This month, both the men’s and the women’s fastest-known-time records for the 239-mile Katy Trail were broken. The route is run from the western terminus in Clinton, MO to the east in Machens. The trail is predominantly flat with one section of subtle grades that stretches roughly 30 miles, and highly exposed for long and frequent periods.
The latter was accomplished on October 21st, a Tuesday, with a steady wind out of the west-southwest at 18-25 miles-per-hour, with gusts higher, according to the National Weather Service.
I planned my own ride that day with consideration of that windspeed, choosing to ride the local section of the trail southeast and attempting to hide from the turbulence in the hills on the way back home. That was hardly effective, and I nearly put a foot down on a paved climb as a gust brought me close to a stop.
I titled that ride on Strava “Why?” as in why the f*** am I out in this? It was arguably a perfect day to be on a bike otherwise.
Dear reader,
It was my record time that was bested that day. Before I continue, I want to acknowledge that I am in a strange position as an athlete, writer, analyst, and deeply critical thinker compelled to question a result, fully aware of my own bias. I want to make it known that I am not contesting that the result be disqualified, or commenting on the character or personal motive of the athlete at the center.
Records exist to be broken. The pursuit of them is what gives them their value. They are a numeric representation of having discipline, a drive toward exploring human capacity in physical and psychological arenas, and cojones of record proportions of their own.
With that being said, I raise you this:
1. How much did an environmental advantage possibly augment a result?
FKT’s are determined by elapsed time, rather than moving speed. I have had to defend that fact on my first completion of this ride in 2022, and I am not going to nitpick that on someone else’s data now. This comparison is presented for my inquiry of wind effect.
My time: 14:40 moving, 16:27 elapsed
New record: 14:00 moving, 14:33 elapsed
Only 40 minutes of that time difference is moving speed; the rest is stopped time. Whether or not a major tailwind over 239 miles influences stopped time is extremely nuanced and indeterminate, so I’m not going to touch that. However, I did ask AI (I do words, not math) to calculate potential moving speed advantage of a 20mph tailwind versus the 5mph wind from the southwest that I had during my effort:
On flat terrain at endurance pace, a stronger tailwind lowers effective airspeed, so the same effort yields a bit more ground speed. A modest ground-speed bump of +0.6 to +1.2 mph over ~239 mi translates roughly to:
+0.6 mph → ~25–30 min saved
+0.8 mph → ~35–40 min saved
+1.0 mph → ~45–50 min saved
+1.2 mph → ~55–60 min saved
I then asked it how common this wind speed and direction was for central Missouri:
Very high sustained tailwinds (e.g., 18–20+ mph aligned with the trail) show up as rare “strongest” wind-events rather than typical conditions. For example: one source records a “strongest 16 April, 2024 – 26.4 mph SSW” for Columbia.
2. How does opportunistic timing possibly harm opportunity in endurance records?
239-miles is not a neighborhood Strava segment. Riders attempting to ride the Katy (or any other solo FKT path) in one push are typically planning weeks or months in advance and crossing their fingers for weather that is manageable. Capitalizing on a rare wind event from the perfect direction to post the fastest time creates a standard that limits accessibility for anyone to challenge it that isn’t extremely lucky, can’t logistically pull together an attempt on short notice, or ‘pro enough’ to beat it in normal conditions. As an outside example, a tailwind advantage is so widely recognized that the Boston Marathon winners’ finish times are ineligible for world record consideration because of the high probability of tailwind skew.
Nothing about this choice is against the very few rules of the FKT, and all that technically counts is the data recorded and the label of ‘supported’ or ‘unsupported’. And, giving grace to the small chance a challenger lucks out with conditions that favorable, there is, in my opinion, a responsibility to be transparent about that variable.
3. If how we approach individual athletic feats of this scale is boiled down to just the data that qualifies, does the rest of the story matter?
I can’t answer that for you, dear reader. For me, the whole story is the definition of an effort, even if I’m not on the top step. All of my previous work is written from what ultra-endurance endeavors showed me about myself rather than what they communicated to observers.
I don’t want to be the frontrunner from anything other than what I am capable of under my own power.
And since the sword imagery I use in my writing is not there because I’m simply a keyboard warrior, I am going to try to run the new posted time down next season in more neutral conditions.
“We’re all dirt,” Aaro said during our 62-mile ride yesterday, where I was still fussing with comfort issues on a new (sponsored) bike I’ve had for a week. It was the humble version of “We’re all made of star stuff,” which was part of the inspiration behind my nebulous tattoos.
And the acknowledgement of the fact that every one of us will return to the earth one day, that this body is merely borrowed, and everything we do with it is dress-up, is why I have a difficult time feeling legitimate in a sport that requires me to push this rental to such extremes. I gravitate toward hard- but is it hard enough to matter?
This summer has been a life-overhaul. I’m starting college in January as a first-time student. I’ve essentially been adopted as an adult. I officially said goodbye to the history of abuse that made that necessary. I’m back to working in a horse barn in the meantime and the environment doesn’t match the cut-throat, cliquey, energy-siphoning ones I moved to Missouri for to begin with. In other words, I have met real-community.
Not a pretend one.
The change in my ability to feel safe is exponential, and riding from the “Welcome to Kansas” sign to the edge of Illinois is both a celebratory act and an experiment to see how much more solid I am finally having, and accepting, support even if I’m undertrained. The new bike is also a literal marker of this- I’m not under-equipped anymore.
_____
I don’t have a lot of time to write right now while I prep for this, but here is what you need to know, and how you can be involved.
I plan to start my time-trial in Kansas City, KS on the evening of October 4th, with a goal to finish in Alton, IL within 26 hours.
My resources are limited, so I have created a GoFundMe to help cover the essential costs of having a support car track me across the state (Link here- Fundraiser by Genna Brock : Trans-Missouri 300 Support Crew Funding). I have never had this advantage before, and having one this time will eliminate the psychological stress of self-supporting an effort like this.
Once that barrier is cleared, I will finalize details with Trackleaders, who will be providing live tracking for this pursuit so that you can follow me for the entire ride. This also means that at any time, anyone can meet me out on course and ride with me for a while if you choose.
And to be honest, I kind of need that. I’ve spent too much time in this dirt feeling like I couldn’t have that kind of connection.
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.
I will the machine. 