Grit & Glory
19th Mar 2024
Ten of the fastest guys in the race. Charging. Thirty seconds to the group behind and four hours of open road between us and glory. No hesitation, no skipping pulls to rubberneck and eyeball the chasers. Just ruthlessly efficient pace line rotation. Pedals to the metal, whiplash from getting yanked over the tops of those endless hard-packed rollers by a cadre of absolute rippers.
But our ideal breakaway was too good to be true. We couldn’t shake the ten or twenty or thirty other fastest guys in the race who had missed the move after the creek crossing, with the fire of desperation driving them across our hard-earned gap.
In what seemed like a different world from last year’s 30mph crosswind hellscape, and a different universe from the carbonivorous mud pits of 2020, this year’s lack of adverse conditions let us take full advantage of the comforting shelter of our big group, reeling in relentless strong attacks with little apparent difficulty. Despite spontaneous rock-hard ruts, treacherous sink holes, and unrideable stretches of sand, we reached the critical singletrack section sixteen strong.
In what seemed like a different world from last year’s 30mph crosswind hellscape, and a different universe from the carbonivorous mud pits of 2020, this year’s lack of adverse conditions let us take full advantage of the comforting shelter of our big group, reeling in relentless strong attacks with little apparent difficulty. Despite spontaneous rock-hard ruts, treacherous sink holes, and unrideable stretches of sand, we reached the critical singletrack section sixteen strong.
“Let’s roll!
This is it!!”
This is it!!”
I yelled to Griffin and Russell as we cranked clear of the woods with a decent gap and only ten miles to go, sparing precious breath to rally who I hoped could end up standing on the day’s podium with me. But, again, our hard pace wasn’t hard enough. Our group swelled to 7 momentarily before Toby put down the hammer over a steep kicker, and only Griffin could follow.
Payson soon flatted, and Russell sat on because his teammate was up the road, leaving only Pete, Dylan, and I to chase, our turn for desperation hero pulls. Buzzing 50 milers as politely as possible and threshing the lungfuls of limestone dust for every possible molecule of oxygen, we were three guys with nothing to lose, emptying everything for one last shot at victory….
“Let’s roll!
This is it!!”
This is it!!”
I yelled to Griffin and Russell as we cranked clear of the woods with a decent gap and only ten miles to go, sparing precious breath to rally who I hoped could end up standing on the day’s podium with me. But, again, our hard pace wasn’t hard enough. Our group swelled to 7 momentarily before Toby put down the hammer over a steep kicker, and only Griffin could follow.
Payson soon flatted, and Russell sat on because his teammate was up the road, leaving only Pete, Dylan, and I to chase, our turn for desperation hero pulls. Buzzing 50 milers as politely as possible and threshing the lungfuls of limestone dust for every possible molecule of oxygen, we were three guys with nothing to lose, emptying everything for one last shot at victory….
Pulling hard out of the final corner of gravel, tantalizingly close to the two leaders, I’d opened a gap to my fellow chasers, but Griffin and Toby saw me coming and eased up. Two seconds of respite, and then we were six, now inside of three miles to go. Russell attacked over the top, we brought him back, and Toby and Griffin went yet again. I closed it down and took the front with barely a mile left, hoping to keep the pace just high enough to prevent attacks without sacrificing what remained of my aching legs for the sprint.
Pete sent a flyer at the base of the small hill 700 meters out, and I jumped on his wheel, hoping he could miraculously hold the effort long enough to lead me out. But the road flattened, and he started to fade, with two excruciating Stillwater city blocks remaining until the finish line. I couldn’t lose my momentum, so I jumped again, this time using every fiber of my being. I sprinted and sprinted as both legs seized up with cramps, and still kept trying to sprint with what must have been the most hideous form in the world.
Pete sent a flyer at the base of the small hill 700 meters out, and I jumped on his wheel, hoping he could miraculously hold the effort long enough to lead me out. But the road flattened, and he started to fade, with two excruciating Stillwater city blocks remaining until the finish line. I couldn’t lose my momentum, so I jumped again, this time using every fiber of my being. I sprinted and sprinted as both legs seized up with cramps, and still kept trying to sprint with what must have been the most hideous form in the world.
Griffin and Toby launched around me with the snappiness of veteran road racers, dashing my chances of winning to the concrete but leaving one podium spot open for the rest of us. Somehow, amazingly, Russell and Dylan were too cooked to overtake me. With a face full of champagne courtesy of Bobby, Jason, and the other exuberant finish line fanatics, I had edged my way onto that elusive podium for the second year in a row.
Griffin and Toby launched around me with the snappiness of veteran road racers, dashing my chances of winning to the concrete but leaving one podium spot open for the rest of us. Somehow, amazingly, Russell and Dylan were too cooked to overtake me. With a face full of champagne courtesy of Bobby, Jason, and the other exuberant finish line fanatics, I had edged my way onto that elusive podium for the second year in a row.
What a proper bike race, highlighted by the iconic red and dusty Oklahoma dirt, our canvas to make art in a way that only seasoned cyclists can. Sharing in the suffering of a massive feat of endurance and conquering together every obstacle posed by the unforgiving terrain. By turns cooperating and attacking, giving it all to the race but maintaining composure, and ever safeguarding a secret splash of precious fuel for those now-or-never moments that are so hard to foresee and so easy to miss. And the elated exhaustion that only comes after completely emptying the tank on a formidable race course. The Mid South 2024: a showcase of the true beauty of our beloved sport.
- FINISH -