I arrived to Emporia, calm and more rested than usual. The weather for my annual Inbound to Unbound trip didn’t quite pan out, but I was still committed to making the effort. Typically it’s hot AF and I’m icing down and testing out the new summer RedBull flavors. This time I was stopping for many hot chocolates and adding layers, as temps ended up dropping, not rising as the days progressed. A delayed day one start only had me making 50 miles before the first night. Day two brought some massive headwinds and I made it 100 miles to Independence, KS. I had thought about staying and making the following 120 miles to Emporia on day three, but the weather had turned again, and was looking like rain and headwinds all day. I have a local Emporia friend Bob who was willing to pick me up so I made the call to cut it short.

I’ve done the bikepacking trip 3 full times, and didn’t feel the need to prove anything to myself or others, or suffer any more than necessary. I figured I’d save the rain, my body, and bike, for race day, joking that I’d had enough already. Older, wiser, more protective of myself and the energy I have to give. I wanted to ensure I was ready and rested by the time I rolled up to my 6th Unbound XL start line.

Our Emporia hosts, The Rech’s, welcomed me “home” on Wednesday evening. Unfortunately on Thursday morning, Chris’ dad passed away and they made the trip to Iowa. Which meant I was home alone in the big craftsman house, missing the nightly mules and cribbage games. Missing family dinner and small talk. Missing porch hangs. I went into Unbound week with a different energy. I helped out at Merchant Cycles for a day, and got a chance to connect with (and get cracked by) my favorite local chiropractor family, the Owen’s. Soon enough, the house began to fill with my teammates, and friends started rolling into town. Emporia turns from sleepy to bustling overnight, and pretty soon it’s time to start readying the bike and gear.

Unbound start line number Eight. Two×200. Six×350. One XL DNF. I came in search of a 5th XL finish and the coveted cast iron fry pan. I came in ready, body and mind, for a big day out. I came in ready for the terrain ahead and to push my body to the limit.

I wasn’t ready to have to make a call for my own personal safety. I wasn’t ready to fear for my life.

Meg and I rolled downtown a half hour before the gun. Stopped at Untapped for the annual maple creemee! And…mine fell off the cone onto my handlebar and front wheel. Someone kindly help me wipe it off and “hosed” it down with a water bottle. Just my luck. Got to the start. Our last together for a long while - someone got into med school! (very much excited for Megsie!) Held each other, cried too many tears, thought of Kyle during the national anthem, and waved at all of teammates and friends who came to see us off. My friend Lo glittered our cheeks. 3,2,1 … We were on our way, propelled by the cheers of the fans along the fences of Commercial Ave, to the buzz of a helicopter above, and with the wind that seems to never stop blowing.

Fast. Dusty. Hot. The usual XL roll out. The front folks push the pace, and it’s mostly smart riding. I eventually let up, making sure not to go over my threshold for too long. My belly feels a tinge unhappy. We hit the open cattle pens, my favorite Kansas roads, and look back towards Emporia and the storm that’s hitting town. I have flashbacks to my first Unbound in 2018 with a massive tailwind, and the cattle guard that jumbled my chain and front derailleur (lol haven’t used one of those in a minute!). I remembered Jon and Janeen who came to my rescue. Smiled with the sun in my face. I stop to fill a low tire, but am back rolling quickly.

Those early miles roll fast. A few climbs, but mostly flowing roads lead us back to Madison and our first stop. I immediately start scanning the ground for full bottles of water and an open ice bag. A tactic I learned at my first XL in 2021. I see photographers Christopher and Kyle, and I start singing a little modified Pocahontas. “Scavengers, scavengers, barely even human” as I’m filling my hydro vest and stuffing my jersey with ice. Spirits are high. I head inside and wait in a 20 min line, drinking my white peach RedBull and eating an ice cream cookie sandwich. I have someone hold my spot in line to use the restroom, which greatly helped the unhappy belly.

“Can you believe that line!?” I yell to no one in general, as I exit the store, giggling.

Even with the few hiccups, the first 60 miles were fixed by this stop, and I was onward to watch the sun set. I switch my sunnies to my clear lenses, plug in my helmet headlamp, and I’m on my way. Smiling big.

We hit The Judge just as the sun was setting. Descended down the chunk at dusk. Had a few too many close calls with black {witchy} cows performing seances in the middle of the road late at night. Yelling “cow!” hits a little like “car!” and reminds me of playing street hockey as a kid.

“‘Game on!’ as we roll slowly past, onward into the night.”

Sunset. Sunrise. And most of the time, another sunset. Spoiler alert, that was not to be this year. But sharing that first sunset with Cree and Kyle T as I rode by, yipping and yelling into the sky, was a massive highlight of this experience. I loved watching the sky change from blue, to orange, to red, pink, purple, back to blue, and then darkness. The moonrise over the thunder clouds was eerie; an omen of what came next.

We roll into Casey’s number 2 just after midnight, thankful for the woman who kept it open for us, no thanks to her boss who instructed her to close up shop. I told her she’s literally saving lives and thanked her profusely. I exit, water filled, RedBull consumed and powdered donuts down the hatch.

I left with one other rider, and we swapped stories and pulls, as we headed into the darkness. I love riding during a warm summer night. We were making great time, and enjoying this bit. I missed a call from Meg, and we played phone tag for a bit. I answer “I’m having the best time ever!” meanwhile she’s in tears, in a lightening storm, fearful of her life. “Have you hit the mud yet?” she asks. “What mud? when?” of which she describes it’s mostly ridable. “Don’t listen to your clicking derailleur, just keep pedaling,” she coaches. “Okay, thank you for the info, and I see that storm you’re riding through, please please be safe. Love you forever.”

Ugh, well I suppose it was inevitable. We couldn’t keep dodging the storms forever. We kept being utterly and literally blown away by the far away lightening storms. We’d see at least 3 different cells all go in succession, surrounding us. Somehow, we’d been weaving our way around the Kansas patchwork and avoiding them. I kept zooming in and out on the map and realize, yeah we’re eventually going to catch up to that one.

We hit the mud with nervous anticipation. Lots of folks were walking and working on clearing bikes. But I heeded Meg’s advice and just kept pedaling. Luckily the road was mostly at a 0% grade and then eventually downhill, so we were able to keep things moving. The mud was wet enough, and since it wasn’t sunny, it wasn’t turning to clay instantly. After cursing the 45c tires for the first 100 miles wishing I’d kept the 50s, I was finally rewarded with the tire choice and clearance. I kept on the fueling plan and got to Matfield Green mostly on schedule.

There was a little confusion on where the stop was. Folks were at the toilets and hose, then at the local pay per item fridge, then at the pay for hot food truck, and then finally the neutral aid. Everything was wet as that major thunderstorm with heavy rains had just passed through. I stayed for a bit eating pickles, micro candy bars, a few chips, bananas. Filled the water and was on my way. At that point I was 163 miles into the race, 13 hours and 40 minutes elapsed time. 4:40am. It was almost dawn, and the promise of the sunrise soon. It was “only” 45 miles to the Jump Start gas station in Florence, so I figured it’d be under 4 hours to get there. 9:00am seems like a reasonable goal for a little breakfast of champions.

Famous. Last. Thoughts.

It took 5:26 to get there. Okay, not so bad. I got stopped by a long train just as the arms were coming down. Used the time to eat and drink thoughtfully. There were a few of us, but riding at significantly different paces. A storm was brewing behind and caught up. I was dumped on for 40 minutes straight, but the gravel was good, and I was still swiftly moving with decent tail wind, but I was also traveling at the same speed as the rain. My mindset was still positive, at least it wasn’t an MMR (minimum maintenance road), and that I was easily rolling and ticking off the miles. But just as it let up, the road turned right. And onto one of the many the infamous MMRs of Kansas. I was alone, and the trudge began.

It’s hard to describe what the “process” is for making it through these roads when they’ve recently been rained on. The mud is clay and sticky and heavy AF. One revolution of your wheel and everything is clogged and stuck to your tires and frame. The bike no longer rolls, so then you try and heave and ho the bike, but the additional wet mud adds significant weight. You look for any bit of puddle or water to attempt to roll and clear the bike. and then head for the “side” of the road which is usually a bunch of tall grass hiding who knows what. Snakes, tics, ankle breaking boulders, watery mud, and my hopes and dreams. Constantly switching sides looking for the “better” line but nothing is good. It’s just one of those one foot in front of another, keep moving forward battles you play with your mind and body. I try not to look at the distance to the next turn (3.4 miles, 4.8 miles, omg no, please no). You’re looking for any moment to try and get back on the bike to ride.

Right around 8:30am the skies turned the most scary black I’ve ever seen. Low lying clouds were looking eerie, omnious, and then the skies opened up. It’s now pouring rain and the lightening strikes begin. And for 30 minutes, they don’t stop. I saw lightening strike in front of, behind, and on both sides of me. The instant crackle of rumbling statically charged thunder boomed above during each strike. There was no counting the seconds to see how many miles away it was. They were here. Like the mortars of the sky, bombing down upon us. I was hysterical. Crying, sobbing, fearful of my life. The rain was dumping, and I could barely see through the falling tears from my eyes and rain dumping down my helmet.

There was zero shelter. We were walking next to tall metal fence posts and barb wire. Folks were laying in the very shallow “ditches” between the mud roads and shitty trails blazed by those who walked before us, taking “cover?” I knew I couldn’t stop. I had a foil emergency bivy, but even if I pressed SOS on the tracker, it’d be hours before anyone could get out here, and it’d be lucky if a Jeep could even drive these roads without getting stuck. I had to keep my heart rate up and legs moving to stay warm. Survival instincts are a fucked up thing to “deploy” in a paid race environment.

The next turn and hope for a barn or regular road was 1.5 miles away. The only way through was forward. Any chance I got I tried to ride. “Maybe the rubber on my tires will save me” as we ride through puddles. Water. Trudging, walking, forging forward in ankle deep water. In a lightening storm. This is not safe. WTF why aren’t we being texted that the race is cancelled. There’s no way they don’t know we are being bombarded by lightening. I told the folks around me that if I die, please tell my husband I love him, and I died doing what I love, but in this moment I was fearful of my life. And I’m sorry.

After making it through that cell, my nerves were completely fried. There was continual strikes all around, and I knew this wasn’t the end of it. The next 5 miles took another hour. I reached Florence, mile 207, at 10am. 19 hours of riding.

The gas station looked like a dirt bomb went off inside. This is so fucked up. In the pre-race briefing, they said they’d tell the gas stations if we needed to shelter in place. This attendant didn’t even know there was a race going on and was confused as to why all of these mud covered spandex clad folks were going to make her shift incredibly hard.

Everyone there was quitting. I knew I needed to have a quick resupply, and get out of there before someone convinced me otherwise. I knew there was more mud ahead. The one Jeep assigned to this area had warned us. But I knew that if I quit now I’d always ask myself, “what if?” and so I had to continue to see for myself. I had planned to do my new bib and swap sock here, but hearing of the future impending doom (aka more MMR death marches to come) I figured I’d save it until Council Grove.

I spot Paulina and we roll out together. She’s had some bad XL luck, and I knew she wanted to finish more than anyone. We ride together mostly quiet, I think processing what just happened, and dreaming / dreading of what was to come. You can’t think that far ahead. Just in the here and now, how can we keep moving forward. Little by little.

And gosh, was it slow going. We were immediately struck with “roads” with major flooding, massive mud piles, steep embankments, and basically rivers flowing on the entire width.

“I think this is what folks call ‘trauma bonding.’”

I say to Paulina as we are mid-way through embarking on this absolute shit show of a race course. It’s been decimated by intense rain storms. I see more black clouds. We make it through one final plodding slog and I’m more than over it. I’m constantly doing the math. We get riding again, and now we have a massive headwind. There’s no way I will make the 3am cutoff.

In 3.5 hours, we made it only 18 more miles.

I knew there was more walking to come. I knew there were more storms to come. I knew that I had to put my own safety first, because Unbound proved to me they do not.

So I stopped. When it was sunny. At mile 225.

My phone was almost dead and in trying to charge it, got yelled at for having water in the port. There was a nice woman and her son spectating out there in the middle of nowhere, waiting on her dad. I used her phone to call Britt and Meghan and arrange a ride back to town. (Meghan pulled the plug at mile 190.) While waiting, the nice woman set out a camp chair, gave me an umbrella for the sun, and made me ramen noodles. Heck, I almost felt like getting back up and riding again! (Absolutely not.) The car ride back was mostly silent. We both knew what each other went through and there was nothing to discuss.

Got back to Emporia and actually had the chance to cheer my teammates across the finish line, as Gabby and Grace were completing their own 200 mile journeys. We all swapped stories and began the cleanup and packup. I left after awards on Sunday, in the car to Minneapolis with my friend Erin. The Rech’s got back Sunday night after we were all gone.

2026 Unbound XL was so fun, until it wasn’t. I’ve never been so terrified for my life. Not only did it break my heart, it cracked my trust in event organizers. I’ve had some time to process this experience and where it leads me next. I have significant ptsd with lightening and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to experience a storm like that in awe ever again. I’ve now had three pretty serious encounters with it, and mother nature doesn’t pick favorites.

The glorification of gritting through dangerous conditions is mind boggling to me. It’s one thing if it’s rain and mud and adverse conditions. But to include many half marathons of miles walking is extreme. Lightening is a whole different beast. When you tell folks you have “systems in place” for adverse weather conditions and then not hear a peep, it speaks more than volumes. When you tell folks you’ll provide reroutes for the really muddy bits and then don’t, it’s hard not to lose trust.

I do these events for the challenge, for the time with others and alone, and to experience the terrain and find things within myself. Some that don’t seem possible. And others that are worth the hard work, preparation, and dedication I’ve given to this sport for a decade. I’ve done many hard things. But quitting wasn’t hard. It was the right call for me.

As I laid in bed at 10:30pm on Saturday, and heard that major storm rolling through, I couldn’t help but think of those still out there and hoping that no one was hurt. Knowing that would still be me. And knowing there was no way I would’ve made it to that finish line.

This is the thing. I love Unbound. I love Emporia. I love Kansas gravel. It’s so hard not to feel so heartbroken by something that’s so much a part of who I am.

Currently I’m in Chicago, where I first found gravel. This time for a layover, as I head back to Italy from my bike US Bike Deployment. I head home without knowing when I’ll be back in the US. Kyle’s current orders are through April 2027. He has preliminary follow on orders to Yokouska, Japan. PCS’ing isn’t easy, especially from an overseas base to another, to a country I’ve never been to. I know to not get too excited or plan to much in advance as these things are always changing and are never certain until the final orders are cut. And there’s no real timeline for that. But I am excited about staying overseas, and the possibility of exploring a new to me place. As always, by bike.

Grieving Unbound

Lael’s Rallies - Croatia