NCC/HAC Gravel Metric Century

DeKalb, IL
Gravel Metric Sunday May 29, 2011
by: Paolo Urizar

Around this time last year, I reveled in the 90 degree heat in the Half Acre Gravel Metric Century. I fell in love with the unique challenge of the gravel roads far off in the rural yonder amidst forlorn farmhouses and modern windmills. The ride was epic even then, providing heatstroke inducing temperatures, no shade, 20mph headwinds, and a little cornfield double tracking to keep things lively. I revealed previously on a post, that I say a silent prayer before every hard ride to dedicate my effort to someone – it’s my belief that every last strain of strength I have, I do for someone special to me. Last year, I was saddened by news from Guatemala having endured yet another strong storm season that caused many mudslides in the countryside that inevitably buried many people alive by the scores. I went into the race praying for my family and friends in Guatemala. I came out with a fifth place finish in this challenge, alongside friend Allan Thom from Half Acre Cycling. This year, we both went in with a friendly challenge yet again, and the hope to battle it out for unsung glory only recognized among friends and the cornfields.

The day couldn’t have been any more different than last year, cooler temperatures and dewey fog brought on by the impending storms fast approaching the farmlands. Almost triple the amount of brave souls showed up to participate in the challenge this year – all with a hearty appetite to appreciate the difficult roads ahead of us in spite of the looming weather prediction. We rolled out in unison, with smiles, with abundant glances of luck to each and every one. The neutral roll out was calm, and led into the open road where the men with serious horsepower took immediate charge and laid out the notion that they were here to take mother nature on directly with the same fury she was to unleash on us. I glanced down and was thankful I wasn’t entirely on the rivet, but definitely took caution to maximizing their attack and gauged my legs accordingly, a five minute assault on the field in a 32 mph breakaway made the field disappear quickly in the fog behind us. It was to be a difficult push in the upper echelon of my ability to sustain the effort to keep from being dropped completely, and my friend Allan, was there to keep the pace steady early on. Riders that underestimated how hard it is to keep high paces, were shed off in the first half hour, first forty five minutes, and eventually the first hour, shaping out the leads of the field.

I felt great. Solid, great power, and propelled by the confidence of last year’s performance, I kept the pace on even when I pulled away from the groups that helped lead me into better positions, the legs were abiding by the natural cadence of a consistent attack. This was helpful, since I took a wrong turn. Unfortunately, I misread a cue and the foggy view of the course, hid the pack after a certain distance and though I saw them turn, I missed the immediate turn afterwards and found myself at a crossroads, literally, waiting for the pack behind me to catch me to ask where the hell I was going. They reached me and the conclusion that we indeed went off the course. We blasted back in reverse and noted the correct turn where other groups were turning into. This mistake, though costly, was at most a mile of a difference – I knew I could make up a mile and proceeded in doing so, hammering out a faster pace and immediately cruised to catch the groups ahead. The rain started. The rooster tails of debri, water, and pebbles slapping every rider, cruising out of draft lines to avoid being continually pelted. I found more friends all wondering where the hell I came from, and quickly charged ahead to lead them into the section that I had been longing for which I knew was the determining factor in the ride.

The mud. All of the obnoxious mud that has been the nemesis of mountain bikers enjoying the trails in Chicago and throughout the region. I knew the path would disappear into the fields of mud and that alone would destroy people or in my case, invigorate them to ride a path that wasn’t red flagged for protection of a trail system. No holds barred riding through the muck to get to the next checkpoint as fast as possible. New lines were discovered through the mud, the grass, and the unknown. The mud led to the gravel again, and the rain continued. The path led to the Dead End sign where I remember the real onslaught awaited us. There was a creek crossing first before the continued drudge through the mud – the creek was ankle deep when I arrived and it was moving swiftly enough that I could feel a misstep would pull me into the water. I crossed, and then continued the muddy plight. A friend who was nearby had stated he was beginning to cramp up. My generous nature dispensed a half pack of electrolyte chews on the trail for him to retrieve of which he did and it gave him immediate relief. We rode together, with good skill navigating through the mud as the rain now starting coming down faster and with more desperation to break into the storm of the darker clouds ahead of us indicated. The skies crackled. One of the crackles was so loud, it felt like it came from below me. That was because it did, and I stood over my bike, motionless, incapable of being forced into gear, because there were no more gears. The rear derailleur jammed into my wheel and broke in half.

The rain pecked at my helmet. I stood dumbfounded at my luck, having never experienced a mechanical of this nature, ever, in all my years of racing, adventures, and the like. I held a multi-tool in my hand trying to figure out the obvious which looked impossible. A rider came up and offered a chain tool which I gladly took hoping to salvage the chain for singlespeed duty. I couldn’t find how unfortunately. Riders would come by and offer advice and look at the mess and find themselves as confounded as I was. After about 10 minutes of coming to the realization that no multi-tool would save me from the mess I was now in – I shouldered my bike and continued the plight on foot. I walked out of the muddy section and made it to the road and walked alone for a good half mile when more friends came upon me and offered assistance and then realizing after seeing the situation, that it was indeed grim. Nevada Dave came upon me which was a surprise considering he wasn’t doing the ride but instead decided to do it anyway despite wearing pants and a cotton t-shirt and not so waterproof thin jacket. He rode ahead to notify the checkpoint I was in need of help. I continued my lonely trek in the rain on the road with the disparate view of farmhouses in the grey horizon of a darkened sky. I was though, in elation. I had a good ride up until that point, and had good legs. I couldn’t have asked for more. The walk now, is easy. The eye of the storm arrived in my lonely travail and the deluge met me isolated with no cover in the middle of the road as I carried my bike, at this point mile three of the journey. I couldn’t help but to be positive, in that in DeKalb, IL, a Latino was carrying a bicycle as expensive as some of the farm equipment around him, wearing black lycra that exalted ‘METAL‘. The irony and the backdrop of my situation was comical and provided levity in my attitude. In total I walked six miles on my own, with a wind gusts howling around me, and small hail pelting my helmet. I had plenty of time to get into a meditative mood and think of how easy it was to be me that day. I willingly signed up to do a ride in the eye of impending storm, knowing full well how crappy things could get. I would do it again.

There are people in Guatemala that deal with what I did on a daily basis, and in fact, not just Central America but the world over in rainforest climates. During the rainy periods of the tropical season, the rainforests are a thick muddy mess. The life in a forest isn’t so rough to the ‘campesinos’ (countrymen and women) who walk daily for miles on end for the simple things, out of necessity, struggle, and even basic recreation. I wouldn’t have dreamt of coughing up a single complaint about the situation I was in. There weren’t mosquitoes at least – and help was really a farmhouse knock away.

I couldn’t help but feel positive in my solo endeavor through the storm, knowing that my silly sport is purely recreation and not out of necessity. I found myself in the same thoughts one year ago, thinking of family and friends, as they kept me company in my thoughts, and laughing out loud and how ridiculous they must believe I am for choosing to do this to myself rather than stay inside and drink coffee. This ride was truly epic, on all counts. I heard afterwards that the creek I crossed became waist deep for some and even almost took a few riders downstream. They persevered and were found smiling in the warmth of North Central Cyclery afterwards. This was a race of the human capacity of mind, body, and spirit – and those that finished it, will be greater for it and will bask in the sun, more jubilant than before. Congratulations to all who participated, the telling smile on every rider’s face spoke volumes – they all fought Mother Nature, and won.