New year, new bike, new goals to fill the holes of self imposed failures of a bygone year.
The maestro of stoke and perpetually effervescent person that is Bobby Wintle called out to our small crowd of mingling cyclists from atop the front desk of the bike shop. We gathered in the inner workings of District Bicycles like bees coming home to hive. Bobby was much more subdued then his usual ringleader rock n roll vibe of Mid South proper. This is Mega, this is different, there’s no need for sugarcoating the journey we’re all about to embark on, including Bobby.
From his lips to the gravel gods, he described the energy around this event, in this packed little bike shop, as the early days of Mid South. The early days of gravel. The days when it was a handful of close friends about to set out and see what’s possible on their home roads atop the bikes they loved. With a few updates on resource availability and potential hazards, we were released to go forth and forage in whatever manner seemed advantageous for the miles to come. Beer, pizza, and Thai food flowith.
Bikes of all shapes, colors, sizes, and speeds scattered the facade of Stonecloud Brewing just down the street from District at the beer release party. There was one question that came again and again as this group of odd balls weaved among their steeds.
“What’s your plan?”
After some prodding and light peer pressure, I caved to the idea that this was the year to try and do the daunting 300 miles in one go. Truthfully, it was something I had in the back of my mind for months and just needed one final push to accept as my fate. As I began to relent, suggestions as to how I could modify my setup to make this pipe dream come true flew faster than the Mid South branded beverages.
“You don’t need the rack”
“If you’re not stopping you don’t need a sleep system”
“There are enough stops you don’t need all that food”
At the end of the night in my roachy hotel sat my rig in its final form. I lost the rack, bivy, sleeping pad, pillow, half my food, a handful of layers, and my camera (hence the cellphone photos). The brand new Flaanimal 6.0, slightly ill fitting frame bag bursting at the seams, small top tube bag, three bottles, and a feed bag became the final form. I tucked the speed machine into bed and tried my best to get some sleep myself.
Just before true dawn the hive had come back together and there was a quiet underlying buzz as around 120 of us took over 7th street in front of the shop. Last minute bag checks, coffee and morning treats, and fiddling with what layers to roll out in on this first cool, crisp morning of the year rippled through the group. One last stoking of our fires from the man of the hour, and we were off.
We’d begun the familiar ant march departure down the red bricks of 9th street and under the bridge at Perkins Road through Hoyt Park and then out to 12th where all bets were off and the race was on.
The early miles were filled with the soft rays of the morning sun popping over each of the many sharp steep hills. It was a calm vibe for those of us not at the front of the race and a good time to catch up with friends both new and old.
We wove and wound closer to the chocolaty river of mud that threatened to burst beyond its banks just a day or two before. The mighty Cimmerian churned thick with all of the sediment that makes these red dirt roads famous. Sediment that had been picked up with over six inches of rains that had fallen in the last few days. This sediment once started hundreds of miles away in New Mexico and will end up hundreds of more miles away towards the Gulf. These thoughts rushed through my brain as a semi passed close and cut the daydreamy thoughts. We all rolled up to the Ripley gas station, found what morsels filled our fancy and rolled along. Back to our ant march.
From Ripley I rolled with my friend Ryan Hostetler from the KC area. We were pacing magically and it was nice to fit in some brotherly therapy and chat as the miles ticked by. At the Carney Express there was no graveyard of half-alive zombie bikers as there had been the first year in 2024 when the temps reached 103. The vibes were exceedingly high, and everyone shuffled in and out of the little gas station in an orderly and cheerful manner. I was feeling good and grabbed what little food I needed and rolled out once again with Ryan. Elated to be back on roads I’d said goodbye to the previous year when I pulled the plug due to some ongoing leg and health issues.
The next forty miles were magical. Ryan and I found a groove and began slowly catching people who’d been weathered by the hundreds of small punchy hills. Just about the time we were both starting to feel the effects ourselves there was a roadside trail angel station grilling hotdogs. Half a hotdog was the cure we needed to keep rolling.
At the gas station along i35 we decided our weather legs and grumbling bellies needed something more substantial than the gas station could offer and decided to detour just off route to a Hawaiian restaurant in the historic city of Guthrie. Heaping plates of magical meats and rice were set upon us and we had our fill as the rays of the sun began to dip low in the sky.
Not long after rolling out of town, darkness began to fall. The ruts that had been an infrequent but consistent companion in the daytime had begun to transform and morph into frightening hazards of the night. They surely were no larger or in any different form than their daytime counterparts, but one close slip was enough to shake me mentally. Just before the famous gnarnia section, Ryan and I checked in with each other. The chatter between us had begun to dwindle a little, and our legs had begun to succumb to the miles and climbing. The ruts, cold, and fatigue were taking their toll, and we decided that the new goal was to make it to Perry and get a handful of hours of sleep in a hotel before tackling the back stretch of the course in the daylight.
Gnarnia was quiet. Almost all of the miles until now had been filled with delightful chatter, but the overgrown, rocky, and rutted “road” required our full attention. After a clean exit, we chugged the final 13 or so miles to Perry, passing other Kansas friends and finally bellying up to the Arby’s that was nested in the 24/7 Loves gas station just after midnight.
A cheesesteak is what caught my attention and before I could get fully settled into my seat I heard my name like a dinner bell from the counter. The cheesesteak had a mysterious extra flavor and an opaque juice, but it was hot and I overlooked these potential hazards in my cold and delirious state.
Within the span of a half an hour we assembled a small crew of mega riders in the Arby’s seating area. We swapped battle stories of the miles so far and plotted on the miles to come with great glee. After food and goodbyes to those soldiers marching their way into the night, Ryan, another eastern KS compatriot, Aaron Taylor, and I rolled to the Super 8 for some much needed relief and sleep. We agreed we’d see each other for a roll out at 6 am sharp.
After a hot shower and settling into bed a feeling came over me that caused some internal panic. My stomach had flipped and I found myself becoming fast friends with the bathroom that had just provided sweet bliss from the hot shower. The Arby’s was back with a vengeance. Many hours of discomfort passed and I was finally released from my own personal porcelain hell for a couple hours of sleep. I texted Ryan and let him know I would not be making our 6 am rendezvous.
A measly two hours of sleep later, I was wide awake. It was 7:33 am and I had no better reason to keep sitting around and began prepping to roll out and test the murky waters of my bowels.
On the way out of town, I helped another rider adjust his rear derailleur as his bike hung from a dumpster on the side of the road. He’d taken a pretty hard driveside slam the night before curtesy of the ruts and only now regained use of his full cassette. We rolled up the first big hill on the way out of town, and I knew at that moment, teetering between pushing up the hill and not pushing out a little extra in the bibs that my ride was over.
I limped my way with many short stops to compose myself to mile 180 on course. It was just south of Lake McMurtry and the closest point to Stillwater on course. After around 26 hours, I pulled up to my car in a very reminiscent way as the year prior feeling a bit defeated.
I rolled over to District to see who’d successfully pulled across the line and who also scratched. I was met by Crystal Wintle’s gentle and warm presence. She’s a huge reason that District and the Mid South are the major successes they are, and is easily one of the kindest people I’ve met. She’d been at the shop since the first finisher pulled in and hadn’t left, ensuring that every subsequent finisher had someone there to cheer them in with the same enthusiasm as if they’d won. When I broke the news of why I’d pulled out, she couldn’t help but half chuckle that it was Arby’s that was the nail in my ride’s coffin. Apparently, the year prior a few riders had befell a similar fate to me.
I popped into the shop for a hot shower and contemplated what it meant for me to have come up short two years in a row. Under the warm water, I couldn’t really find any reason within myself to be particularly dissatisfied or disappointed. I’d ridden my longest consecutive mileage at a wonderful pace with people that I love and feel like family. Sure I’d come up short, but what filled the nearly 200 miles was nothing but bliss. My legs hurt, my stomach bubbled, but I had been enveloped in a continuously joyous experience.
Failure is something I deal with as someone who wants to be proficient in cycling. I’ve been a competitive athlete most of my life. Never at the highest level, but at the highest level I can achieve. When I come up short it kills a little something inside me, and takes a lot of puzzling to piece it back together in a healthy way. I think it’s become an increasingly healthy for me to live in these moments I see as failures. No one notices or cares but me. Sitting around District and catching up with people who both scratched and finished there wasn’t a losers table and winners thrown. We were all equal, sharing stories and drinks in the mild morning sun. The hugs, congratulations, and condolences all felt the same. They all came from a common place and shared experience. I love this community and all of the people in it. There are no failures in the eyes of my peers, only love and support, and that’s what keeps me coming back year after year.
This is both your encouragement to sign up for mega next year and your formal warning to skip the Arby’s.
Love you and see you down the road!
One response to “Red Dirt Love: Mega Mid South 2026”
Well ridden, well written! Thanks for sharing. It sucks that Arby’s did you dirty like that, but you’re right, those nearly 200 miles sounded beautiful regardless.