Race Recap: Telluride 100 2021

I didn't know "monsoonal" was a word until the weekend of the 2021 Telluride 100. Not that it's a particularly peculiar word; I've just never heard it used to describe heavy rain. While studying the weather forecast for race day, Joe and I read "monsoonal rain expected Saturday" (i.e., race day) and I cringed a little knowing that the forecast served as an unofficial promise for an epic day in the saddle.

As a word, "monsoonal" rolls off the tongue with a slight smirk—it has a somewhat playful or comical sound—but I can promise you that monsoonal rain is no joke. It's the kind of rain accompanied by landslides and thunderstorms; the kind of rain you'd rather not race in for two hours, after already racing 7.5 hours at altitude. It's the kind of rain that creates mud you can never wash away completely.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning...

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A Little Background

You might know that my biggest cycling goal is to race in the UCI Elite Marathon Mountain Bike World Championships. If not, now you know. Endurance racing suits my athletic strengths and I have an inexplicable desire to represent the US on the world stage at least once in my life. For my readers who are less familiar with mountain biking, the marathon cross country mountain bike discipline is abbreviated by the UCI (the international cycling union) as "XCM", which I'll use moving forward.

In the US, there hasn't been a UCI-sanctioned XCM race in a few years (except for US Marathon MTB National Championships). However, to qualify for Marathon World Championships, it helps to have XCM points and a strong showing at XCM races. So, when I was planning my 2021 race schedule and I saw that USA Cycling added XCM Telluride 100 to the Pro XC calendar, I locked the race weekend into my plans.

The Preparation

Now, I have raced at altitude a few times and have suffered greatly, so I knew going into Telluride 100 (in Telluride, CO, of course) that an extra layer of preparation was necessary. This included tuning my nutrition. It also meant sleeping "at altitude" while still living in the comfort of my rural Massachusetts home. About two months before Telluride 100, I rented one of those snazzy altitude systems you see super serious athletes using, because living and training at 350ft above sea level was going to set me up for failure when racing at 9000+ ft. I slept in the altitude tent every night possible leading up to the race and I rode using the altitude mask a couple times each week. Did this make me "super serious" like other athletes? Well, a few coworkers called me "intense", "committed", and even "crazy", so yes, maybe. At a minimum, it made me realize just how much my husband loves me. The head tent, which is big enough to cover my pillow, was wider than half of our queen-sized bed. So, my husband was left with less than half of the bed. That's love, folks. Or maybe just really strong tolerance. Moreover, race day was on our 5-year wedding anniversary. So yes, that must be love.

Smiling while using the heat tent; must have been early on while I still thought it was novel and cool.

Fast forward to late July 2021. In the days leading up to the race, I was more nervous than I had been in a long time. First, a lot of people knew about this race (most of my close friends, family, and colleagues knew this was my "A" race), which led to self-inflicted pressure. Second, a 100 mile mountain bike race would be the longest mountain bike race I had ever done, by a LOT. Third, knowing that this was an official XCM meant it mattered a lot to me and my goal to qualify for Worlds. 

Fun fact: extra anxiety paired with altitude does wonders for sleep quality--and by "wonders" I mean terrible things. In the nights preceding the race, I nightmared about missing the race start, being unprepared, taking multiple wrong turns, breaking my bike, breaking my body, any just about any other scenario my mind could conjure. In reality, I knew I was prepared as I could be for this race and there was nothing more I could do to improve my performance in a few days. 

After studying the field of UCI Elite women registered for the race, I was hopeful for a Top 5 finish. Most of my competitors live and train at altitude, so I knew it would take a strong performance for me to compete, but I also believed it was possible. Plus, that snazzy altitude tent was supposed to help, right?

Joe and I spent the day before the race studying the course, strategizing the Aid Station hand ups, and relaxing as much as possible. "Relax" in this case meant taking the free(!) gondola up to the top of the Telluride ski mountain to enjoy the views I'd be too tired to appreciate when I pedaled up the same mountain the following day.

My first ever course guide! I was sure to keep it fancy with masking tape (which, despite some snarky remarks from friends, is actually quite effective).

Preparing all my bottles and Flow Formulas drink mix for the big day! Not pictured: Joe’s puzzled face while trying to figure out which bottles to hand me at each aid station.

Race Morning

The race was scheduled to start at 6am. Luckily, coming from the East Coast, this was more like 8am. That said, waking up at 3:45am is painful no matter what time zone you're in. Pancakes and eggs with a side of anxiousness at 4am doesn't go down very well. But my dietician told me to prioritize carbs on race day, so I did my best. 

With sunrise at 6:15am, I wasn't able to warm up like I usually do. I traveled with my portable Feedback Sports trainer, but it was going to be too loud to warm up properly at 5:35am in a courtyard of condos filled with families. Rather than be Kelly-the-jerk-who-woke-everyone-up, I skipped the proper warmup and just soft pedaled around the eerily quiet downtown using the streetlights as my guide. Unfortunately, race morning warmup sprints on dark streets aren't as exhilarating (or safe) as you might expect. A stupidly easy 10 minute spin was the best I could do.

It was quite chilly on race morning (48 degrees F) and the ground was soaked from the monsoonal rain that fell the day and night prior, which meant the trails would undoubtedly be muddy. I imagined this would be advantageous for someone who has been living in New England, where the rain has fallen nearly daily for the past several weeks. The Men and Women Elite fields started together, with the first few miles taking us out of town along the one road out of Telluride at a pace that was shockingly slow. 

The sunrise bathed the mountains around us in warm golden light as we pedaled away from town and up the first climb. The views of the surrounding mountains were spectacular. What was NOT spectacular was how terrible my legs and my lungs felt. I was not warmed up physically or mentally as the lead women started to pull away and I watched my fate unfold. At this point, I decided that the altitude tent was a big hunking waste of money and effort. 

On this climb, my expectations quickly transformed from "Top 5 finish" to "just finish the damn race. You flew all the way out here and it's your anniversary." This mindset shift was helpful but, admittedly, not enough to keep me from tumbling into a very dark place. By the time I arrived at Aid Station #1 (mile 14), I felt like I had already raced 50 miles. My lungs burned, my legs already carried a deep ache, and I was on the verge of heartbreak. Joe greeted me with a huge smile and several words of encouragement while I muttered "I don't think I can do this." The Aid Station was at the base of the Telluride ski mountain, which was the next climb I would face on course. At this point, I was in 5th place, with 6th place just a few seconds behind me.

The steep climb up to mile 14. This was just the beginning.

Telluride's gondola takes you almost straight up the mountain in a matter of minutes, which affords some particularly fantastic views. What's much less fantastic is that the trail we climbed was directly below the gondola's path at several points. I found myself thinking on more than one occasion "There's a reason they made a gondola—so people don’t have to climb this mountain!" Some pitches were so steep that I had to walk my bike and my heart rate was STILL pinned. With a climb that lasted from mile 14 until 22, I knew I was in for a long, painful slog. Early in the climb, the 6th place woman passed me, and I did everything I could to keep her within reach. 

I swear that’s a smile.

As a reward for climbing, the singletrack after the summit was gorgeous. I've always dreamed of riding singletrack that snakes between aspen trees, and let me tell you, it was as fantastic in real life as it is in the pictures. I lost myself somewhere out there among the giant white trees and lush forest.  

Note: this is not an actual race day photo, but rather a photo I took later in the trip. I don’t race with my phone, but if I did I would definitely take photos like this!

The Turning Point

I found myself again at the next Aid Station (mile 31), where I stopped to refill a water bottle while the 5th place woman spent a bit longer replacing a water reservoir in her hydration pack. We pedaled out of the aid station together and I remarked "Wow! You're super strong on the technical downhills!" (she really was). She asked me how I was feeling and in a moment of weakness and lack of grace, I responded "This is the worst I've ever felt in a race." Terrible word vomit directed at a perfect stranger! While I felt horribly embarrassed, my new friend just laughed at my brutal honesty and unusual candor. 

At that moment, something remarkable happened. I realized that uttering this statement out loud mid-race was probably one of the worst things anyone can do to themselves. It's a self-affirmation that could catalyze a cascade of negativity. It's the beginning of what could become a self-fulfilling prophecy if I let it. And so, I consciously fought back.

Instead of throwing myself a pity party, I decided to dig deep and make myself a promise. I promised to push as hard as my body would allow and I would do everything in my power to NOT bonk during the race. I even said it out loud to myself (no one was around), to help make the vow more official. Whatever place I came in at the end of the day didn't matter, as long as I left my heart out on course. And you know what? That one positive thought was like a small spark deep in my core that warmed me from the inside out. I found my "second wind" while pedaling up Ames Road (a steady dirt road climb) and I passed a handful of people along the way. 

Coming through the half-way Aid Station (mile 50), I was greeted again by Joe's beaming smile and encouragement. The announcer at the start/finish line alerted everyone to my arrival, and I was welcomed with cheers and excitement from passers by. At this point, I was feeling more like my upbeat, positive self and was pleased with my current 5th place position. Riding out of town for Loop 2 was a very different experience than the race start. The town was bustling with activity and pedestrians were cheering for me, even though it was evident they had no idea why random cyclists were riding along town's busiest road, covered in mud. 

On the second largest climb on course, up Last Dollar Mountain, I was completely alone. On the rugged gravel/jeep roads, I passed several 4-wheel drive vehicles, many of which gave me the pity wave or the obligatory thumbs up. One guy rolled down his window and said "you got this!" to which I replied "I can't believe I paid for this!". Seriously though, I reminded myself several times that I paid for this experience and then immediately proceeded to wonder what the heck is wrong with me. 

As the gravel roads rolled on, I celebrated the passing of each mile, sometimes cheering for myself out loud with only the mountains to hear me. I kept myself entertained by singing some of my favorite songs, taking comfort in knowing that trees and the wildflowers couldn't tell just how bad I sounded. In many ways, this race was as much a test of physical strength as it was mental strength. 

Monsoonal Rain

At about 7.5 hours into the race, the rain began as a slow drizzle and I welcomed the cool, refreshing drops on my arms and my legs. At this point I thought it might remain just a light drizzle and, honestly, all that mud on my skin was starting to get itchy. Then, in a matter of minutes, steady rain began. Luckily, the timing coincided with the next Aid Station (mile 84) where I got to see Joe for the third time.  Met with his usual positivity and smile, I was buoyed for a short while and forgot about the rain, the pain, and everything else that had happened up to that point. With bottles replaced, I started the Ames Road climb for the second time. Remembering that this was the turning point for me on Loop 1, I was determined to stay positive and strong on this same climb again. Only 20 miles to go! 

When the monsoonal rain hit, I found myself digging a little deeper for positivity and instead ended up playing my own personal version of "Are you smarter than a 5th grader: Weather Edition”. When the winds picked up and lightning illuminated the sky in front of me, I began counting "one Mississippi....two Mississippi..." until I heard thunder, to see how far away the storm was (I vaguely remembered learning that each second between lightning and thunder is equivalent to a mile).

Then, when I knew the storm was within a mile of my location, I started considering the principles of electrical conductivity I learned years ago. Is titanium more or less conductive than that metal "falling rocks" sign I just pedaled by? Which one of us would nature claim first? If lightning hit my bike but I'm sitting on my saddle and holding my rubber handlebar grips, would I survive? (Of course not, the lightning would surely hit my head or my back before it hit my bike!)

And the thunder, let me tell you. The thunder was the kind that sounds like the sky is ripping apart. Like the threads holding the clouds together were being torn by the immeasurable force of the rain and wind. To say I was scared would be an understatement, but I maintained a somewhat funny mood by assuring myself that if I was going to die from lightning, it would be a pretty darn epic way to die. Maybe someone will write a book about it someday. 

It was these distracting thoughts that led me to be surprised when I saw the blue kit of the woman in 4th place ahead of me on the climb. It was raining so hard and I had wiped so many different things through my eyes in the past few hours (mud, sweat, sunscreen, rain, probably some horse manure...) that I actually didn't believe it was happening. When I caught and then passed her, I asked if she was OK and if she needed anything and she replied that her knees were in an incredible amount of pain. I wished her well and then continued pedaling forward, noting that this is all part of racing and I really didn't want to be stuck in the lightning and monsoonal rain any longer than I needed to. 

Ames Road and the proceeding trails were fully exposed and snaked alongside cliffs. I've heard about landslides and wasn't sure how hard it had to rain in order for land to slide, but it turns out monsoonal rain for about an hour is the threshold. I witnessed a few smaller landslides right in front of me and was simultaneously terrified and also completely disappointed that I couldn’t share the phenomenon with anyone. At one point, I thought a fellow racer was getting ready to pass because I heard a loud noise behind me. But when I turned around, I saw a bunch of very large boulders had fallen into the road behind me (good thing I wasn't 10 seconds slower!).  

It’s worth noting that the jury is still out on whether I’m smarter than a fifth grader. I probably am, but paying to participate in an event like this is a bit suspect.

Almost Home

At mile 97, I passed Joe for the last time. I was frozen from the wind and rain and I could barely move my fingers to shift gears. The heavy rain was almost deafening but I screamed out to Joe “You won’t believe it, but I’m in 4th place!” Spoken out loud, that admission had helped me shed the layer of self doubt that weighed me down for the past 8.5 hours. Assuming nothing catastrophic happened, I was not only going to finish the race, but I was going to stand on the podium for my first ever XCM.

Rain.

On the final singletrack trail, it was raining so hard that the trail had become a stream. My pace slowed because I couldn't see rocks and roots in the trail, and the stream crossings from Loop 1 had become intimidatingly strong in Loop 2. In the final stretch of bike path leading into town, the water level of the adjacent ponds had almost risen above the pavement. Ducks in the pond watched as I pedaled by, and I imagined them laughing at how ridiculous and cold I must have looked. I had one of those smile-grimace combinations plastered on my face that certainly betrayed the pain in my body and mind. 

When I finished, I could feel my body trying to squeeze out tears of joy but I simply had no energy left. My eyes were plugs on a well that had run dry; my body was a shell of my normal self, just barely held together with relief, happiness, and sticky mountain mud. That course, that day, had sucked every ounce of life out of me. I was overjoyed to be done and I couldn't believe I finished 4th. All of that training, commitment, and preparation had culminated to this finish line moment. This was, by far, the most challenging race I have ever completed. 

The artistic blur captures the essence of how I felt crossing that finish line.

THE BIG QUESTIONS

The question everyone keeps asking: Did the altitude tent help? If I’m being honest, I'm not 100% certain, but I think it did. I'd like to believe that I wouldn't have found my second wind if it wasn't for those 7 weeks of head tent sleep and masked workouts. 

The follow-up question people are asking: Will I do it again? Meh, ask me again in a few weeks. 

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For months, maybe years, or perhaps forever, I will look back on this race with pride. I persevered and believed in myself. I fought back when I could have given in to despair.

As I draft this blog on the plane back to Boston, I'm cognizant that I'm returning to my "normal" life, but I feel different somehow. You can't finish a race like this for the first time and not feel transformed. For one thing, I know I’ll never take sea level air for granted ever again.

From an outsider's perspective, everything will fall back into place in a few days, with my daily routines and rituals taking their familiar shape in my life. But I know better. That mountain mud will be with me for a long time. That's the kind of mud that you can never wash away completely.

Race Recap: unPAved 2020

Every time I take the exit for I-80 West, signaling the last stretch on my drive to Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief; not unlike the feeling of stepping through the front door of your house after a grueling week of work. It’s a loosening of the chest; an involuntary deep sighing of relief; a subtle lifting of the heart.

It’s the feeling of coming home. 

This reaction is somewhat puzzling because my time as an undergraduate student at Bucknell University comprised some of the most challenging and stressful years of my life. However, those years also coincided with my discovery of cycling, and the true beginning of my love for the sport. It was in the countryside and hills of central Pennsylvania where I fell in love with two-wheeled adventures which, I suppose, makes all bike related trips to Lewisburg feel a bit like poetically closing some loop of fate. 

On the last stretch of I-80, as we neared the exit for Lewisburg toward Bucknell University, I was reminded of how much I love the central Pennsylvania countryside: the golden fields of corn, the foliage-quilted ridges rippling along the interstate, and the cows grazing out in distant pastures while their owners navigate heavy tractors through dusty brown fields.

Our Airbnb was an old brick school house converted into a one bedroom cottage. It is nestled in the Lewisburg farm fields, adjacent to chicken and cow farms, with a gorgeous view of the surrounding area. This was the perfect backdrop to what I hoped would be the perfect ending of my race season in an otherwise very imperfect year.  

Our own slice of solitude.

Cows! One of our friendly neighbors. (Photo credit: Joe)

unPAved 2020 looked quite different compared to the 2019 version. As you might expect, this was largely due to the Covid-19 pandemic. For starters, all participants had to register for the 123-mile course and there was a maximum of 200 participants. Next, there would be no pre- or post-race gathering with the race participants, staff, and locals; the race day event was the singular opportunity to connect with the unPAved community this year. Finally, race timing would be different than previous years. While the course itself is similar to last year, racers would be timed only on 4 very specific segments of the course (somewhat like enduro racing, for you mountain bike fans). The rest of the course was considered neutral riding and racers were encouraged to take their time, enjoy the views, and respect the volunteers’ and fellow racers’ safety at the aid stations. 

In total, there were about 33.5 miles (and 4,900 feet) of actual racing on course.

Black seems like an unusually cruel color to mark the four grueling segments of pain on the unPAved 2020 course.

The segment racing format freaked me out. How would I pace myself? Would I ever see anyone else on course? This was all new territory for me.

As the race date neared, the unPAved crew announced a Covid-safe plan for individual call-ups and race starts, with 30-seconds between each participant. Racers would be called up by an Amish auctioneer (how cool is that?) and sent off to navigate the course alone. Upon reviewing the start times, I noticed that the race organizers had arranged for me to start DEAD LAST of all racers for the day, just before 9am AND I was assigned race number 1. Last year’s runner up, Hayley, was number 2, and second place from the 2018 edition unPAved, Vicki, was number 3. The three of us were the last three racers assigned to leave for the day, which was a subtle way of showcasing the strong women cyclists at the event, even though the race organizers were very aware that some men would certainly be faster than us. (Let’s take a very long pause here to appreciate how absolutely rad this is. Thank you to the unPAved crew for this statement about the importance of showcasing women in cycling, in an industry that falls short with regard to gender equality in almost every way possible.)

Unfortunately, the individual call-up plans were foiled by an impending hurricane, so the organizers gave everyone the choice to start anytime they wanted, between 7:30 - 9am. When I read this news, I was somewhat relieved, because I knew the original plan would likely result in me grouping up with Hayley and Vicki, and then we’d have to ride together, which made me uncomfortable. What if we got sick of each other? What if someone didn’t want to ride with the group? What if I was feeling horrible and I got dropped on the race segments? Or worse, what if I was feeling phenomenal and I still got dropped on the race segments, watching my chances of winning disappear? Would we re-group? What if someone got a flat tire? All of these “what ifs” were uncertainties that could be easily mitigated if I raced on my own, away from everyone else, just like I always have in the past.

It’s important to note that with very few opportunities to race this year (i.e., unPAved was the second of only two races in 2020), I wanted to be intentional about my mindset and how I chose to show up for this race. In previous races, I have focused only on myself and tried to conjure some illusion that I have control over everything. Additionally, I have always focused on winning at any cost (within reason of course). This is the result of being incredibly competitive my whole life. 

But 2020 has given me time to grow and reflect. This year, I knew Hayley was going to have a fire in her after what happened in the 2019 edition (read this blog post about 2019 unPAved if you’re unfamiliar). All I wanted was a real race, unencumbered by mechanicals or navigation issues, won by the strongest racer that day. Indeed I wanted to be the strongest racer on the day, but I also didn’t want to win at the cost of someone else’s misfortune. Last year’s win (Hayley took a wrong turn in the last ~10 miles) felt disingenuous and has been heavy on my mind for a year. This year, I told myself that if I’m going to win, I want to feel proud of myself; if I don’t win, I still want to end the day feeling proud. That was the goal: an honest performance that required me to dig deep and give my all—whatever that meant in a year when racing was almost non-existent. 

My coach and I reflected on the unique opportunity this race situation provided. Indeed my mind was full of all the things that could go wrong. But perhaps I wasn’t focusing on an even more important question...What if everything went right? This was, I’ll admit, a potential outcome I hadn’t considered. 

Ultimately, I reached out to both Hayley and Vicki and proposed the idea of riding together for the day. I suggested we ride the neutral portions together, race the segments at our own pace, and then re-group at the end of each segment. It was a plan that ensured the three of us would have company for the entire ride, and would give us the opportunity to push each other in the segments by starting together. 

Never in my racing career have I invited this kind of vulnerability into my race day. I felt completely exposed by this plan. The moment I sent the message to both of them, I immediately dreaded what would happen next. This would be the ultimate test of whether I could stack up against Hayley’s fire and Vicki’s experience. It felt like I was relinquishing some piece of control that was vital to maintaining the illusion that I was worthy of being labelled as a “Pro”. But, it was also a feeling of freedom and growth. I was shedding the old toxic competitiveness and inviting discomfort. I was showing up in 2020 in a way I never expected. This year, I chose to be truly present and enjoy the company of other female racers in a situation that made me feel incredibly vulnerable.

To my surprise, both Hayley and Vicki accepted the invitation. For better or worse, the plan was set.

On race day, the weather was almost perfect. It was a bit chilly to start but was supposed to warm up to high 60’s or even 70 degrees. The three of us met in the parking lot and I introduced Hayley and Vicki to each other. I was especially quiet that morning, recognizing that I was completely unsure how the day would unfold, and the lack of control made me anxious.

Making small talk before rolling out for the day. (Photo credit: Joe)

We rolled out on the exceptionally maintained Buffalo Valley Rail Trail, headed toward Jones Mountain. Immediately, I felt at ease. The three of us were talking about riding, work and the impact that the pandemic has had on our lives. For some portions, we rode in silence. It wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable but rather, it felt natural and almost as though we had been riding buddies for much longer than the single hour we had been riding together. In all honesty, the only awkward part of the entire ride is probably how many times I made them stop because I had to pee. Maybe you thought I would have this dialed in by now. Nope, I still haven’t perfected the art of hydration.  

Segment 1 began at the base of a 3.5 mile climb up Jones Mountain. When the segment started, I was feeling quite strong, but it was obvious Hayley was too. The climb is quite steep and is mostly rough gravel, which makes finding a smooth rhythm difficult. Clearly, Hayley was stronger at that point in the race, and she pulled away relatively quickly, just as she had in almost the exact same spot in the 2019 edition of unPAved. I kept her in sight for a while, but also knew that if I dug too deep, I’d have nothing left for the next three segments of racing. Importantly, The Difference (Segment 2) was still many miles away and was going to require some serious grit and strength. I tried my best to keep in contact with her but eventually she was out of sight and I had estimated she was waiting at least two minutes at the top of the climb. All I could think at the end was “Damn, Hayley is a strong climber”. As I passed the “Segment Finish” sign, I realized I would need to tap deep into the unused race reserves of 2020 if I wanted any chance of winning the day.

The three of us re-grouped and rolled our way down the mountain past a phenomenal vista filled with foliage-lined mountains.

One of the many beautiful vistas of the Susquehanna River Valley.

The Difference segment (Segment 2) was on my mind from the moment we finished Segment 1. I remembered from last year that it was incredibly rocky and technical, with no relief from the jagged terrain for nearly 5 miles, the last 4 of which are downhill. That said, while Hayley is an expert climber on the bike, I’d like to think my mountain bike racing experience makes me equally as strong at technical riding, even on a gravel bike. Moreover, I was very confident that my bike was one of the (if not, the) most capable bikes on course that day.

The race day steed: Seven Cycles KellCross SL (a race optimized Evergreen SL) with SRAM Force shifters and brakes. Industry Nine i9.35 wheelset with Torch hubs. Vittoria Terreno Dry tires (700x38c). Ergon SR Pro Women’s Saddle. Nittany Mountain Works tool roll and stem bag, for supplies and backup snacks. (Photo credit: Joe)

Segment 2 started at the beginning of the technical portion of The Difference. I began the segment slightly behind Hayley and Vicki because I had to stop to pee (again…) and I told them they didn’t need to wait for me. Crossing the start line felt like a light switch turned on inside me. I was in my element—technical riding on a super fun bike felt akin to a mountain bike race. I caught and then passed both Hayley and Vicki and then continued to push through at a blazing pace. With each new line I picked, dodging the loose small boulders, my energy increased. In my head, I was singing a song that my dad and I used to listen to before my high school cross country races: “Dreams” by Van Halen (RIP Eddie Van Halen). The music ignited an energy that propelled me forward. 

The one thing I tried not to do for the duration of this segment was look behind me. I didn’t want to know if Hayley or Vicki were close to me. I didn’t want to get comfortable and feel like I could hold back or conserve my energy. The Difference was my opportunity to leverage a potential lead with the first technical 5 miles, and then turn myself inside out for the next 16 miles. And that’s exactly what happened. I put my head down, rocked out to my song over and over, and smiled my way through pain, past fellow racers, and up some soul-crushing climbs all the way to the finish of Segment 2. As I caught my breath, I waited for Hayley before heading down to the next aid station.

We re-grouped at the next aid station in Poe Paddy State Park. There have been some rumors floating around that the “Roving Girl Gang” (as we were called some days after the race) had a mid-race picnic. I might have blacked out if we had anything resembling a peaceful, bountiful picnic, but if any of our aid station stops were going to be deemed picnic-worthy, I’d say this was the one. While we did stop at every aid station for water refills, it was during this stop after Segment 2 when we took our longest break. I even ate half of an almond butter and banana sandwich! The three of us were quite exhausted after crushing The Difference, and we knew Segment 3 was going to start only a few miles after rolling out of this aid station. So, we soaked in the reprieve, ate some snacks, took a moment to pee again (of course!), and chatted for a few minutes. I suppose that counts as a picnic?

Here you can see the fierce 1, 2, and 3 plated riders, in their element. (Photo credit: Abe Landes/Firespire Photography)

I know many of my followers were hoping to read about some harrowing food-related journey I experienced on race day. I’m shocked and also proud to say there’s no such tale to tell. Unlike the Dry Pretzel Fiasco of 2019, I was much more prepared for fueling the 2020 edition after months of experimenting during the pandemic. My bottles were filled with Flow Formulas drink mix, a high-carb fuel source, which was my primary energy for the day. That said, while fueling wasn’t an issue this year, I still had trouble balancing my hydration as I mentioned before. When all was said and done, the day consisted of at least 6 (honestly, I lost count) pee breaks. Joe regularly reminds me that I pee more than physiologically possible. He’s not a doctor, but he might be onto something.

Only a few short miles after rolling out of the Poe Paddy aid station, we took a sharp turn onto a steep gravel climb. As if on cue, the three Roving Girl Gang members noticed the “Segment Start” sign at the roadside. This steep pitch was the start of Segment 3, and none of us felt ready -- both mental and physically. With heavy legs and sunken hearts, we started the racing grind. If I recall through the haze of exhaustion, I think I muttered something like “I might actually cry right now”. Yet, after a couple minutes, Hayley and I had settled into our race pace, each choosing our own tire rut on either side of the road. Like some unspoken rule, she and I decided to ride side-by-side “drag racing” style, rather than draft each other. Perhaps, like me, she had a stubborn, competitive side that wanted this race to come down to personal strength and power, rather than drafting technique. In turn, we would each throw in a surge to pick up the pace as the climb continued. Ultimately, I was able to pull away—only slightly—to take the win for Segment 3. 

No caption needed. (Photo credit: Joe)

Several miles of gravel roads lay ahead of us as we re-grouped and rolled on to the last aid station and then the start of Segment 4.

My sports psychologist, Dr. Kristin Keim, has been known to say “happy racers go faster.” My goodness, she is so right. We rolled through the central PA hills with ease, three abreast in the back country roads (don’t worry, Mom, there was virtually no traffic!). We discussed bikes, racing, the impact of Covid on our current lives and future cycling endeavors, politics, chamois and chamois cream, and we recounted old race stories. We were three unsuspecting friends riding together as if this was our typical weekend routine, enjoying each other’s company. For most of the ride, the only thing on my mind was “I feel so fortunate to have such great company today. I’m so happy I asked them to ride with me and they agreed!” oh and of course “damn, I have to pee AGAIN!?”. For these several miles, all the worries and the stress of racing that typically cloud my consciousness had melted away, leaving happiness and joy in its wake.  

In every single photo taken of our group, I am smiling (even if it’s a slightly awkward smile). What a change from my usual race day seriousness. (Photo credit: Abe Landes/Firespire Photography)

After filling our bottles one last time, we rolled into Segment 4. Just as in Segment 3, Hayley and I settled into our own tire ruts. The nearly 100 grueling miles of riding that preceded this climb was making itself known in each fiber of my legs, as I called upon my body to give everything for one final push. Side-by-side, we were crushing the hill at a pace I didn’t think was possible this late into the course. Turns out, it wasn’t possible (at least not for me) and Hayley took off. Unlike Segment 1, I was able to keep her in sight the entire time. At one point, after Hayley had established her lead, she passed a very tall, fit-looking man who was also cruising his way up the climb. I eventually caught him myself and muttered the usual “on your left”. A couple minutes later, I heard an unexpected shifting noise and realized this huge guy was drafting off of me while we were going uphill! I didn’t have the spare energy to ask if my comparatively small body was actually making a difference for him, but I suspect the mental drafting helped in some way. Either way, I was flattered and still had enough energy to chuckle to myself while still keeping Hayley just a few seconds ahead. I never was able to catch her though. Damn, she’s a good climber.

I’m so darn glad Joe caught this one. (Photo credit: Joe)

After passing the “Segment Finish” sign, I re-grouped with Hayley, caught my breath, and noticed that both of us were smiling. I can’t claim to know why she was smiling, but I can tell you my own reasons. First, it hit me that the racing was complete but we still had nearly 20 miles of beautiful gravel and paved roads as well as some rail trail to enjoy before closing out the day. Next, I realized that I had pushed myself harder than I ever would have on my own, thanks to the competitive camaraderie fostered by my Roving Girl Gang members. Finally, I recognized that not a single one of the fears I had dreaded about riding as a group had come to pass. This was truly a day enriched by having the company of each other.

When we rolled toward the finish, I asked Hayley and Vicki if we could cross the line together. Of course, they agreed. After spending all day as a group, it felt like the perfect closure. 

Rolling into the finish area to pick up our finisher’s whoopie pies felt somewhat anticlimactic because I honestly didn’t care who won the race. The day had already felt like a massive victory, after conquering my vulnerability and having such a wonderful time with Hayley and Vicki. I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect day on the bike. 

In the end, my cumulative time for the 4 race segments was the fastest for Women and the 6th fastest overall. The Difference truly was the difference for me that day. And, as it turns out, I set an all-time personal best for my 20 minute, 10 minute, and 5 minute power -- a true testament to the day’s competition and a reassurance that all my 2020 training was not in vain.

Just as we had ridden the day as a group, so too we finished with a smiling podium photo (I promise we’re all smiling under our masks). 

2020: the year of using your eyes to smile. (Photo credit: Dave Pryor)

So many things have changed since unPAved 2019, but some things will always stay the same. I might not have had a gut-wrenching race fueling experience you all hoped to read about, but I did still make some poor food choices that day. Specifically, I gave into my craving for a post-race milkshake and cup of fries at Red Robin. Yummm. 

Keeping it classy by wearing a dress so I could eat Red Robin takeout food in the parking lot at 8:30pm on a Sunday night.

As we pulled into the driveway of our cozy cottage, the night air was crisp and the country hills were nearly pitch black. In the distance, I noticed a farmer navigating dusty fields illuminated by his tractor’s dim headlight. I knew it was going to take longer than usual to pull myself out of the car, so I remained in the passenger’s seat for a moment and breathed a deep sigh of relief as the day’s emotions washed over me. I smiled thinking about the remarkably amazing day spent with some equally remarkable women. My legs were exhausted and my heart was full. 

This, I realized, is the feeling of being home.

Race Recap: unPAved

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face.”

-Eleanor Roosevelt

When I signed up for unPAved, I have to admit, I was terrified. The 120-mile course that included 9000+ feet of elevation, Class IV fire road climbs and descents, and a very strong field of fierce women competitors would be the longest — and possibly the most grueling — race in my competitive cycling career to date. Plus, I had never raced gravel before. But, signing up for an event like this fits my MO perfectly: jump into the deep end of the pool with both feet and fiercely believe that I can swim.

Truth is, as much as I was terrified of this race experience, I was equally excited to visit Lewisburg, home of Bucknell University, my alma mater (‘ray Bucknell!), and to experience the gravel community first-hand. Central PA is home to the farm country roads on which I learned to love cycling many years ago; however, the Bucknell Cycling Team training rides often avoided gravel roads, so I was eager to see a part of landscape that was still foreign to me, and yet familiar at the same time. With the new Seven Cycles KellCross SL in my stable, I was was ready to take on the rockiest, graveliest adventure possible.

Enjoying being back on Bucknell’s campus for a short while after wrapping up the “Friday Ride” Cycling Team route.

My Seven Cycles KellCross SL Evergreen.

Coming into this race, my primary goal was to have fun and enjoy the experience. Of course, I always toe the line with the goal of winning, but that’s typically a results-oriented goal that relies on several factors outside of my control. This year, I have been working to identify process goals, because I have much more control over how I respond to the race-day conditions, listen to my body, and make decisions about fueling and hydration. These things, ultimately, lead to an enjoyable race.

It’s been said that you shouldn’t try anything new on race day, particularly food. But, because we already know that I’m a “both-feet-in-the-pool” kind of gal and I’m already racing more than double the length of any race I’ve done this season, I decided that my first half of the race should be fueled by pretzel rods, a peanut butter & banana sandwich, and a peanut butter & jelly sandwich, none of which I have ever eaten during a workout, never mind during a race. Interestingly, I don’t even like jelly. I’m not sure what compelled me to think that after a couple hours of suffering, this would be my fuel of choice. For the second half of the day, I had some energy waffles, energy chews, and caffeine-infused gels. All of this was paired with my First Endurance EFS drink mix in my bottles, to keep me hydrated full of electrolytes. With calories counted and portioned for what I expected to be an 8-hour race (that was the female winner’s approximate time from last year, so I convinced myself that was reasonable), I packed my two bags — one feed bag attached to the stem and head tube and one larger saddle bag — with the food and necessary tools, to the point of bursting.

Pretzel rods. Because, calories. Maybe not the best life choice — more on that soon.

Fast forward to race day morning — October 13th, 2019. True to form, I slept terribly the night before (silly pre-race jitters!), and was very behind schedule by the time we arrived at the Miller Center in Lewisburg. We arrived at 6:30am for the 7am start, and it was incredibly foggy and cold (34 degrees Fahrenheit, to be precise). Also true to form, I had to pee twice in those 30 minutes before race start, while also managing to pull together all the last-minute essentials (what gloves should I wear? Do I use booties or just toe covers?). For the first time ever in my professional racing career, I didn’t have time to do a warm up. I was a bit frazzled and, to be honest, feeling like I should have just stayed curled up in bed back at our Airbnb. Luckily, running in and out of the Miller Center to use the bathroom and shedding layers only to put them back on again — twice! — was a good way to get the heart pumping. By 7am, I was at the start line.

Race day jitters or freezing cold temperatures?

The race ended up starting 15 minutes late because of the heavy fog, which was perfect because I had an extra 15 minutes to freeze while thinking about how I didn’t get to warm up. When we finally rolled out, we cruised at a conversational pace on the Buffalo Valley Rail Trail for a 4.5 mile neutral start. Then the race truly began, with the pace picking up as the men up front started to break away. We rolled along some farm & country back roads to the base of the longest climb on course — Jones Mountain.

As we entered the climb, I was in the lead for women. But that was short lived as badass racer Hayley Wickstrom caught me and said “Hi Sharky!”, and then proceeded to pedal away as if I was just out for a leisurely Sunday spin. Hayley and I were competitors during our collegiate road racing days. She used to call me “Sharky” (a play off of my maiden name Desharnais, which some people said sounded like “de-Shark”), and I used to call her “Dino Girl” (and for the life of me, I can’t remember why).

Hayley pedaling away on the climb was a pivotal moment for me. I was super proud to see how strong she still was (I had no idea what she had been up to the past several years) but was a bit disappointed to watch her pull away while also seeing my heart rate climb. I knew that in order to enjoy the day, I had to race my own race and stay patient. I then proceeded to settle into a pretty steady pace (and, as it turns out, my second highest all-time average power interval for 60 minutes). I had to remind myself not to “burn too many matches” too early in the race, so I stayed within my limits based on perceived effort (I don’t actually monitor my watts during races), but I could already feel that my body needed energy.

Let me ask: have you ever been riding above your threshold for an extended period of time and then tried to eat a pretzel rod? How about three pretzel rods? I knew I needed to get calories into my system but I just couldn’t justify eating a sandwich earlier than 8am, so I turned to the unforgiving pretzels. It felt like I was coating my throat with pretzel dust on every vicious inhale and spewing crumbs on every exhale. This was a mistake. But, I had to consume my calories. So, I laughed at myself, made a silly comment to the guy who was climbing alongside me and observed my antics for far longer than I would have liked, and continued to follow my fueling plan. At that moment I made a note to self: if I ever get tasked with planning a torture method, it will be riding intervals on a bike while eating pretzel rods. Pure evil. After you pass the stage of poison dust, the fun doesn’t stop there. Then you hit the stage of un-swallowable cement stuck in your mouth. Luckily, I’m persistent and stuck to my plan. Plus, we had a really beautiful gravel downhill in the Bald Eagle State Forest to keep me distracted.

By the time I had finished my first pretzel, it was time to have the next one and I just couldn’t. So, I moved on to the PB & Banana sandwich. I’ll spare you the details on how difficult it is to eat a large half of a sandwich while maintaining race speed on gravel roads. At one point, one guy yelled “enjoy your breakfast!” with a big smirk while he passed me noming on what must have looked pretty ridiculous, especially because I had to frequently grab my handlebars for stability while keeping the sandwich hanging out of my mouth. But, I did enjoy it and I laughed at myself again. And my eating escapade subsequently led to many well-fueled miles, and finally, I made it to mile 50.

Mile 50 is the second aid station (I didn’t stop at the first one), and the point of no return for the riders doing the 120-mile course. The 30-mile difference between the 90-mile route and the 120-mile route is called “The Difference” (see the purple outline in the map below) and it is BRUTAL. It starts and ends at the aid station, and includes a serious amount of elevation, as well as several miles of Class IV climb and descent.

“The Difference” (outlined in purple): Miles 50-80, full of climbing, gnar, and pain.

This aid station was the first time I have ever had to fill up my own bottles and re-fuel mid-race (I’m spoiled, I know). Unlike the rest of my race experiences, this event is self-supported (even at aid stations, you have to put your foot down and take care of your own food/drinks). I always have Joe to take care of these details for me, so I was a bit disoriented. I re-filled all three of my bottles with water, mixed in my EFS drink mix (yes, I packed my own baggie and scoop to fill them!), and grabbed a couple energy chews. I also stopped to pee because I was — shockingly! — staying on top of my hydration, which is unusual for me mid-race. Next up: The Difference.

As I started The Difference, I settled into a rhythm on the first, long climb. The short aid station break felt refreshing, and I was able to pass a few guys in the first couple of miles. Then, we hit Longwell Draft (the Class IV fire roads), which was full of large loose boulders and enormous potholes. Luckily, my MTB skills kicked in, and I navigated the chunky road smoothly (albeit with white knuckles at some points). I passed a few more guys on the downhill, and smiled because, actually, I was having a lot of fun.

The rest of The Difference was full of what felt like never-ending climbing, but I stayed vigilant about my fueling and hydration, and powered through.

At mile 80, I filled two more bottles and headed out for the final 40 miles. At this point, the short aid station break didn’t feel quite as enjoyable on my legs as the last time I stopped, but, luckily, I had those wonderful, leftover pretzel rods from the morning to bring me back to life.

Around mile 82, I passed Joe on the side of the trail taking photos and didn’t even realize it was him almost until I had passed him. I decided not to turn around to say hi because 1) it was a race, and 2) I’m not sure I would have wanted to keep pedaling if I stopped.

One of Joe’s “action photos” as I pedaled by him in a blur. He didn’t realize it was me, and I just barely recognized him by the time I passed. Believe it or not, this is one of the best photos of me riding a wooded/gravel section of the course from the entire day.

Around mile 90, the course meandered up a gorgeous fire road in some back woods and I couldn’t help but appreciate the foliage. My legs were really starting to fatigue, but I pushed to catch up to a guy who looked strong in front of me. I’m not sure he knew I was there, but for about a mile, I sat on his wheel while he set a steady pace on an uphill, and was able to recover. His pace was a bit slower than mine, but I enjoyed the mental respite because pedaling alone for the better part of 90 miles is mentally taxing. I then told him that I would be happy to do some work and lead for a bit, and decided I would pick up the pace. To my surprise, he kept up with me, and we pacelined for the next mile or two before I learned his name was Ian. Ian and I shared the work and pushed each other as we made our way up to Hobo Vista.

On any other day, Hobo Vista would have been just another vista overlooking the beautiful Susquehanna Valley. But on this day, Hobo Vista was a glorious prize. Signs leading up to the vista read “Chasing Something?” and “Velvet?” — which were clear indications of something amazing: The Chaise. Salsa Cycles had started a fun tradition at some of the larger gravel events in North America where they would bring a Victorian-era chaise lounge and lamp to an undisclosed part of the race course and set it up for racers to sit and take a professional photo. I had never experienced the #chasethechaise movement before this day, so I didn’t fully understand how incredible the experience is. But, as Ian and I climbed up the steep dirt road to the large group of people (maybe 10-ish riders from the 90-mile and 54-mile routes) waiting by the classy couch, I had a rush of adrenaline that enabled me to output some VERY heavy watts.

I should note that at this point in the race, I had already felt victorious. We were at around 95 miles, and I was truly having fun. I made a couple new friends along the way and, frankly, I had no idea how far ahead Hayley was in front of me. In fact, after she dropped me, I was pretty certain she was long gone and the next time I would see her is at the finish line. And, truthfully, I was completely content with 2nd place. I was racing my own race, enjoying the scenery, and strangely embracing the pain of miles upon miles of gravel roads.

But then, as I pulled into the Hobo Vista, wheezing and nearly cross-eyed from the incredibly hard interval I just completed up that hill, ready for a short sit on that classiest of couches, someone yelled to me “Kelly! Quick, get onto the chaise! She’s only 2 minutes ahead of you!” Then, the game was on. In spite of my incredible fatigue and uncontrollable wheezing, I took a relatively composed photo (see below, you be the judge), and immediately hopped back onto my bike, cyclocross style.

Salsa Cycles’ Chaise photo — relatively composed and professional-looking, all in under 30 seconds.

I learned later that Ian was pretty disappointed I jumped right back onto the bike before waiting for him to take a photo (“I thought we had a good thing going” he told me later). What Ian didn’t know was that I had to pee incredibly bad and I wanted to get a head start on him so I could pull off into the woods down the road and be able to get back on the bike right before he passed me. To my surprise, this plan was executed almost perfectly.

After Hobo Vista, I knew I had 2 + pee-break minutes to the Women’s overall leader. I pushed the pace pretty hard for the next several miles (sorry, Ian), and by mile 100, we had passed Hayley on a downhill. We had passed her so fast that I was certain we had left her behind. To my surprise, she caught onto our train and we formed a three-person paceline for several miles. We maintained a fast pace and I kept my head down, knowing that I still had several miles to go, and I was running out of water and food.

After taking a hard uphill pull in the paceline, I pulled off and let Hayley lead on a steep downhill. We zoomed down the back country road, with Hayley leading, and Ian and I noticed the bright orange course arrows pointing to the right. We yelled out (as racers do on road bike race-type events) “Right turn!” to signal the upcoming change in direction. Unfortunately, I think Hayley was in the zone, crushing the pace, and she missed the turn. She was quite a ways away from us at that point, as we both turned onto the steep uphill climb. After slowing down the pace for a few minutes to see if Hayley would catch back onto us, she was nowhere in sight. At that point, Ian and I decided to continue pace lining to the end. (As a side note, I still can’t decide if that was the right decision. It was a race, afterall, and these kinds of mistakes have happened to me before and my competitors have capitalized on them.)

The last 9 miles of the race were on the Buffalo Valley Rail Trail, the same trail on which the course began. As we pedaled over those 9 miles of flat, straight trail covered in crushed rock, I felt like I was trapped in some sort of cruel joke that had to do with low tire pressure and the movie the Neverending Story.

Ian and I, turning onto the Buffalo Valley Rail Trail in Mifflinburg, headed into the last 9 miles of the 120-mile race course.

Just like that, my first ever gravel race was complete. My 7hr 45min race time went by faster than I had expected, and I truly did accomplish my goal of having fun. Mike and Dave (the esteemed race promoters) put on a fantastic weekend of community and adventure.

Crossing the finish line in 1st, in a discipline I’ve never raced before, on a bike named after me, after the longest I’ve ever sat on a bike saddle at one time, in the hometown of my alma mater, with my husband waiting at the end, felt somewhat poetic. Even more so, the KellCross was designed to be both a cyclocross and gravel race bike, and I had just added a gravel race win to the cyclocross win from just two weeks prior. What a feeling (and a marketing testamonial!).

The weekend ended with some fantastic time with new and old friends at the DONEpaved celebration (post-race party), full of whoopie pies, silly hats, and podium photos. And for me, it was a realization that I just found a new avenue to explore: gravel racing. I hadn’t just faced my fear, I had conquered it. And gained strength, courage, and confidence in myself, along with some incredibly sore legs (and a terrible stomach ache from all that sugar!).

Moral of the story: Don’t eat pretzel rods.

Post race interview with Mike.

Finish line selfie during my cool-down ride with my favorite Bucknell professor — Dr. Eric Kennedy!

Bucknell alumni crew!