Kansas Will Never Change — Reflections from an Unbound Mud Pit

There are few things I find more foreboding than a darkening midwestern sky. Out on the prairie, dark clouds are darker and meaner when they cut against the rolling emerald expanse. Lightning crackling above only adds to it, throwing danger across the sky like some diabolical Etch-a-Sketch from God.

We had already been through wars when this cloud of doom was rolling in from the east, 40 miles deep into the Unbound Gravel 100-mile race. The man ahead of me and I were scared, but we chuckled as we careened toward the black mass boiling on the horizon. I reluctantly took a Snickers bar, my second of the day, out of my pack. By that point, sweet treats were just a burden; I was simply feeding a furnace that was about to be doused.

And when I say I have been through wars, I mean it, by the way. I crashed at mile six — or, more accurately, I got crashed at mile six. I was the direct object of a crash caused right in front of me for no obvious reason. That’s a story for another time though. I am here to talk about the big dark clouds and the storms they bring.

They first hit shortly after my crash, along the first of the minimum maintenance roads (MMR). These tracks are the ones that twist and dip their way through the Flint Hills’ spectacular green landscape. The Tallgrass Prairie, as it’s called, with its grass on its journey to mid-summer height in full flight. The cows, oh, the glorious cows dotting the hillsides.

All of that is serene in a way that Kansas doesn’t get enough credit for. It is also the epicenter for many of the most intense weather events in the United States. This mixture creates the ingredients for the diabolical mud that Unbound has been known for, as it grows in the consciousness of the global cycling community.

When the rain started pounding down on the first small track cutting through the open range, it was clear the thousands of riders, pros and amateurs alike, were in for a heavy dose of the grimey stuff.

This wasn’t my first muddy Unbound, and I knew the drill: aim for the water when it’s running, avoid it when it’s standing still. Find the light dirt, avoid the dark spots. Ride in the middle of the road when it’s rocky or grassy, and stay away when it’s brown.

Most of all, keep pedaling when your wheels wiggle, and never forget your plastic spatula.

Even so, the mud eventually caught up with me. Enough grit packed into my drivetrain to cause my chain to skip. I tried to shift my way out of it, but that only made it worse. And just like that, I had another rule of thumb to live by: keep the chain in the middle, don’t shift unless you need to, and give the chain a small spritz from your bottles when the road gets dry.

Every time I ride this race, the rolodex of what to do grows. The mud is sometimes inevitable, but at least now I know how to fight it.

It is with this confidence and knowledge that I barreled towards the rain with my newfound aero bar friend (Specialized Crux 5). Just as the drops began to deposit on the lens of my glasses and tickle the back of my neck, we rounded the bend and saw a scattered mess of riders in various states of disrepair. Up ahead, the mud had won.

Regardless of the rolodex of rules, there is a type of mud in Kansas that trumps them all. It’s the dark sediment that soaks up moisture and clings to anything that moves. In ten minutes of rain, it can turn from the fastest gravel surface to concrete, dragging the speed of a passing cyclist down like a stone plunging through water.

And if all this sounds a bit dramatic, it’s because it is. A man screamed as he tried to hoist 20 pounds of mud attached to 20 pounds of bike onto his shoulders for the half-mile stomp up the hill to better dirt.

Me? I wasn’t screaming. I have been here before — in Kansas, Arkansas, and Arizona — making do and carrying on. I smiled because I love it.

I love that cycling can bring thousands to this corner of the world, in the proverbial middle of nowhere, for a bike race that can render some of the best riders in the world to walkers. I love that it stripped me of the stress of work, of the pain from my crash, and the hunger from eating one less gel than I should have. I love that even with the newest and greatest cycling tech, sometimes Mother Nature wins.

About halfway through, I came up on a young man stumbling with his bike ankle deep in mud. He was also not smiling.

“This is bullshit!” He said.

“No,” I said. “This is Kansas.”

And Kansas will never change.