2001 Flint Hills Death Ride
by Bob Foster
76 miles, 7:30 hours
But did I mention it was on a mountain bike?
So, okay, I'll 'fess up. The title got me. The Death Ride, a chest thumping, jerky-gnawing title, for a ride that is tough...but not deadly. At least not this year. And a further confession: I signed up for the Death Ride, knowing the temps could be as high as 104, fistfights over shade, scooping water from streams, who knows, using cows to shield myself from the harsh winds. But I was more than a little relieved to see weather reports in the preceding week get more and more rosy. High's in the mid-80's? Dry? Light breezes? "Yee-flippin-HAW!" Oh wait -- "Drat, I wanted a soul-searing life-experience, the velo-equal of being branded with a hot iron."
Being from St. Louis, part of the adventure was getting there. I opted for hotelling in Kansas City with the family and then departed about 3 a.m. for the Flint Hills. The Perseid meteor shower put on a fine show as I rolled across the dark plains. I saw at least three falling stars through the windshield. Got to Madison, KS, way early, but stumbled onto the breakfast joint, and copped a really good parking spot at the start/finish line. Among organizers, there was a sense of astonishment that the ride was happening -- volunteers had quit after last year and the future of the ride was in doubt. In fact the t-shirts proclaim "The Death Ride rises again!" J.C., the organizer, was apologetic for the weather: "We've got people putting heaters out on the course now." Among the 400 or so riders, the mood was a little different. I swear I heard at least a dozen people say in a weary monotone, "Oh boy, another Death Ride," as we rolled out of Madison. I had a front suspension Trek 6000, which seemed a good match for the terrain.
The route is a big loop, and the start was fast for fat tires, around 18-20 mph on the pavement and 18 or so on the early gravel. The dust was incredible, chalky but brown. Most of the ride is gravel, some packed, some loose -- allowing two lanes of bikes. In a few places, there is rough, loose rock -- like you'd find between train tracks -- and the only way to make it through is to keep up momentum. Fine for the youngsters, with technical skills, but yours truly got too cautious, rode too slow in one section, and flipped over the bars to land roadside in a ditch. Did I mention large rocks?
Fortunately, all the dust soaked the blood up and I resolved to take an ibuprofen at the next stop. The stops are located about 15 miles apart, and seemed pretty well stocked with water, energy powder and snacks.
How to describe the country? It's hilly, but when you summit, it seems like the whole world is grassland, punctuated with the occasional cows or oil rigs. The sky is huge, and the clouds moved their shadows over the hills like logs tumbling in a river. The hills also give you an idea of how long the ride is: you can see gravel ribbons stretching far, far away across the grasslands. After my crash, I was even more skittish on the downhills, even as I watched kids racing down them. I still hit 30 or so down the back side of the Teterville Hill, an exercise in steady nerves and poor judgment, considering the line of no gravel was about six inches wide.
Relative to the other riders, I was in an interesting spot: They would dust me on the downhills and then I'd catch up on the climbs, especially as the end neared and I was still pretty strong. After the halfway point, the terrain changes some, with lots of creek crossings -- another tradeoff between judgment and bravado -- and some wooded valleys that beckoned with shade. One advantage of the creek crossings: A splattering of mud feels really good in the midafternoon. The high was in the low 90s and stopping was an invitation to start sweating hard. I also started seeing some riders who were hurting. One guy complained that he had leg cramps that went to places where no guy wants cramps. Others lay on the ground at the fifth rest stop, clearly in no hurry to move along. I swigged a can of Ensure at the last stop -- yum, body temperature -- and kept moving, knowing the day wasn't going to get any cooler.
There were also some long stretches where I saw no one, ahead or behind. I took the Web site seriously about using the map, and had a compass just in case, but the route was pretty easy to follow and if in doubt, I played old time tracker -- look for the trails of knob-shaped tread in the gravel. I'd heard reports of a big hill right before the finish, but it seemed fairly tame -- or maybe I was just used to the climbs -- and I was surprised to reach pavement again. I use my mountain bike to commute all the time, and fairly flew on the smooth asphalt.
At last, a downhill I could race down!
The small main street -- they call it, um, "Main Street" -- in Madison was fairly crawling with cyclists in the midafternoon. I rolled through the parking lot, resisting the urge to do a feeble bunny hop over a log, and said proudly, "full route. Give me my root beer." I took that, my medallion which shows a cattle skull wearing shades, and a buffalo burger slathered in barbecue sauce. I used my bandanna and the water spigot to get most of the dust off of me and soaked my hair, loaded the dust-covered bike in the car, put on some traveling blues and headed back to the Hyatt Regency. As I neared the hotel, I saw some of the Cows on Parade: "Tipped Kansas Cow" and "Charlie Parcow," wailing on a plastic saxaphone, and I smiled, feeling like an emissary from their homeland.