Check-in opened on time at 6:00p and a line curved around the walkway up to the Buffalo Ridge Resort. We'd rolled into town about 30 minutes earlier, finding a section of trees suitable for some hammocks where we might get some rest before the start of the race at midnight, 12:00a Saturday morning.
I picked up my bib number (which I forgot to attach to my jersey) and cue sheets -- 13 pages of turn-by-turn instructions with "tulip" marks for each one. Most of the streets and avenues are in the hundreds -- "240th Ave" and "325th Street" and "460th Street" and "601st Ave".
I rested my bike against a tree next to my hammock. I had prepared everything in advance -- or so I thought. Earlier today, the day after the DAMn, I found my (very essential) bike multi-tool in a seat bag I left at home during some last minute equipment swapping. Quite fortunate to have avoided a mega-frustrating situation on the road, possibly in the dark of night.
After wandering around a bit, we went into the resort for the buffet that was set up in the room behind the bar. I needed some calories after some ill-advised dropping of several pounds in the previous couple of weeks. So, I ate up a big plate at the buffet, drank a beer outside listening to the band and chatting with Paul F., then headed to the hammock. As the sun started to dip below the treetops, the air cooled down a bit. I never think to bring a blanket, so I pulled on the base layers and wind jacket that I had packed for the ride and covered my legs with a beach towel.
I may have dozed but I doubt it. I think I heard Dan G. lightly snoring, or maybe it was Alison. I was done trying to sleep and I was curious, so I got out of the hammock and walked by each of them, but the sound stopped as I moved toward it, just like a toad.
Since I was up, I wandered back to the coffee urns stationed against the brick wall of the main building, and then strolled into the resort bar. Brian K. was having a beer at the bar in his long-sleeve aero kit. His curls had been cut down but I was worried about him having lost any power because he's a clydesdale with a fanny pack of mysteries. Then John H. appeared and sat down. We had ridden the DAMn together a few years ago -- yes, confirmed this was in 2018.
We yucked it up a bit and then I ordered a pizza and finished my coffee. We chatted with each other and various riders and supporting folks who were rotating through for more food or beer as the band was wrapping up their set outside.
Eventually, around 10 something, I went back to get "kitted up" so I could get to the other bar on time.
I arrived at The Alibi Bar on 1st Avenue about 11:05p, race-ready with my bike in tow. I rolled it in and leaned it against the wall by the pool table, sat down on a stool at the end of the bar and ordered a Coors Light and a Snickers bar. Paul W., Alison F., and Dan G. came in just after me. I spoke for a few minutes with Nick K., filmmaker of Delta of Spirit, a short documentary film about the DAMn and gravel racing which was selected for a cycling film festival in Paris called "All In The Saddle."
My friend Sean M. came in then. We'd spoken a couple days prior as I was getting my gear set up. His 17yr old son, Patrick, a mountain biker, had signed up for the DAMn in January. He says he told his parents at that time, and I'm not here to challenge that, but I do believe his parents when they say he waited until Wednesday (2 days prior to the starting line-up!) to let them know he needed a ride to Gary. The three of us spoke on the phone that evening, with Joselyn asking me if it was a reasonably thing to do, if people might die, etc.. We know each other, so I would be surprised if she were surprised that I was immediately excited by the idea of Patrick riding and moved right into talking through gear -- tires, clothing, food, hydration.
Patrick came to the back of the bar, trimmed out in his Donkey Label kit, with what looked like rice crispy treats popping out of the front pocket of his hydration pack. We snapped a photo. I ordered another Coors Light and I think Sean ordered a Busch Light -- which we learned from Jeff is 2-to-1 the best selling beer at The Alibi.
At 11:45p it was time to roll out of The Alibi to the start line. Our group somehow located most of our group in the mass of 500+ riders with blinding headlamps facing in all directions.
I had heard from Trenton, organizer of the DAMn, that the normally very fast gravel running out from Gary for about 50 miles had been refreshed recently -- which means it was fresh gravel, slow, technical.
At the starting line.
Gary to Morton: Going Out Hot on Slow Gravel
I normally start out close to the front, maybe position 20 or 30 -- not that I finish up there, but I prefer to get out with some speed and then taper down into my own pace as things thin out. Instead, I started farther back around 70 and got clogged in a series of traffic jams on gravel roads between fields of corn and soybeans.
The groups were large and compacted, and I could see wheels sliding here and there. I had some energy to give, and wanted to avoid being tied up in a crash (even if it was my own crash, I'd prefer to not be run over after falling!) so I sped up and through several sets of riders until I landed into a few different small groups of three to five riders that were exchanging long pulls.
I felt good over the first 60 miles -- even with the slower roads -- averaging 18.3mph (compared to 19.7mph in 2018) was pretty solid.
At around mile 50 or so, there was a crossroad intersection with some parked support cars with their headlights on. I pulled over to ask for a quick water refill (I figured these cars had loads of extra).
Joel, Trenton's dad, was there -- "Hey Joel!" -- and he told me that there were only about 20-25 riders ahead of me. Well, that was kinda shocking and also something perhaps I regret hearing, because after my bottles were topped off I went shooting out of that mini-stop to catch on to the groups I had just left.
By the time the the roads flattened out and we began rolling into some hills, I was a bit fatigued and I could feel my body temp dropping. Then I noticed a mild headache and thought "do I actually have a hangover (from 3 beers?)!?"
My speed dipped down to 15mph around then and at least a couple dozen riders passed me by before I saw the lights of the BP gas station at mile 85.
Now, I am reporting speeds using information I can see now on my laptop. But, during the race I actually was looking at kilometers, not miles, on my bike computer -- and I could not change it mid-ride. The math from metric-to-imperial isn't that hard but it never seemed to be working out and I always thought I was closer to things than I actually was.
It was just after 5:00a when I arrived at the BP station at Morton. It was a fiasco -- cold and dusted lycra zombies weaving in and out the front door with dozens of support cars lined up, surrounded the building with headlights at the edges of the parking lot. I rode the perimeter looking for Paul F. and didn't see him, so I went inside to warm up with some coffee.
Patrick (17yr old) was in there(!) -- he was looking fuzzy like everyone else. Sean and Joselyn, his parents, were there, as was Nick K., Mike Piv., Paul W. and Dan G. and loads of others. I called Paul F. and he made his way over to the station from downtown Morton. I was there WAY too long, but I was chilled and had already seen some weakness settling into my legs.
Finally, I rolled out solo headed east toward the sun.
Morton to Henderson: Endless Roads to the Sun
Outside of Morton, after a pavement section, there's a right turn onto the gravel road that follows the valley of the Minnesota River for about ten miles.
In the early hours of morning twilight, after a cool night, fog lays quietly over the fields along the rivers edge, waiting for the sun to warm the land until it slowly pulls the covers away and awakens.
When we exit the valley, up a steep grade, there are at least three roads that are due east, straight, and flat. My mind became so fogged that I thought I was about to fall asleep on my bike. Despite my long break at Morton, and the prep I had done, I failed to grab enough food and forgot to set up my GoPro as planned.
When the sun chose to come up, it was behind a farmhouse, glowing orange between grain silos and the steeple of a small church just across the road
I finally rolled into the Shell station at Henderson around 12:30p and found Paul right away. I sat in the section of shaded grass against a brick wall and was just breathing.
A text message buzzed my watch and I looked down at it to see "Loula passed away this morning." Inside, my chest folded over. I leaned my head back against the wall and tried to breathe through it.
Loula is my beloved aunt in Athens, Greece who I had been visiting regularly over the past several years, especially as she had become ill and confined to a hospital bed in her living room in the garden apartment of the family residence. We would talk and watch TV -- police mysteries from Turkey with Greek subtitles, or ultra-silly game shows which might have a DJ or a bouzouki band joining the host on stage.
And since this is a gravel-related post, I'll mention that she was always amused by my sweating over the unpacking and assembly, and especially the repacking, of my traveling gravel bike which I would do at the foot of her bed on each trip.
Thea Loula, something we were watching on TV, and my Surly Travelers Check in Greece.
With COVID I hadn't been able to get back to Athens to see her. For some periods in the pandemic, even her own family was communicating by crouching down to speak with her through the apartment window. With my Greek language skills being quite rudimentary, we never really spoke much on the phone -- but we did just fine in person. I would check on her regularly with my family there.
With a vaccine in my arm, and travel restrictions lifting, I had purchased a ticket to travel to Athens on August 27th, looking forward to sitting there with her for a few hours each day.
My throat was thick with the sadness moving up from my chest and my eyes were flooded with tears.
I explained to Paul W. and Dan G. that I needed to stay put for a while, accepting their kind words and hugs before they rolled away. I wasn't sure I was going to continue riding. I thought about Loula and I couldn't decide if she'd tell me to stand up or stay where I was.
Alison was due to arrive soon, so I waited a bit and after she arrived and got refueled, I decided I was going to get back on the bike. We'd spoken recently about this trip to Greece so she had some idea about how important it was to me. We had 90 miles to go with a lot of hills. We talked a bit, but I needed to stop a few times to sit down and breathe out some tears. I was struggling to pull through the fatigue and sadness but pressed on. I'm blessed with good friends and I am grateful for Alison's support during those first hours after Henderson. For Loula, eternal be her memory. 🙏
Fried Chicken from Farmstead
At mile 200, when we rolled across the Cannon River next to the Old Waterford Bridge, there was Greg from Farmstead Bike Shop waving us down. We dismounted. He and the team had some food -- the lo-fi variety like fruit and fried chicken. He walked off with my bike, presumably back to the car to check it out, and I wandered about a bit. We chatted and Greg hugged off a bit of the soul cargo I was still carrying from Henderson. Alison checked in with her dad and then we got back on the bikes.
Now, even though I am moving toward a vegetarian diet, there's something about fried chicken on a long ride seems to do wonders for me. When we set about on that final 40 miles, I started to feel better. My legs felt fresher and ready to hit the hills as we moved out of the valley of the Cannon River. We headed into the rolling hills of the Driftless Region that borders the Mississippi River. The finish line was still more than two hours away, but it felt incredibly close at this point. It was around 5:00p. We'd been riding for about 17 hours.
And The Finish Line Appears
There's a final MMR which descends rapidly into Red Wing and we were flying down there. There's a left turn at the bottom and a bit more valley road before it rises up to the end of the gravel. There's a sign for the "sprint finish" which took place many hours prior. We rolled along into town and across the Mississippi into Hager City, Wisconsin, followed the road down from the bridge to the finish line where Trenton and team were waiting with smiles and the folks there yelled and clapped as each rider crossed the line.
Epilogue
- Farmstead Bike Shop -- keeping the fleet running tip top
- Louise Love -- my Pilates (aka pirate) instructor and physical trainer
- Sharon Schroeder -- chiropractic and massage wonderworker
- Chris Balser -- Bicyle Fit Guru -- fixed my sore feet and made me faster.
And thanks to all my family and friends that provide the love and support that give me the energy to push through challenges of all shapes.
Good job Nick!
ReplyDeleteI really enjoyed reading this. Thank you for sharing your experience and bringing those along with you that could not imagine doing this amazing feat. So sorry about your aunt.
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