By Maggie Slepian
Like the opposite of imposter syndrome, I have a long history of sports-related delusions. If an activity is absolutely miserable and I swear I’ll never do it again, you’ll find me back there the next year, wondering which part of my brain has yet to develop or why I must secretly hate myself.
These judgment lapses are often biking related. There was the Colorado bike route failure, a cult-coded spin class that had me questioning my grip on reality, and this summer I rode 1,600 miles on the Great Divide cursing both bicycles and the sun, a trip which culminated with my boyfriend hooked up to fluids in the Jackson Hole emergency room.
But because of these delusions, one week after returning from the GDMBR—after promising I’d never get back on a bike—I texted Hailey, my go-to outdoors partner who is always down for a bad time.
“one week after returning from the GDMBR—after promising I’d never get back on a bike—I texted Hailey, my go-to outdoors partner who is always down for a bad time.”
“Let’s do Fistful of Dirt,” I said, referring to a rugged gravel bike race in Cody, Wyoming. The race has four distances, with the 100-miler (the Ugly) and the 65-miler (the Bad) being notoriously difficult thanks to techy surface and lots of elevation gain. Hailey had done the Bad a few times, and since I was in shape from riding from New Mexico to Wyoming, I figured there was no better time to tackle the 65 miles and 4,000 feet of climbing on the Bad.
I paid the fee and ordered the commemorative sweatshirt, convincing myself my asthma, aversion to group activities, dislike of pushing myself, bad stomach, and the fact that I hated biking at that time were going to be totally fine. Like I said: delusional.
I biked around town for the next two months, trying to maintain the Divide fitness and hoping the course might feel easy compared to full days on the route. My boyfriend and I had ridden between 50-75 miles a day in tough conditions on fully loaded bikes, fighting crosswinds and suffocating heat on hours of washboards and soul-sucking sand. I suffered sciatic nerve issues, wrist and hand pain, and heat exhaustion. Sixty-five miles on a sanctioned racecourse with gummy bears every 15 miles couldn’t be as bad as those days, right?
The day before the race, we loaded the bikes and drove three hours to a quaint rental in downtown Cody. We ate burgers and drank sodas at the pre-race barbecue, securing our race tags to our handlebars. This was my first bike race, but I was feeling reasonably confident, if somewhat anxious. No matter how bad it feels, it won’t feel as terrible as my worst days on the Divide.
The next morning we pedaled to the starting line with the rest of the Bad racers. We looked around, clocking with some concern that every other person was clad in full Lycra racing kits, straddling ultralight bikes, and clipped into their pedals with stiff racing shoes. I was wearing my stretched-out Divide bibs, a button-down shirt with a cowboy motif, and old Altras. Hailey was riding an absurdly heavy steel-frame Surly with mountain-bike tires and I was on my REI clearance-rack touring bike with a broken shifter. I had two inhalers in my top tube bag and the fading confidence of someone who realizes her delusions have done her dirty yet again.
“We looked around, clocking with some concern that every other person was clad in full Lycra racing kits, straddling ultralight bikes, and clipped into their pedals with stiff racing shoes. I was wearing my stretched-out Divide bibs, a button-down shirt with a cowboy motif, and old Altras.”
Before I had a chance to fully freak out, the gun went off and I hung towards the back, trying not to overthink my breathing and let the group vibe make me panic.
The Divide had been a struggle, but was a struggle at my own pace. I could take all day to ride 50 miles if the terrain and conditions were hard, but now, as we climbed the first paved hill, I realized I’d have to be putting in effort during the whole race. Convenient timing to remember I really hate putting in effort for extended periods of time. I’m more of a slow-burn endurance biker. I can go for a long time, but I don’t like to go hard. What the hell am I doing here? I thought as we turned off the pavement onto the first dirt section.
Hailey and I wobbled over loose gravel and sand, skidding out and stepping off where the route was extra rutted. The race organizers had sent an email the week before, warning the Bad and Ugly riders that some of the course was rougher this year from a rainy summer. It was worse than I anticipated, with washed-out two-track and steep drop-offs on either side. I wheezed past racers bogged down with slick 700c tires and dodged people wrecking on the loose surface, struggling to unclip with their bikes on top of them.
After the first aid station (and the only time I smiled in a picture), we hit a steep hill and Hailey pulled ahead, still riding while my lungs seized and I had to get off and push. I climbed back on at the top and dismounted 10 seconds later after skidding to a stop at the top of an Oh Shit hill with technical drops and boulders. At least I’m not riding clipless, I thought, grateful for my dorky running shoes, since apparently I was going to be walking most of the 65 miles.
Hailey was waiting at the next aid station, eating one of everything laid out neatly on the table. I gagged on a gummy worm and spit it into the trash can. Bad stomach coming in clutch once again.
“This is really hard,” I said, bent over my handlebars and feeling the heat of the day start to rise.
Hailey looked at me. “Wait till we get to McCullough Hills.”
The next section played well to my endurance strength. It was less steep climbing and technical descents, more moderate terrain and fast pedaling in a high gear. Muscle memory from 12-hour days on the Divide kicked in, and I was able to make up time for the next ten miles.
I waited for Hailey under the aid station tent, still unable to choke down food and stressing about my flagging energy. I chugged a mini can of Coke, hoping the sugar and toxic chemicals would power me through the next section. My legs were tired but I felt ok, and my breathing had calmed down from the initial stress.
There was one other dude there in a racing suit and carbon shoes, and he gaped at our flat pedals and squishy footwear. “I can’t believe you guys are riding in those,” he said.
“Well we’re in the same spot on the same course as you so I guess it’s working fine for us,” I snapped, low blood sugar and my general personality contributing to zero-tolerance for spandex-clad male commentary. I hopped on my before he could respond and we rode into the blazing sun.
It was unreasonably hot and dry at this point, with the punishing sun directly overhead. I’m pretty bad in the heat, but if there’s anyone worse in the heat, it’s Hailey. I could hear her labored breathing over my own, and even though the grade wasn’t terrible as we headed into the hill section, we were starting to drag.
I dropped a gear, then another one, hearing Hailey’s shifter also click down. We rounded a corner and descended steeply, seeing the first big climb rearing up in front of us. I gained speed, flew across the short flat, then the grade became so steep I was unable to pedal more than 20 yards in granny gear. We both came wheezing to a stop, doubled over the handlebars. Slowly, 20 steps at a time, we pushed our bikes up the blazing dirt road with miles of rolling dry hills in every direction, with absolutely zero cloud cover.
“Slowly, 20 steps at a time, we pushed our bikes up the blazing dirt road with miles of rolling dry hills in every direction, with absolutely zero cloud cover.”
Halfway up the first of the climbs, Hailey tottered to the edge of the road and dropped her bike, muttering something incoherent about the heat. She flopped in the grass while I stretched my hamstrings and considered the benefits of rapid extinction. Heat ripples rose from the dirt, and both ahead and behind us staggered a raggedy line of racers pushing their bikes up the series of hills.
At the top of the hill was another hill. Then another. At the top of the third hill I was so depleted I started the wheeze-cry, my personal brand of complete emotional collapse.
“How many more climbs?” I half-sobbed, my quads and calves in dehydrated, furious knots as I heaved my bike up another irrationally steep incline.
Hailey wheezed something about “don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” and I kept slowly stumbling forward.
After an indeterminate amount of time moving at one mile per hour up the hills, we reached the aid station at the top. The volunteers at this one seemed like they had spent their morning treating war injuries instead of handing out Oreos, and they helped us stagger into the shade of the aid station trailer.
“Is the climbing over?” I asked weakly.
Hailey shook her head and slumped against the trailer. “No, there’s a good amount more.”
When we set off 10 minutes later, I was cooked. Done. I had expended all of my effort and was running on two mini cans of Coke for more than 40 miles of rugged riding. I was banking on my ability to suffer to get me through the next 25 miles, along with the fact that I’d already bought the $50 sweatshirt, and I couldn’t wear it if I didn’t finish the route.
Twenty minutes later, we came to a steep downhill, and my nerves and muscles were so spent I couldn’t stay on my bike. Hailey rode the downhill, but I was so exhausted I had to wheel my bike down the incline with wobbly legs and a terrible attitude.
I caught up to Hailey at the final aid station, convinced there were eight miles left to the finish. I was so depleted that when the aid station volunteer told me it was actually 10 miles to the end, the thought of two extra miles nearly finished me off and I pleaded with her to tell me she had counted wrong.
With no calories or energy left to burn, I slowly pedaled after Hailey, riding a blessed pavement section on rolling hills until we reached an intersection and turned towards Cody.
As we rode towards town, I noticed that the air had cooled and I didn’t have the insane desire to fistfight the sun anymore.
“Hey it’s not as hot as befo—” I said before seeing a bank of deep greenish-gray clouds building on the horizon.
‘“Oh god,” Hailey said, and started pedaling faster. We followed a course marker into a bumpy cow field as the first blast of wind hit us.”
“Oh god,” Hailey said, and started pedaling faster. We followed a course marker into a bumpy cow field as the first blast of wind hit us. The howling gusts came faster and harder, making me swerve off balance and forcing us to drop into easier gears.
We pedaled hard into the wind, rain lashing sideways into our faces. It was an all-out effort to ride five miles per hour into the headwind, the rain turning to hail that clattered into my helmet and raised welts on my bare arms.
The last five miles of this route were the only easy part of the entire race, and it was an absolute nightmare fighting the hail and headwind. We reached town and I pulled my useless water-covered riding glasses off, pedaling like mad to a nearly empty finish line. All the spectators had abandoned the finish for the warmth of their cars or home out of the pounding hail, and there was one solitary cowbell clanging as we rode side by side under the race banner.
A race organizer announced our names from under a water-logged canopy, and we pulled over under a tree, shivering and catching our breath, the relief at finishing overshadowed by the fact that we were soaking wet and freezing.
Without any fanfare, we pedaled painfully back to the rental house and the promise of a warm shower, my mood brightening as I realized I’d never have to get on this bike again.
“Without any fanfare, we pedaled painfully back to the rental house and the promise of a warm shower, my mood brightening as I realized I’d never have to get on this bike again.”
We finished the 65 miles in seven hours, more than an hour slower than I guessed we would. We placed right in the middle of the women’s field of Bad riders, our heavier bikes and tires actually proving beneficial on the challenging surface. But did I enjoy it? Even in hindsight? Absolutely not.
There are plenty of things I swear I’ll never do again, reneging on my word shortly after my false promises. I forget about the misery, instead reliving the glory of accomplishment. It’s why I signed up for this race after the 30 straight days on the Divide, and the reason I return to thru-hiking season after season despite my affinity for running water and being comfortable.
But this time was different. I hated every moment of this race, and even six months later I have zero desire to do it again. From the panicky feeling at the start to the misery of extended exertion, I am just not a racer. I hated the steep climbs and technical descents. I hated the heat and I hated the final F-you of the hail storm. I couldn't even enjoy the aid stations because my stomach was such a mess, and everyone knows gummy bears are my favorite food.
And this is all on me, not the event. Fistful of Dirt is a beautifully organized race with four incredible courses, and is becoming an iconic race for rugged gravel riders. I’m just not one of them. Next year, if I go back, it will be to volunteer at an aid station—hopefully the one at the end of McCullough Hills.
