The Mid-South
The Mid-South is a gravel race that normally happens in Stillwater, Oklahoma. I registered this winter thinking there was a small chance I’d be able to drive up for the weekend to race in person. I signed up for the double, which was a 50k run on Friday and 100-mile gravel ride on Saturday. I was also prepared that the race might become virtual—which is exactly what happened. Instead of a trip to Oklahoma, individuals such as myself would run and ride from their local area anytime over the weekend and upload a GPS file to be entered into a raffle. Our friend in Tucson, Tim, came up with some routes nearby for us to complete.
The 50k was smooth sailing. Kennett (my husband) and I drove down to the bike loop path at 7:30 a.m. The air was cool enough that I began with a long-sleeve shirt, which meant it was going to be perfect running weather. Even though I was excited to start, it is odd to begin such a long day without a crowd or a start gun. It felt a little sadistic to be willing my legs to start over fours of effort without any external pressure. I may have stalled for a minute.
Kennett was going to run the first hour with me, but his achilles was being his Achilles heel, so he flipped back for the car where his mountain bike was waiting. I continued onto a dirt path that crosses the wash and a gentle morning rain started to dot my sunglasses and dampen my shirt. When I turned around, there was a rainbow across the sky, and with the palm trees scattering the skyline, I felt I could have been in Hawaii. That was by far the most scenic part of the run until the end, but I did enjoy more miles of dirt path next to the bike loop and I held my pace well until about mile 16.
By mile 20, my hip flexor started to tighten in a way that made it hard not to limp through a run, so I paused to stretch it. I would have to do that a few more times before the 50k was over, but that was a minor inconvenience compared to some of the aches and pains I’ve felt mid-run before. Kennett drove our car to different points and biked beside me throughout the run, telling me about what the latest story was on NPR as I nodded along, half-listening because my brain was operating on a skeleton crew to provide more energy for my body. At mile 20 I told him he should just mountain bike the rest next to me for company. He handed me a few mini-Sprites to drink, which were like magic in keeping my spirits up.
At mile 25 we came into downtown on the loop path and at mile 27 I turned off the path towards A Mountain. The joke is that A Mountain is just A hill, because compared to the rest of the mountains surrounding Tucson, it is a molehill at best. However, it is still about 1.5 miles uphill and at the end of a 50k that is no simple task. Uphill was no big deal; I have a small percentage of mountain goat in my blood. When it comes to uphills I can just dig in and drive. It is not fast, but I enjoy it. The top of A Mountain gave me views of the entire city, a city which I have grown to love dearly over the last seven years. The downhill was so painful on my quads that I had to walk a few times. I even walked backwards. By the bottom I had one more mile to go and, happy to be on flat terrain and almost done, I matched the pace that I started the day at. I have done multiple marathons, trail marathons, 50ks, and even a 50-miler. This was by far my best executed day ever. Partially because I had an excellently paced 16-mile run a few days prior and I used that pace to estimate how to execute my 50k. Partially because I wrote out all of the calories I would take in, and stuck to my plan almost perfectly. Now off to the 100-mile ride.
I woke up on Saturday anticipating that we would leave for the ride, until I saw the downpour outside our house. After a few texts with Tim and his fiancé, Jocelyn, we opted to postpone the ride until Sunday. On Sunday, I woke up a little less sore than Saturday, but more mentally fatigued because of the switch in days. I had two cups of coffee and a large bowl of blueberries, yogurt, oats, and protein powder in the morning before we drove to Patagonia, Arizona for a 100-mile day on gravel. What I probably needed was just a steady caffeine-and-calorie drip on the 100-mile ride.
I did the first few miles on my own but I was not as confident on the route as I thought I would be from pouring over the maps that morning, so I headed back to the car where Kennett was getting ready to ride with Tim. Off again, I quickly and happily got dropped. I slipped my headphones in to listen to a John Mulaney recording that I had loaned from the library’s electronic services. (Yes, like a well-read 60-year old, I source many things from the library). About three jokes in, I saw Kennett turned around for me so I took out the headphones and we rode together. The first section was hilly gravel, at first gradual and then several steeper but shorter pitches. When the grade increased, I moved at a slug’s pace. It was a painful pace for me to move at, but I just couldn’t get my legs to cooperate. They didn’t hurt, they just didn’t work. Kennett suggested caffeine when I started to cry from exhaustion. I was still content and planning on completing the day, it was just a fueling issue. The thing is, tears can be solved with caffeine. At least riding. I don’t recommend coffee for tears in most other situations, but after I took my first sips of a caffeinated Maurten drink mix, my mood brightened drastically. I would even gather to say my pace picked up slightly, but that is hard to confirm because at that point we had hit the top of our climb and were headed downhill with a tailwind. Of course I would feel good given those conditions. Plus at the top we could see into Mexico, and that was oddly exhilarating!
On our way into Lochiel, an almost ghost town, we passed a massive historical monument. Now, a day completing a virtual race is more like an exploration. I was not worried about losing time in the competitive sense, but I was aware that I had started too late in the day to dilly dally through the ride given the condition of my barely functioning legs. Luckily, I had Kennett. I asked him to double back and tell me all about who the monument was for. I continued downhill on my own and hit an intersection where a Border Patrol Officer was parked. I nearly skidded out in a patch of sand as I tried to decide which way to turn. Kennett caught back up to me and told me the monument was for a Franciscan friar, Fray Marcos, who was considered the first European west of the Rockies in the 1500’s. Kennett was not impressed.
My energy had returned to the point where I felt like I could hold a conversation. Looking south Kennett said, “Is that the border?” At first, it had looked like just a cattle fence, but once I considered the location and the length of the fence we saw in the distance, I realized with even more certainty than Kennett that it was indeed the border. Or to be more precise, part of the border “wall” that had not yet been enhanced during the last administration. Looking around I became keenly aware that this vista was the first impression some people had of America. I couldn’t help thinking of the book Exit West and a quote from it, “We are all migrants through time.”
Far out on these gravel roads we failed to take a turn north and missed our intended route. When we did start heading north we were met with a headwind and a gentle rise for miles. My energy dipped yet again so I told Kennett to go scout ahead. I stopped to pee and put my headphones back in to listen to John Mulaney again. The whole comedy playlist started back from the beginning and you know what, I just listened to all the jokes again. It felt nice to hear his audience laugh even though I knew the punchlines from earlier in the morning.
Kennett came back, and left again several times over. Like the most loyal of dogs on a hike. I loved seeing his pink jersey coming towards me, but I was equally happy when he headed off at his own pace again so I could just put all my focus towards willing my legs to spin. We passed Parker Canyon Lake. In hindsight, thanks to Google Maps, it looks like a cool place to camp. In the moment, I was only aware that we were likely off course, and just shy of 50 miles for the day. The idea of turning around and retracing my steps was horrifying. That was so FAR! Best to keep moving forward into the unknown.
Around this point, we hit pavement and road signs. The sign told us we were 28 miles from Sonoita, which we had passed in the car that morning to get to our starting point. Definitely off our intended loop, but worst case, 28 miles to Sonoita and another 5-15 miles to the car. Bonus: pavement miles are faster. Kennett went up the road and when he was just past yelling distance, my right shifter broke off my handlebars. Hmmm. I held on to it so it didn’t get sucked into my wheel. I could still shift, but it required some focus and a little extra balance to lean on my left arm as my right hand clicked the shifter—as though I were holding an old fashioned people/tally counter. Didn’t see that coming.
We were up on a ridge at this point. I saw my sixth border patrol vehicle around one of the corners. As the quiet road undulated along the ridge, I practiced my new shifting style and took in the wild views. At one point, I messed it up going into a smaller gear in time and had to just stop and get off the bike to walk for a moment. Still moving forward, that was the key. I took comfort knowing that, at some point, we were going to have to come down from this high point and that meant a reprieve with pure downhill.
Kennett found me and then looped back in front of me, expecting me to follow as he pulled off the road to the left by some mailboxes. I looked over at him, frustrated that he wanted to divert off the road. I am barely moving, please do not make me stop. Oh, I realized a split second later…my scout was scouting! He is leading me back to gravel! We came to ride gravel, let’s do it. I happily deviated for the left turn and glanced at the sign…23 miles to Patagonia, where we had started from. Excellent. My tires slowed as I worked my way across the gravel and I worried again about how I was going to finish before the sun went down.
I sent Kennett off again, but then realized he was in perfect position for a photo. I yelled up ahead. I told him I needed a hug and a photo before he roamed off. I cried more exhaustion tears as I hugged him and then got back on my bike. In my headphones, John Mulaney described the time when he and a friend pranked a diner by playing Tom Jones’ “What’s New Pussycat?” on the jukebox 21 times in a row. (I highly recommend you listen to the comedy bit by John Mulaney, but skip listening to the song itself.)
Oh the downhill was glorious. I held loosely on to the handlebars (and my right shifter), put my weight solidly into my pedals and hovered my butt over my saddle so that the bike just moved smoothly underneath my body. This summer I spent time with Kennett practicing my mountain bike skills. We’ve also been out numerous times in Arizona and I was reaping the reward of those past sessions. I crouched low to get as much free speed as possible. Soon, I was down in the grasslands with scrubby Junipers spotting the landscape. Was it about 4 p.m.? Definitely late afternoon. I felt as though I was in the Australian Outback (mind you I have never been so this is probably not an accurate assessment of the landscape). I pictured seeing a kangaroo. The mind goes where it wants when the body is on a bike ride.
When I reconnected again with Kennett, we were headed gradually uphill again and into a head wind. Wind is a mentally challenging place for me. If I were in a boxing match with Wind, I would hold my fists up with the intent of defending myself, but it would be a pointless gesture. I would likely just stand there as Wind kicked my ass and left me bloodied in a fetal position. So the next time Kennett went up the road I stopped to grab a caffeinated gel from the inner zipped section of my backpack and made a command decision. Looking at my Garmin I was at 70.3 miles. I was going to have to add miles on to my loop at the end anyway, so I simply turned around until my Garmin read 71 miles, enjoying the speed of a 2% percent downhill and the quiet of the tailwind as I sailed the opposite direction I had just been going. Okay, let’s go, I pep talked myself as I pulled another u-ie back into the headwind and setting sun.
Often the last miles of a ride are just about hanging on. Not this time. I hit another downhill and met back up with Kennett. He told me we were about three miles from a turn back to the car. Maybe six miles total and guess what was waiting there? A Sprite. I was loving the winding terrain down towards the car and there was comfort in recognizing the scenery again. At the car I was at 83 miles. Kennett stopped riding with the intent of following me in the car. I chugged a Sprite, dropped my pack, filled a water bottle, and said a quick hello to our friends. Tim had just finished his 100 miles. Jocelyn had kindly spent the day hiking with our hound, Maybellene. I was just over 16 miles away from done and there was a race on at this point. A race to finish before the sun fully disappeared. Back on the bike, I decided to go out the same way we had come back in, which would leave me darn close to finishing out miles without having to climb anything steep. I was treating my bike as almost a single speed, only shifting when the terrain really called for it. Kennett pulled up next to me in the car and some Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers drifted from the car stereo. Maybellene hung her head out the window, concerned I was still not in the car beside her.
In the Coast Guard we used to call the final hour of watch the Power Hour or Hour of Power. I was there. I calculated, that on this terrain, protected from the wind, I could hold a faster average speed. I had been traveling around 11 mph for the first 8 hours. The last hour was about 13 mph. And riding at 13 mph is more fun. With 5 miles left, I threw my sunglasses into the front seat next to Kennett so I could continue to see the road. He followed behind me with the headlights lighting my way and every mile I held up my left hand to indicate another notch closer to be finished. In the last three miles I rode on pavement in the dark. At 100, I pointed to a grassy patch off the road and Kennett pulled off. He hopped out, I tied a hairband around my shifter to hold it to the bars during transit, and he threw my bike on our rack beside his own.
I got in the car, took off my Lazer helmet, and dug into a bag of sweet potato chips. My Thursday self did a wonderful job buying these sweet potato chips I thought as I chewed. As we drove back towards home, I changed back into sweats. No competition, no crowds, no post-race party. It was anticlimatic, but there was a joy in the simplicity. I told Kennett multiple times that he was absolutely amazing for sticking with me for the entire day and then driving the last miles as support. I mean who does that? The same guy who bought me my first road bike. The same guy who believed I’d still ride a bike after a driver nearly ended my life on a training ride. The same guy who proposed to me in a coma. Getting into the car next to Kennett, who could understand exactly how I felt and what I had seen during the day, was the perfect finish line for me.