The Barry-Roubaix is one of the largest gravel races in the US, a weekend where thousands of cyclists from across the country and even the world descend on Hastings, Michigan to battle it out–or just to survive–across 18 to 100 miles of Barry County's fine gravel roads, which include never-ending hills, sand traps, and surprises.

My cousin has been doing the BRX for years, and the time had finally come where I had the interest, equipment, and fitness to join him. At least, so I thought...

In late 2024 I signed up for the 62-mile race, not quite feeling ready for the 100-miles, but then in December I broke my leg (proximal fibia fracture and a severe high ankle sprain) on a fun daytrip to Chicago that included an excursion on the ice in Millenium Park.

A week in a splint, then two months in an air cast, but I held onto the hope that I could be ready. I started using the indoor trainer while still in the aircast, which wasn't great but worked. With one month to go I was able to venture out with a mere ankle brace, testing myself against the urban gravel path along the White River, then on the brutal chunky gravel roads outside Indianapolis.

My wife and I drove up to Hastings on Friday, arriving in time to meet up with my cousin, join a pre-race 10-mile cruise, then hang around for the raffles, where I won a bundle with an awesome car magnet, t-shirt (for my wife, since Large size is a no-go for me), and coffee.

Race day we had a casual 11AM start after the 100- and 36-miles waves. I started in the last of the 62-mile waves since I was not going to be racing anyone but myself. We started off with a decent pace, full of adrenaline and pre-race coffee, but the Three Sisters (hills) quickly spaced us out. Did I mention that I am not a climber? What's the opposite of a climber? I'm not great at descending, either :p.

Shaw Road, the first sand trap, was an absolute blast, even though the sand was a mess of tracks and signs of innumerable wipeouts past. Everyone was helpful, encouraging, and gracious as we fought our own demons and fears to get through it. By the time we got to Sager Road we all felt like seasoned pros.

Twenty miles in I started wondering if I should have done the 18-miler, as energy started to drain and things started to hurt. But the first SAG stop was coming up, where I found cheerful volunteers with PB&J sandwiches and cool hydration.

By forty miles my quads were cramping ferociously on every climb and time was slipping away. "when is the cutoff at the next SAG stop–3:00 or 3:30" became an important, recurring thought. I hit it just before 3:00, four hours in, just as they were about to shut it down, so a very quick refill and text to my wife and I was off again (the cutoff was actually 3:30 though).

The last 10-15 miles were slow and painful, trying to fight off cramps on the uphills and not having the energy to do more than coast on the downs. Three miles out I came upon someone walking their bike with a flat, who I quickly offered to help, as much for them as to give myself a break. I mostly wasted a CO2 canister since I had never wanted to waste one learning to use it (learn to use your tools folks) then spent a few minutes of work with my hand pump to get enough air into the tire to limp to the finish.

It was wonderful rolling into the finish line in Hastings–the scattered souls still lining the streets to see the last few weary riders in, my wife doing her diligence as my personal photographer–I spread my wings in celebration of another grand adventure.

Maybe I'll do the 100 next year.