Like most people, I would attest that waking up early is hard. Honestly, it is exponentially harder when you are not only getting yourself out of bed, but also your wife and three children. On the morning of November 15th, I had to wonder: would this be any easier if the destination were a theme park or some kind of tropical beach? My family did not wake up early to go to Disneyland. We left the house in the dark so I could ride my bike on gravel roads, cloaked in a canopy of autumn leaves through hills and places I had never wandered, all in Cherokee County at the Illinois River Ramble.

A month earlier, I had finished Osage Passage, what I assumed would be my final big event of the year, on my wife’s birthday. Eleven years of marriage, and all I could muster as a present was her waiting for me at the finish line for hours. What a great husband, right? But it was not like that. Let me rewind a little before I tell you what happened that day. My call to the wild, led by the spirit of gravel, came to me years before I began riding regularly. It began when I commuted to work on an old 26 inch mountain bike in 32 degree weather. It lingered when I rode 30 miles around my hometown with friends, searching for the best burritos the Pacific Northwest had to offer. It remained deep inside me when I started riding again here in Oklahoma, before I knew about gravel riding, long before I knew where I belonged.

So there my wife was at Osage Passage, waiting for my return. While I was away, she experienced the spirit of gravel in full effect. My children were playing, riding their bikes, and cheering on other racers. They were getting filthy, having fun, and, most importantly, feeling welcome. After the event and the festivities, my wife told me something every husband wants to hear. She said she liked it and wanted to do it again sometime. She meant it. That is why she willingly agreed to wake up early and drive to Tahlequah, Oklahoma, to spend the day in a big field while I rode my bike.

As always, before a big group ride, my stomach was in knots. If you have ever met me or witnessed me perform at my day job, you might be surprised to hear that I get nervous. The truth is that I believe nervousness is important because it means you care enough to pay attention. Patience is something I am not naturally good at, except when I am on the bike. Running into familiar faces helped calm my nerves. The free breakfast and coffee helped even more. Soon enough, in a place I had never been, I felt like I belonged again.

On this day, my Salsa Warbird was outfitted with a combination of Maxxis and Schwalbe tires, both full of plugs, scars from previous mistakes. I carried a Dynaplug Dart, a portable Silca pump, and a few extra tools for emergencies. None of them were what I needed. The thing I needed most was a T handle. What for? Let’s find out.

I positioned myself at the back of the pack with my friend Kris, who clearly understood how rough the climbing would be. As usual, once we began, I darted off like a lunatic, completely disregarding everything Brad Huff had instilled in me over the last eight months. I felt good and wanted to see how much gas I had in the tank before hitting the first hill at five miles. Five miles, according to whom? I quickly realized that I had fabricated the route in my head. At the two mile mark, we reached the first hill, and I could tell something was wrong. If you know me and my story, it will not surprise you that I ignored my gut instinct and pressed forward.

About four miles after that hill, we reached another, the biggest climb I have ever done. For most people, it might not register as significant. I live in Tulsa; our “mountain” is, in fact, just a hill. Nonetheless, these climbs destroyed me. My back was on fire the entire time. I felt as though I had no power. I cursed myself for blowing up and sprinting with the front of the pack. Things were not going well physically or mentally. However, that changed once we began descending. With a mixture of bike skills and a disregard for my safety, I used the descent as an opportunity to pass as many riders as I could. I feel comfortable going downhill, so I leaned into that comfort and made up time lost on the climbs.

By the time I reached the aid station, I had convinced myself that my back pain was caused by the hill climb or by sleeping wrong. I had my bike dialed in, so it was difficult to understand what was going wrong. At the aid station, I dismounted and refilled my bottles. Then I saw it. My saddle was nose down, not dramatically, but enough. I had felt bunched up at the front of the bike, but I had not imagined the saddle was the issue. Remember the tools I mentioned? My multitool did not reach the seatpost bolts. Even if it had, I later learned that I would not have been able to correct the issue. So I kept moving forward and stayed out of the saddle as much as possible for the remaining fifteen miles.

At that point, something shifted. The problem had a name. It was not weakness or lack of fitness. It was a bolt, and I knew I could not fix it there, so I rode with it. The last few climbs came and went. At mile 19.4, we approached the largest descent of the day, a mix of dirt, loose gravel, broken pavement, and winding roads that reminded me of the opening scene of The Evil Dead. It was an opportunity to take in the beauty of Cherokee County and the last of the autumn leaves. It was a moment I have carried in my mind for months. The descent gave me physical momentum toward the finish and reminded me why I woke up that morning.

Then it was over. 28.53 miles, not quite 30, but well earned.

My children were there to cheer me on as I crossed the finish line. My wife took photos as I checked my tire pressure, which had become an issue three miles from the finish. They told me stories about the clay pigeons they collected and the other children whose parents were still out riding. They told me they were proud of me.

This was not the biggest feat of strength and determination that I have displayed on the bike, but it certainly was hard because of the mechanical issues I experienced. So I am glad that they were proud of me, because I displayed hard work and determination, which are values my children will carry for the rest of their lives. I am thankful that the ride allowed me the opportunity to give my children a story they will always remember.

The Illinois River Ramble is not a well known ride. Andrew Young, the organizer, is not hugging every participant after they cross the finish line. It is not a destination for professional gravel racers who want to collect podiums. In fact, there were not even finisher medals. At the end of the ride, you were greeted warmly, offered a BBQ sandwich, and surrounded by live music.

Many years ago, I would wake up and ride my bike down Evergreen Boulevard to Shorewood Drive and then onto Beach Drive toward Wintler Park on the Columbia River. I did it because it felt like it was a lifetime away, even though it was only two miles. It was there that I discovered the spirit of gravel long before I knew it had a name. At the Illinois River Ramble, I felt it alive and strong once again.

Illinois River Ramble 2025: A Day on Cherokee County Gravel