A Mingling of Minds, A Meeting in the Woods

Round and round and round. The microwave plate was taking four various flavored Amy’s organic, vegan, and gluten-free burritos on a little carnival ride, heating them to the core, if I was patient enough. Burritos, burritoed, each into its own tinfoil sleeping bag, I grabbed the lot and headed from the office kitchen to the van. So late. I had less than a minute wiggle room to make it the 100 miles to packet pickup in time. I mentally scanned my absolute essentials checklist: bike, shoes, helmet, warm outfit, headlamp, batteries for my newly dead headlamp – nope. My use of it as the dining and bedroom chandelier of my van abode had drained them. 

North, to the land of the Ojibwe & Sioux, new roads, the setting sun, the potential of Northern Lights, 109 miles of sugar sand and many new friends lie ahead. Any of these alone would have been more than enough, but The Fenton was all those and so much more. The previous day, Otso outfitted me with a Voytek. Picking it up was my first time touching a fat bike! The beauty of the opportunities this bike afforded were accentuated in the aquamarine and orange frame, now reflecting under the internal van lights as we rolled. Exiting the highway, a right turn took me in a straight shot to “The Cabin” where I had since been directed to pick up my race packet because fulfilling tomorrow’s illumination needs took 4 more minutes than allotted at a Walmart spotted en route off the highway. The race is a 5 am departure – artificial sun is pretty crucial. 

What I imagined would be a porch with a single light shining out in beacon turned out to be a bustling home on a lake. Bikes holding hand(le bars) hung on racks and the garage was bursting with signs and supplies. The cabin was humming with people: Alan, the founder and sponsor, then largely Bone Saw Cycling Collective members, thanks to Lyle. Lyle was the one who welcomed me here, kindly answering my questions via Instagram about fat bikes, the race, expectations, and lots else. I spend quite a bit of time on bikes, but from my understanding, fat biking is an experience of its own – especially in the land of sugar sand. 

I was warned these directors delighted in longer race times, and amended the course to get them, so Otso kitted the bike out with 26” x 4” for “more fun”. I matched the set up to my road bike measurements and put my saddle on, but did no more than sit atop it. Dinner was an orchestra in the cabin cacophony of perfect traditional pre-race food prepared nearly exclusively by Hilary. Sharing a meal had been far from my previously noted expectations, but you don’t turn down calories or a community when it opens its arms wide, as long as you are willing to open yours in response and continued embrace. We all spent the time talking, eating, meeting, sharing, greeting. The joy and camaraderie in that cabin more than compensated for any lingering work fatigue. Drying dishes, I watched someone head outside to their tent, saying they better go to sleep now instead of honoring their regular 4 am bedtime. Though I have become unconcerned with pre-race bedtimes, we can only stress about so much, I also found the idea rather appealing.

I would meet Jesse as he readied his bike, his car, as his bed, resting for the night in front of mine. During our conversation about weather and corresponding racewear we decided to begin our race day journey by carpooling to the start. Knowing my hurting knee and tense body needed it, I decided to vacate the refrigerator-feeling-box-on-wheels for some yoga in the cabin. Twenty minutes into my bendy ordeal of coxing my hip flexors with sweet nothings so they might be longer than nonexistent in the am talk of jack-o-lanterns floated over. The sleep deprivation amongst the race founders had them asking, “Hey Siri, how do I make a face on a jack-o’-lantern?” and then me the same. “Moon and stars,” I said, “make eyes of the crescent moon.” I donned my hat gifted via Lyle from Otso/Wolftooth – imperative – and headed out to the moon and stars of the galaxies, my head in the clouds of my breath. In the clouds my head would stay, through dreamland into the morning and all the beauty that was to come. 

I struggled with the cold even in my down sleeping bag christened on my Great Divide trip, and not yet washed… 4 am came quickly. As usual, I’d given myself a 5 minute window between my eyelids sliding open to departure. Dark to light, in the dark. We loaded my bike and were off after a missing shoe cover and a car in reverse to lock the van. We drove through thick fog. My foot accidentally rested on the nozzle the whole way, pooling my hydration in the Audi’s rubber mat. I refilled from a canister in the town’s cafe, graciously open for us cyclists. Jesse relinquished one of his zip ties so I could secure my dismembered rear light to the seatpost. I debated how much I wanted to resemble an onion; were five layers too many? It was damp, below freezing, and we had several hours before exchanging a good morning greeting with the sun. (yes, too many). 

Calm, I heard people sharing fears and expressing the opposite. Tape up, announcement on, then thwapping. The sound of 80+ fat bike tires, some studded, covering the pavement, eating pebbles and grit at 20 mph. I PAC-MANned my way up the groups, curious what the leaders were riding like, knowing I would drop back but wanting the exposure to the nature of the front, important for the plans of this coming season. People signaled the turns which allowed me to follow and look at the Wahoo less. After 15 minutes at the front I decided to make my move – back. The lead group turned right three feet too early, and I floated past them. Their irritated comments and grunts signaled their return. After traveling at a good clip in a group of seven or so, dodging puddles, and saying good morning to everyone around, with very few replies, I listened to some women converse. I followed the line of lights. Eventually, those ahead advanced out of sight and lights from two people behind me brightened my path. The sand of the pine barrens was hard packed, a bed of needles and mud. Gravel sections interspersed this forest floor. After some time, the group of lights faded ahead and behind completely. Solo stillness. The fog continued to hang thick, the moon bright in its little cocoon of irradiated water droplets. I pondered the minutes till sunrise, the title for this piece. I soaked in the darkness. I thought of the isolation and exposure too – the cover a lack of illumination allows. Then again, maybe light is only a mask for the masked. As if we can always see, when we can’t, what happens before our eyes. As if we don’t all see only what we want to. 

I feel insulated and in my own orbit, the dark bestowing me with that; what I would emerge is anyone’s guess. I hit a section of road and listened to the roar of a pickup roll by. I thought again of all those hit and killed – forever in my mind. I hear cheering and take a left. Lyle’s voice. People drive out here to cheer us on. Wow, what love. What joy. Rolling along was absolute bliss. My only focus, this a moving meditation through the woods. My legs rotating, the meditation continued. All too soon trees, arms outstretched to the sky, stand silhouetted thanks to the source of the coming day. An unmarked turn and a rider behind me had me look back as I overshot. Dressed in capris and flats, I was stoked to meet this human: Landon, the one with the regular 4am bedtime. Cresting a super steep and muddy hill together with effort, on bikes that largely roll like perfectly softened butter does across a sourdough-scape, but are a little clumsy with sharp maneuvers, we are triumphant and giddy. The best descent of the day follows: straight down, muddy and rooty, with a hiccup of a hill near the bottom…and… the moon eyes of a pumpkin glaring with candle lit retinas. I had to smile and wait for Landon, staring into, and then photographing, those same moons.

That’s what keeps you coming back. There were multitudes of those little details thanks to cogitative, caring, and somewhat obsessive organizers. The Voytek was kissed by the sweet sugar sand for 70 miles and showed it, as did my knee, when I called it a day at checkpoint three. Stopping gave me the gift of meeting more of the Bone Saw crew and seeing the faces and their accompanying humans rolling through their journeys of this race at different paces. I got to speak at length to fellow rider, Robb, as they abandoned the race at the same checkpoint, our days no less beautiful.  Fat biking in this land, with its history, is a ride of awe, simple joys, and suspension. No matter the recruitment in your quads and glutes, it’s all a dream.