Texas seems obsessed with gravel racing. Every small town has one, and I wanted to see what the noise was about. Here’s what happened.

We picked Doss Gravel mostly because it fit the calendar. It was the next open weekend, the nearest thing that looked fun, and honestly, I’d been losing weight, riding more, feeling that pull again. I love my gravel bike. Maybe it was time to race.

It still seemed like a silly idea. I’m not in great shape, not the kind that floats to the front of the pack. Sure, I’ve been riding almost every day, but that’s not the same as being fast. Still, the Texas gravel scene looked good — dirt roads, friendly chaos, good people. Why not?

The night before the race, I ate like a man who thought calories could become courage. Big dinner, maybe too big, but I slept great. We left before dawn, driving through the dark out to Doss, Texas. At the start line it was me, Mark, Brett, and Boots. We were joking around, pretending it was all casual, but I was nervous. I didn’t even know if I could finish.

number_plate

My training plan said to stay in the 140s for heart rate — Zone 2, the safe zone. That lasted about five minutes. Once the gun went off, I was in the 150s and knew I’d be there all day.

Brett took off. So did Mark. Boots, though — Boots stayed with me.
We rode dirt, gravel, patches of sand. There were a few shallow water crossings and miles of honest pedaling. About sixty percent through, I was feeling good. Then came the last hill. It crushed me. And as if the universe wanted to finish the job, we turned into a headwind on the final road section.

Boots sat on the front and pulled me for what felt like forever. My legs started cramping, and I could feel a few riders coming around us near the end. Still, I crossed the line in 15th out of 49. I’ll take that.
Mark landed somewhere around fifth, Brett snagged second — both killer rides. Couldn’t be prouder.

bikes

Nutrition? Not great. I ate too little, too late. Water and electrolytes were dialed, but by the end my legs were locking up. Lesson learned. The bike, though — the Santa Cruz Stigmata — perfect. That thing is a mountain biker’s gravel bike. Stable, quick, familiar. And that little number plate holder I printed? Worked flawlessly. Small win, big smile.

Afterward, the beers hit hard and good. I think it was three… maybe five. Doesn’t matter. The laughter was the same either way — dusty, happy, exhausted. Great adventure, great friends, great riding, excellent event. We’ll be back next year.

beer

On the drive home I got a little emotional. Not sure why. Maybe it was the huge caloric drain, or maybe just racing again after all these years. Maybe it was watching a friend like Boots burn his legs towing me home. Whatever it was, it stuck with me. Gratitude. Pure and simple.