Endogenous Rex

Inquiry of a Soloist at The Big Rub Gravel Race

First of all, you should know I accomplished the mission.

My life force was just starting to recover from the burglary that is burnout, and I just went and dumped my savings on the trail, again. I have so been missing the 100+ mile days that I just couldn’t spare this year because I had to use all of that steam for life logistics; I finally caved and turned a race into this weekend trip archaeological dig.

All last week, I just had to sit with myself and solve nothing on purpose. I still got on the bike because I can’t rest in a cage, even with empty legs. Day by day, a little more of the tension left, until one day I just felt high as a kite on nothing but a strong coffee. As unrealistic as it was for my circumstances, my expectations for myself just left, and were replaced by this intense interest to be hyper-aware of myself and my effect on other people.

And that’s because you, dear reader, are whispering to me that I have one inside a collective organism that yells that I don’t.

While I’ve been clawing at progress that seems unattainable, I’ve become more conscious that support doesn’t look like what I thought it would. It isn’t overt or exclamatory- sometimes it’s unstated entirely. I’m finding allyship in people who have said little more than “good morning.”

I’m a words person… obviously. But 90% of human communication is non-verbal. So, what would happen if I started to listen more closely to that than I already do?

With the help of a few sponsors, I registered for The Big Rub, packed my overnight things, and started toward Sedalia- 70 miles away. As eager and awake as I was, I kept the reigns tight to protect my energy. The first 35-miles were tense with anticipation, but otherwise effortless.

Westbound on the Katy Trail out of Boonville, though, is deceitful. If you aren’t careful, a mild but steady grade for the whole stretch to Sedalia will pilfer from you. I had only ever ridden this section the opposite way, so I underestimated it.

As the trail climbed, so did the temperature inside the humid tree tunnel. The slog to Pilot Grove took more from me than some full-days have in past years. I rolled up to Casey’s feeling like I needed to sleep in a ditch. I hadn’t eaten anything solid since breakfast, so I forced food down despite being entirely repulsed by it. A little caffeine and more Gatorade in my bottles, and I was off again.

12mph. Then 11.

10, 9, 8, 7, and finally 6.

At mile 57, I stopped and made a phone call. I couldn’t keep myself grounded so I needed someone else’s voice. Being capable of double-centuries yet being so out of sorts in under 60 miles was more than just an off day; it was a reminder of the deep exhaustion I was trying to respect without entirely giving up on what I loved. I was still falling apart.

I reached Sedalia after a push-pull cycle of trying to manage heat stress without being out in it any longer than necessary. Once I got into my hotel, I ticked boxes on the recovery checklist while reassessing everything about my plan. I came for a 60-mile race, with the logical expectation that I wouldn’t be very sharp, but now I was considering if the wisest choice would be to drop to a shorter distance to save myself, but still show up. I sat with that for the entire evening and let me tell me how I really felt about it.

I didn’t change course.

After feverishly processing my thoughts on my phone that night, I woke up before my alarm on race morning with everything but my legs feeling fully charged. I packed my bags again and as I rolled my bike through the hotel lobby to check out, the desk agent made prolonged eye contact with me while he said “Thank you”. Before I walked out the door, he chimed again, “Did you have a nice stay?”

“Yes I did,” I said.

What a lovely morning.

I got to the race venue and dropped my bags off at registration. Shortly after, I felt a woman coming over to me. When I looked up, I noticed she was looking at my bike first, and then she asked,

“You’re Genna, right? I was at your presentation at the Optimists Club.”

I was in a dress and had eyeliner on that day; now I was in Lycra and scuffed sunglasses. The bike was the familiar one. I felt more eyes on me while I buzzed over someone who listened to my story in a meeting room now being inside its events. As I moved about the venue, I was conscious of how the internal pressure was brushed gently away like dust over the course of that hour.

Like it was being politely handed back to its owner.

Everything internal was dead quiet when the field lined up for the start. At the horn, I found a comfortable spot in the neutral rollout when those eyes appeared again, and moved up. I knew this individual strategically followed the wheels of a couple friends in events past, and if that happened today, I was going to go with them. So I chose my wheel, and silently planted myself there.

The race went live and at 23mph on the gravel trail, I felt my disadvantage within minutes. As the race started to shuffle, fatigue paired with my annoying tendency to let gaps form was already making me sweat. I gradually fell back to find help closing them, knowing that if I could find a flow again, I could recover. Soon, someone I used to know alerted me that we’d be turning into a field, and gave me a bit of helpful advice.

The last time this person had spoken to me, about a year prior, it was in condemnation. There was no trace of that here. There was nothing to gain from the assist, and no expectation of a return. Just “Here, you might need this.”

The field was uphill and I lost contact with the front group. This section was rough and required high-end power I did not have, so I just kept it steady. Once on the road, I reoriented to that rhythm, with few people around. Now I was happy.

What followed was the acceptance that I was not vying for a win today. To my surprise, I didn’t crack on myself for that once. The course then opened up to some of the most ethereal roads I’ve ridden in years- steep and exposed rolling gravel climbs flanked by chiccory, under just enough sun to singe the fields in gold, and low clouds to delay the oncoming heat. I entered an absolute flow state, jockeying back and forth with a few other riders in the waves of the road, but conversing mostly with just myself.

On one of the steepest climbs of the day, someone else I used to know was cheering for passing riders. I stayed inside my shroud as I approached, and only as I came within feet of them did they decide to walk away. And then I heard “great work!” called out within a couple seconds.

I can’t be certain that was for me, but if being aware of inflection has taught me anything…

I kept cruising, eating more frequently than is usual to be doubly-sure I could stay in this zone until something else broke it. I stopped at an aid station and almost snorted a shot of pickle juice (shit burns), and reveled at how in-control I felt. In the final 15 miles of the race, the heat was climbing and the wind was in my face again. I felt the slow shut-down approaching as I was soloing back into town- until I heard derailleur clicks from behind me.

Now back on city pavement, I looked back to see a man I had passed on one of the longer climbs gaining on me in his aero bars.

How lucky am I? Are you really about to make my day?

And everything came back online. I shifted up the cogs, threw some steady power into the ground, and started scanning for that final corner. I chose my line, started to make my turn, and as I stood up to sprint home, my left cleat unclipped from my pedal. A group of spectators in the grass started yelling at us both as they saw it. I recovered it, threw myself back over the bars of my bike, and the challenger eclipsed me about 50-feet from the line. I finished that race exasperated and laughing about how animated that finish was, and stopped next to the man who defeated me to bask in it.

I finished third overall for the women’s field, with the note that one woman who surged past me on a climb late into the race would have put me into fourth if she’d not gotten off course. It was her first gravel race ever, and she’d had the bike for two days.

I grabbed a soda to stave off a post-race bonk, and then got some real food. I recognized someone else from one of my presentations and he remembered me immediately.

Without much to say, I strapped by bags back onto my bike, and walked around the building to get ready to ride home. The women’s 50+ winner (and 2nd overall) approached me for the second time that day to let me know that I was actually officially second, since she raced in a different category.

It just didn’t really make a difference to me.

_____

Over the course of that day, I said very little to anyone. And for the first time I can remember, it was entirely because I was just content floating on my own- not because I didn’t know who to trust.

And without many words at all, they started speaking volumes to me.

People approaching and lingering.

Others telling me about their ride before they remembered to share their name.

“Hey, Genna,” from someone I don’t really know but seems to understand my energy anyway.

Those eyes that won changing their path when they see me standing around a corner.

A supporter that finishes my sentence.

Someone I considered a friend that turns their whole body away when we make brief eye contact.

The human condition is designed to recognize. Organized society forces us to lose touch with it for the sake of showing it what we think it wants to see.

None of these people changed, but I did. The timeline was going one direction and after a sum of subconscious micro-decisions, I started walking a different one.

I won’t sit here and tell you that you can simply choose to do that. I’ve personally never found any amount of self-help diatribe or rehearsed positivity to have an impact, really.

But what does seem to work, to a degree that is almost woo-woo, is observation.

It won’t lie to you by telling you that you don’t matter.

_____

I struggled through the physical shutdown again on the way home. I didn’t get upset with myself this time, though, even as I could hardly find words to respond to texts. I sat at that Casey’s again trying to wake myself up with a Red Bull/hydration bomb, and then stopped again at the end of those false flats for half-melted fudge pops.

I crossed the river, hit mile 106, and came alive again.

I finished 135 miles that day with one of the slowest speeds in a couple of years,

and the book of “100 Reasons Why You’re the Problem” was slammed shut and finally thrown at them.