Words by Kristen Legan
Photos by Will Matthews, Will Tracy, Ben Delaney, Kris Hull, Mosaic Cycles
“Work together!” a faintly familiar voice said as I pedaled out of Eureka, covered in mud and slightly dazed from a night of hiking, sliding, and bobbling my way through Kansas hill country, or should I say mud country. I glanced behind me and then to the front. With nothing but open road in either direction, no other rider in sight, I grinned, finally recognizing the sardonic tone of my longtime friend, Daimo, who was in Eureka, preparing to support riders in the upcoming mayhem of Unbound 200’s first checkpoint.
Giving a little wave and a nod of recognition, I pedaled on, out into the unknown and ready to tackle the next 125 miles of Unbound XL. After a night of mechanicals, mishaps, and muddy mayhem, how bad could these next hours be?
Unbound XL is a gritty mix of gravel racing and adventure riding packed into a 350-mile course that zigzags its way across Kansas’ Flint Hills. While Unbound 200 remains the most competitive and most iconic gravel race on the calendar each year, the XL offers up something a little different. A challenge beyond head-to-head racing and well-choreographed checkpoint stops of the 200. XL embodies the spirit of old-school gravel racing like The Death Ride or Trans Iowa, unsupported and raw. Riders rely on convenience stores along the route and must carry tools and equipment to get themselves and their bikes intact to the finish line.
Rolling out of Emporia at 3:00 PM on Friday, riders have 36 hours to complete the 350-mile course with the goal of finishing alongside Unbound 200 and 100 riders who would take off early Saturday morning.
This year brought a special blend of 150 riders and racers to the XL. Our field included local Emporians giving the XL their first shot, experienced gravel racers hoping for a spot on the podium, bikepacking enthusiasts who joked 350 miles was too short, and just about everything in between. Together, we rolled out of Emporia on Friday afternoon, with crowds lining the streets, cheering and yelling words of support, hoping for a safe and speedy return sometime tomorrow.
Turning off the pavement, the echo of Commercial Street and the hubbub of our sendoff quickly faded into the crunch of gravel beneath our tires. The adventure had started, and now it was time to get to work.
Our race started as expected, with a strong group of riders leading through the first 20ish miles before things split up over chunky rollers and steep kickers. I settled into a small group alongside Cynthia Frazier, last year’s Unbound XL winner, and we all worked to keep the pace high but manageable considering we were only 50 miles into a 350-mile race.
Cruising toward our first convenience store resupply in Cottonwood Falls, the dark clouds that had been building around us finally let go, and we got our first, but not last, rainstorm of the race. Thankfully, the afternoon had been nice and warm, and this shower was a welcome relief from the heat. No big deal, right? As much as this cool-off was appreciated, we couldn't imagine the havoc this rainstorm (and the previous days of rain) had caused farther south on the course. But we'd get to that eventually; for now, we pedaled on toward the dark and ominous horizon.
Riding into the night and then back into daylight the next morning is what I love most about Unbound XL or any overnight adventure. The quiet calmness that sweeps across the prairie and the twinkling midnight stars make this event truly special. At least, that’s what I remember best about my previous XL rides.
However, this year was a little different, a little darker. The rain clouds blocked out that lovely pink and purple evening glow, spinning us into night quicker than expected. And, to distract us even further from that twilight feeling was watching the crunchy gravel road ahead suddenly turn to dark and peanut buttery mud. Noticing tire prints squiggling this way and that from the riders who'd come before, it became immediately apparent it was time to walk.
Mud in the Flint Hills is no joke. It's a thick and sticky mess that jams up your wheels, tears off derailleurs, and gets in just about every nook and cranny of the bike. Riding in this type of mud is impossible (at least for me), and even pushing your bike will not get you far. So, carrying your bike or finding some grass on the side of the road is the way to go.
As we hit this first section of mud, flashbacks from 2015 started to roll in. That was the last big mud year at Unbound, and I remember bombing into a muddy B-road alongside Amanda Nauman and seeing her pick up her bike and run while I tried to clean my bike, ride, and then fail time and time again. That was the last I would see of Amanda as she went on to a decisive win at Unbound 200 that year.
Reminding myself that efficiency is what wins in these situations, I picked up my bike and power-walked through the wet grass on the side of the road for the next mile and a half. Once we took a left turn onto dryer surfaces, I spent a few moments cleaning the bike and making sure it was shifting, and then pushed on, putting distance between myself and the group I’d just been riding with. That was the last I’d ride with anyone for the next 250 miles.
Over the first 150 miles, I suffered a host of mechanicals and mishaps. My Garmin and light mount broke off my bike randomly around mile 50. Using duct tape and zip ties, I MacGyvered a fix, attaching my light to an aerobar, and stored my Garmin in my top-tube bag so I could easily unzip and check if I was on the right track every few miles or so.
The mud caused all kinds of havoc to my drivetrain. I had multiple close calls of shifting into my spokes and nearly ripping a derailleur off. Thankfully, I knew that dreaded pulling feeling well enough and caught it before any irreparable damage occurred. I did, however, manage to bend my derailleur hanger. Not enough to make shifting impossible, but enough to keep me from shifting into my 34-tooth cog for fear of going into the spokes. That's OK, I can ride this without the 34, I told myself, and decided not to stop and replace my hanger with the spare in my saddlebag. I wanted to save that in case a real disaster hit.
Later, just to make things even more interesting, I somehow managed to disconnect the Di2 wire from my rear derailleur while fixing something else. When I pulled it out, my tired, confused, frantic brain convinced myself I had damaged the wire beyond repair. So, once again, I had to confront this unexpected situation and decide what to do.
“I can ride a 2-speed to the finish!” Sure, why not. With just front shifting working, I spent the next hour convincing myself that this was fine, everything was fine. In the big chainring, I was in a good gear that would allow me to pedal strong on the flat-ish sections. And in the little chaining, I had an easy enough gear to get up most of the steep climbs. This was doable. Sure. Doable. I think.
Thankfully, after a relatively flat and speedy section, perfect for the gear I was in, I ate enough food and drank some water to get my brain working again. At that point, I decided to stop and clean out my Di2 wire and try plugging it back in again. When that beautiful click and beep bop of the Di2 motor kicked in, I nearly cried tears of happiness. It was this moment when I promised the universe I wouldn't take anything for granted the rest of the ride, and I would be patient and take care of every piece of equipment on my bike.
And so, I did. I babied my bike through 200+ miles of challenging terrain with a hellacious 7-mile straight shot of mud in the middle of the night. I rode easy over rocky sections to protect my tires, I walked my bike up steep climbs to avoid extra torque on the drivetrain, I stopped at creek crossings to bathe my bike in a swampy bubble bath. I kept my promise, and the universe returned the favor, keeping my bike running smoothly (as much as you can expect from 11+ miles of hike-a-bike through mud) until the end.
Twenty-six hours is a very long time to be on a bike. It was longer than I had expected or hoped to be out there in the Flint Hills during Unbound XL this year. But, when the storms roll in, and chaos ensues, the only thing you can really do is roll with it and adapt to the situation. Besides the mud-fueled mechanicals and mishaps, plenty of other unexpected things happened. Like a terrible stomach from mile 150 that was only saved by a “shareable size” bag of Sour Patch Kids (yikes, I know) from there on out. A run-in with an Amish horse and buggy that I’m still not totally sure happened. A torrential downpour with giant rain clouds that I was sure was turning into a tornado.
Also unexpected was the 2-hour lead I had on the women's field as I rolled closer into town at the end of the race. I had imagined having to sprint my way to the finish line or out-tactic another rider to get this win. Instead, I got to truly enjoy it. To love it, breathe it, and let it sink in.
Turning onto Commercial Street in downtown Emporia, as rain poured down, I had already shed a tear or two: tears of relief, of happiness, of utter exhaustion, I don't know. But I had done it. I'd done what I'd set out to do nearly six months ago as I signed up for the XL lottery and got in. I'd done what I'd dreamt about ten years ago when I did my first Unbound. I'd done what I had quietly but confidently shared with my friends and family earlier that year - to go after the win. Days like this don't come often, at least not for me, and I don't really expect another one like this anytime soon, if ever. Which is what makes it so unforgettable and feel so unreal.
Unbound will always be the wild, wonderful race that offers us a chance to look inside, dig deep, and see just what we are made of. Unbound XL, it’s something more. It’s a solo soul-searching endeavor. It’s bliss. It’s hell. It’s everything in between. Unbound XL is the heart and soul of what gravel racing means to me.
