If dinosaurs believe in me, then I can believe in me.

Photo by Bailey Newbrey

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
- Albert Camus

Back in October, I was mindlessly scrolling through Facebook when I saw Allison Zmuda’s post in the Rowdy Tuff Girls group.

“Hey Single Speeders and single speed curious!” she wrote, “My good friend, Gabbi, from Stillwater, OK is trying to get a Women’s Single Speed category started for the Dirty Kanza 200 gravel race. I’m going to do it, you should too.”  

I didn’t know Allison, I didn’t have a single speed bike, and I’d never participated in a real gravel race.  What’s more, I was just coming back from a biking hiatus. The month prior, I had been hit by a car, which broke my wrist and collarbone, the latter requiring surgery. Despite all of this, something compelled me to send Allison a message. 

“I’m very interested!” I wrote. 

I don’t think I was taking myself too seriously at the time, but then I received Allison’s response. She sent me a message detailing registration, support, terrain, and housing.

"I think the best thing about this race is that all kinds of people do it,” she said. “It's really amazing to see people cross the finish line. It's very much a mental challenge. You just gotta keep pedaling.”  Allison took my interest seriously; she never questioned my ability or my commitment. That message was all it took.  If nothing else, I wanted to get to know this rad person advocating for women’s cycling. 

“Count me in,” I replied.

By November, seven women from Chicago were committed to racing Dirty Kanza 200 on single speeds. In December, I bought my SS All City Nature Boy, and, in January, I went on my first training ride. 

My All City Nature Boy

Every weekend, from that point on, some variation of our crew rode together, and each week we became closer and stronger. We raced Land Run 100, Barry Roubaix, Rough Road 100, Hell Kat Hundie, Grumpy Grind, and The Epic, in preparation. We rode in freezing cold, in hail, in thunderstorms. We hiked our bikes through mud, waded across rivers, and climbed steep hills.  When we weren’t riding, we were planning -- transportation, lodging, gear, support crew, fundraisers. Best of all were the moments in between -- inside jokes, sleepovers, coffee meet-ups, churro sundae rides, emoji-ridden group texts. We’d often comment on how well we all got along.  “I’m really glad none of us are crazy,” Mary remarked one day.  But maybe, it’s the fact that we all WERE crazy that made our group work so well.

The weekend of Dirty Kanza came before we knew it. Everything was ready. We had our gearing set, our bags pack, and a fantastic support crew on board. We arrived in Emporia on Thursday night, with plenty of time to check into the dorms and grab dinner at the local brewery.  On Friday morning, we chose to forgo the official recon ride and do our own, led by fellow single speeder and Stillwater queen, Crystal Wintle.

In the afternoon, we attended the #200women200miles Round Table. The forum, hosted by pro-racer Janel Holcomb, featured a panel of inspiring female athletes, both professional and amateur. It was extremely exciting to be sitting 30 feet away from Rebecca Rusch, Selene Yeager, and Alison Tetrick, women who’ve shown immense strength and perseverance in multiple disciplines. However, I was especially in awe of Wendy Davis, a mom from Missouri and 5-time DK200 finisher, who gave some great advice for women: “Be selfish with your time.”  

At the end, an audience member asked the panel to share their mantras or words of encouragement for when times get tough. It was those offered by Selene and Rebecca that kept me going during the 206 miles. “Just keep moving forward,” said Selene, and Rebecca chimed in, “However bad you’re feeling in that moment, it won’t last.”

We made sure the support vans were packed and our bikes ready to roll before going to sleep Friday night.  Saturday morning, my alarm started buzzing at 3:30 a.m. I felt very much in a daze. Was it really already June 3rd? Lauren and I slid out of our beds and groggily started doing last minute bike checks. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and human angel Kayci entered our room, basked in the glow of the harsh dorm hallway lighting. “Do you guys want some cold brew?”  Was it too early to cry from happiness and gratitude?

After breakfast in the dining hall (oatmeal and peanut butter and coffee forever & always), we returned to the dorm to grab our bikes, and then rolled the few blocks to the start.  Sure, it was 5:30 a.m. in downtown Emporia, but energy was high and the port-a-potties frequented.

5:30 a.m.
Photo by Chris Jensen

Photo by Lauren Conroy

The race began on time. It was 6 a.m., and the sun had just started to rise. We hit gravel within the first couple miles and were immediately surrounded by beautiful farmland. The rain had held off, so the roads were dusty. I chose to wear contacts for the ride, but, to avoid any irritation, I wore clear glasses that Sam lent me, and then switched to sunglasses as the daylight became brighter.

The first leg of the race was crowded. It was difficult to take full advantage of descents due to the number of riders, and I found myself using my brakes more than I would have liked. At that point, I was riding alongside Kayci, who put it best: “I can’t wait until the field spreads out, so I can ride how I want.” Eventually, we caught up to Mary and Kelsey and started moving through the pack. 

“Hey, a bunch of girls are passing us, we can’t let that happen,” said one older rider. Not wasting my breath on a reply, I merely stuck up my middle finger and kept moving. 

“Yasss!” shouted a woman, riding beside him. 

Fortunately, that was the only time I would hear a comment like that during the next 200 miles. Instead, I was constantly met with reminders of how supportive the gravel community can be.

Kayci, Mary, and Kelsey cruised on ahead as I fell back. I passed Sam who was sitting in the grass, fixing a flat. 

“You OK, Sam?” I asked. 

“Yep!” she said, “Keep it up!”  

I rode with Dave from Stillwater for a bit, and we reminisced about the cold, rainy weather of Land Run. Thankfully, Kansas chose to be more forgiving than Oklahoma, although I could feel the sun getting hotter as the hours passed. Still, I was feeling good. 

Photo by Gravel Guru

Around mile 40, we reached a small descent that led riders into a shallow water crossing. I chose to ride it, but realized too late that there was an unexpected divot. My wheel hit the water hard, and my front tire immediately went flat. Maybe I should have gone tubeless, after all, I thought to myself. I pulled off to the side and joined the other riders who had met the same fate.  I pulled out my flat kit and, using my hand pump, began to inflate the tube. Except nothing was happening. I couldn’t get my pump to work. I turned to the guy next to me. 

“Do you have a pump I can borrow??”  He handed me his pump, but it was like one I’ve never seen, and I became flustered.  

“I just bought it, I’m not exactly sure how it works,” he said. 

Time was fleeting, so I abandoned the pump method and pulled out my CO2.  Afraid I’d blow the tube, I released the CO2 slowly, using only half the cartridge. The pressure was lower than I like, but I had already wasted too much time, and I needed to get moving. In the time it took me to fix my flat, I had seen Lauren, Sam, and Dan pass.  I hopped back on my bike, reminding myself that it was only 10 more miles to the first checkpoint, where I could get my tired properly filled and switch out hand pumps.

I rode those next 10 miles mechanical free and pulled into the 1st checkpoint feeling good. Brandon and Chris had parked the vans in a prime location, and I could spot them as soon as I crossed the time marker.  Brandon immediately wiped down my chain and checked my tire pressure, Chris filled my Camelbak, and Wanda offered words of encouragement. I made sure I was there no more than 15 minutes. As I hopped back on my bike, Chris said “Who believes in you?”  

“I believe in me!” I said. 

“Right, and who else??” 

“Oh, dinosaurs!” I said. “I’m gonna bust out.” 

Photo by Chris Jensen

I wouldn’t see the crew again for another 50+ miles. The sun was getting higher in the sky, and I began to feel the humidity. I actually welcomed any headwind in those moments, as it guaranteed a breeze.  Remembering to ride my own pace and not worry about others passing me, I slowed my speed, and was careful to keep my hydration consistent. Around mile 80, there was some thick gravel, and I heard someone say “Woah!”  I looked behind me and saw no one. I then realized the voice had been my own. 120 miles to go, and I was already going crazy. At the moment, I remembered the advice from my teammate, Julie. When things feel especially difficult, relax your shoulders and your hands, look up, be present, and remember that even though it's a race, it's still ok to enjoy being on your bike.  I reached into my feedbag, ate a few gummy bears, admired the rolling hills and pastoral land surrounding me, and kept moving forward.

At mile 90, I approached a sketchy descent. At the bottom, I could see two orange cones, positioned as if it were a soccer goal.  In my fatigue, my brain told me to go through, rather than around. Bombing down at high speed, I realized too late that these cones were marking the ends of a huge ditch. “I’m going to crash,” I remember thinking.  “This is the end of the race for me.”  I hit the ditch HARD. My front tube popped and the air immediately gushed out.  The force of the impact had caused my arms to push my shifters inward, and I was sure my wheel was broken.  Still, I was upright. Perhaps my bike handling had improved, or, maybe, it was just dumb luck.  I pulled over and inspected my bike. The spokes were in tact, my wheel wasn’t bent, and my fork looked OK. I couldn’t believe it.  The wheel was locked, however, as the skewer was knocked out of place, causing the brakes to rub against the rotor. For a second, I was afraid the rotor was bent, but, upon inspection, that looked OK, too. I changed my tube and put my wheel back on. The brakes were still rubbing a bit, so I used my multi-tool to pull back the pads and allow for a little more clearance. I spun the wheel. No rubbing. Everything looked good. Knowing my bike was OK, I finally looked up and saw a group of women a few feet away. One was in a makeshift sling made of tubes. She had hit the same ditch earlier and had unfortunately crashed, breaking her arm. A group of women from Virginia had stopped to help and called a car to come take her to the hospital. They asked if I was OK, and then helped me collect my cue cards that had flown all over the course in the moment of impact.  One woman also repositioned the cones, which prevented anyone else from riding directly into the ditch.  It worked, and we watched riders come through, taking the safer left line.

The Virginia group moved on, and, soon after, the injured woman left in a car.  I was feeling a little shaken, but I knew I could make it to the next checkpoint. Plus, I felt a boost of energy, empowered by the fact that I had successfully fixed my bike in the heat, with no coverage from the sun, 90 miles into a ride. In that moment, I recognized how I’d grown as a cyclist.  When I reached Eureka around mile 104, I was feeling fatigued. I rode through the parking lot of the checkpoint, trying to spot the vans.  Suddenly, I heard someone running alongside me.  I looked over and saw Chris Jensen, grinning ear to ear. “Well, hey!” he said.  “How’ya feelin!?” I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “Great,” I lied. I told Brandon of my bike woes, and he got to work. Wanda, recognizing the heat’s effect on me, asked if I had any electrolytes to add to my water.  I, at one point, had two Nuun containers in the outer pocket of my feedbag, but they were nowhere to be found, leading me to believe they must have flown out when I hit the ditch.  “I’ll give you one of Samantha’s Skratch” she said. Thank you, Wanda. I reapplied my sunscreen, used the bathroom, changed my jersey, and continued on.  “Who believes in you??”  shouted Jensen as I rode away.  “Dinosaurs!” I shouted back.

Chris, Brandon, and Wanda

The next leg would be the longest. I had taken my iPod, but it must have gotten damaged, because the music sounded warped. I took out my headphones, and put the device away.  I started singing Les Miserables songs out-loud to myself. For some reason, those were the only lyrics my brain could remember in that moment.  I then grew tired of the French Revolution, so I started making up my own songs, “You’re so strong, wow look at the cow, you goooot thiissss, hey now look it’s raining da de dum.”  It rained for a while, but after my experiences at Land Run and the Epic, this felt like nothing. The precipitation also helped cool the temperature, so I welcomed the clouds. 

By mile 130, I was soaking and covered in mud. I was in a mental rut. Hills became unbearable, and food didn’t taste appetizing. Then, the “low battery” message appeared on my Garmin. Considering how long I had been on the course, this was expected. I reached into my feedbag to grab my charger, only to discover it wasn’t there. “Well, shit,” I thought. It must have flown out with the Nuun. I was baffled that I hadn't noticed. Tire tracks and abandoned water bottles could guide my way in the meantime, but I knew I would be in trouble come nightfall.  Around that time, I met up with a guy from Kansas City, named Bill. “I’m going to stop at the top of the hill and eat” said Bill.  I told him I’d wait with him.  I’d rather slow my time and have company than ride alone. Soon, others caught up to us, and we all rode in a small pack. Eventually, I was on my own again, with some falling back and others pushing on ahead. 

After what felt like an eternity, Madison was finally in sight, which meant I had a little less than 50 miles to go. I slowly pedaled into town and found Brandon parked at the end of the street. Chris and Wanda had already left for the finish. I was feeling defeated. This was hard. I looked over and saw fellow single speeder Kelly Clarke.  She came over, in a fresh kit, looking like she had barely ridden a mile. Before leaving the checkpoint she gave me a hug and said, “I’ll see ya at the finish.”  I’m not sure if I actually uttered real words in response,  but I think I said something along the lines of “...do you always look that nice?” 

I don’t remember a lot from that checkpoint, but I do remember I ate the most delicious Snickers of my life and changed into a new kit.  I was there longer than intended, but I needed that break. I stretched out my back, while Brandon set up his battery, so my Garmin would charge on the bike (THANK YOU, BRANDON).  The sun was nearly set, so I turned on my lights and rolled out for the final leg. “You got this,” said Brandon. “I got this,” I repeated.  

It was completely dark before I knew it.  Even with my bright headlight, the descents were sketchy, and I took everything slow.  A rider from St. Louis joined me for several miles before he continued on ahead. Everything ached, but my lower back was especially hurting, and my morale was low.

Suddenly, a women rolled up next to me, full of energy and conversation. I learned her name was Christine, and this would be her 5th DK200 finish.  We met up with two other women, and together we rode the final 40 miles. Christine was a life saver. She offered encouragement when needed and distracted me with stories, expecting no intelligible response in return. She even suggested we all stop at one point, so she could give me three ibuprofen for my back, which I gladly accepted.  Finally, we saw the lights of Emporia and knew the end was near. 

Happy to be finished
Photo by Wanda Scipio

“You all are amazing,” Christine would say every few miles, “and we’re all going to finish!  A group of women finishing together! How great it that!?”  So. great.

We spent four long hours riding those last 45 miles of dark, gravel roads, but finish we did. I was the last of the single speed women to cross the line, but I didn't mind because it meant I had everyone there to greet me at the end. I couldn’t stop smiling. Everything in the minutes following is a blur, but I will always remember Bailey’s voice saying, “Elizabeth, do you like pizza??” DUDE, DO I EVER. Kayci brought me clean clothes, and we sat on the curb as I inhaled two slices. 

THE PIZZA
Photo by Chris Jensen

Around 2:30 a.m., we gathered at the finish and cheered as Dan Schaumann crossed the line. Dan had stopped to help those who needed it, even in the dark. For the short time we rode together, he made sure I was eating -- a true comrade and perfect example of the gravel community, always looking out for one another.  

Photo by Bailey Newbrey

Photo by Bailey Newbrey

As 3 a.m. approached, we all headed back to the dorms, tired, but euphoric.  Lying in bed, I realized I had been up for 24 hours, I had ridden my bike for 19 of those hours (nearly half a work week, as my friend Kim pointed out), and I knew I was ready to do it all again.

 

To our support crews: Brandon, Chris, Wanda, Marie, JRho.  Your preparation, your hugs, and your encouragement were invaluable. This weekend wouldn’t have been possible without your help.

To friends, family, teammates, and kind strangers. Thank you for buying bandanas, for attending our fundraising party, for sending messages of support. When things got tough, I thought of you all and kept moving forward.

To my fellow SS ladies west of the Mississippi: Gabbi, Crystal, Kelly. You all inspire me. Thank you for being advocates and leaders for women's cycling.

Thank you to Mookie Wilson, whose words of wisdom (which he apparently never said, but whatever) carried us all through each check point.

And last but definitely not least, thank you to Allison, Sam, Lauren, Kayci, Kelsey, and Mary. I really don’t have words to describe how much these past 6 months have meant to me. I can’t wait for our next adventure. Let’s keep it 100.

See you next year, DK.