I swore in 2020, after my first Dirty South gravel race, that I would never do it again. I hate long races. I like short races. But sometime in December Eli got a wild hair to register for this 100k gravel race so then I got a wild hair and signed up, too. No, I would not jump off a bridge if Eli jumped off a bridge, but this is cycling and I'm easily influenced. This photo, lovingly shot by Amy Strahan, shows the big smile I had on my face about halfway up the first impossible climb. That smile is a bald-faced lie. There probably wasn't a bigger lie told that entire day in the wilderness of the Shawnee National Forest. I was already hurting and there was about 45 miles to go. I pulled myself together and finished in the top 100 (out of 500-ish) and bettered my 2020 time by 20 minutes. But mark my words: I will never do it again. I mean it. I'm not kidding. Don't take this lightly. You'll see. Nope. No way.
This was Eli's first gravel race. Actually, it was his first race longer than a 2 hour mtb race. He did well, finishing in the same time that I did in 2020 for the exact same course. He got a super cool 2nd place trophy in the juniors class. Not bad for a short-race kind of guy. He slept most of the way home in the car. Oh, the sacrifice. I guess the peace and quiet gave me time to contemplate my failures and pathetic triumphs of the godforsaken Dirty South race. Not that I'm going to do it again. Just musing about riding more so that long races wouldn't hurt so bad. Not that I'm going to do it again.
Once home, the Beautiful Mrs. K and I went to get Mexican food. I ate chips and salsa. Tacos. Beans. Rice. I drank some of her margarita. I drank a big Coke. At least two big glasses of water. When we got home, I ate Mrs. K's leftovers that she was saving for lunch the next day. And pretty much, as I write this on Tuesday, I've been eating non-stop. I will stop eating soon.
And the hound dog could care less.
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