The Magic of 100 Miles

A crisp, clear afternoon in late September of 2020 found me pedaling up the Blackwater Canyon Trail from Hendricks to Douglas, West Virginia. I was not happy. My back hurt, my knees ached, and my feet were numb.

The nature of the rail-trail meant we were climbing a solid 3.5 percent grade without a single descent. Usually an attainable 21-mile round trip for tourists or new riders, I was 63 miles into a 103-mile ride and wanted to finish by sunset. There was no time for breaks to take in the views or rest my back. I nicknamed that section the "Meat Grinder" that day. I could easily have asked myself, "Why am I doing this?" But I didn't. I knew exactly why.

What Now?

At some point in our lives, we all face moments of aimlessness and lack of zest for life. A significant life change often triggers these moments, perhaps the children leaving home or losing a career-defining job. Or, we may find ourselves stuck in a well-worn, comfortable rut that we know in our hearts leads nowhere.

My life took a traumatic turn in January 2020 when I lost my husband of 13 years, Eric, to cancer. In the final years leading up to his passing, my focus was primarily on his care, an endurance feat of its own. Suddenly, without such a defined purpose—or my best friend—I was lost. I found comfort in the rut of our well-worn couch, surrounded by all his stuff.

Further trapped by the pandemic shutdowns, I found a way to pass the time like many others: I watched a lot of YouTube. I gravitated toward adventure stories, and I started to dream about solo bikepacking trips for the simplicity of the lifestyle. But once I factored in the loneliness, I lost interest. I had plenty of that already.

The Spark

Watching stories of others experiencing life, I realized, on some subconscious level, that I was watching magic unfold. Many of these athletes or adventurers had set lofty goals and were either achieving them or making every effort to do so.

I inherently understood the purpose of goal-setting. Goals help us pick a direction and set us on a specific path. They can be financial, career-oriented, or physical, such as losing weight or building fitness. A particular target provides much more direction than a generic desire. A goal race was my ticket, even though I didn't know it then.

Between vanlife and bikepacking videos, I ran into videos about the Leadville Trail 100 Mountain Bike Race. The LT100 MTB boasts 105 miles of high-altitude, off-road racing, averaging 115 feet per mile of climbing. Topping out at an elevation of 12,516 feet, I knew this race had the power to inspire me to action.

Eric and I had watched the film Race Across the Sky (2010) a few years earlier. But now, as I took in the race's epic climbs, gnarly descents, and staggering altitude, I started to feel something…something besides sadness. There was a spark. It didn't take long to ignite a flicker of hope, something I hadn't felt in months. I could do that race. I don't know how, but I know. I should at least try.

A Goal Race to Top Them All

So, what is a goal race? It's a challenging event to which you register and commit. Setting a goal race has some very tangible benefits.

1. Focus: Our daily lives pull us in a million directions. Setting our sights on a specific distance on a particular day forces us to focus on preparing for that race. Training for a goal race fosters commitment. This commitment helps us sort out distractions and spend our precious life force focusing on the people and things that matter.
2. Persistence and Perseverance: Training itself is hard work. We often need help maintaining our best intentions to work out or be active. Training for a goal race forces us to build up a process for navigating these challenges. Without a specific goal, it's easy to put something—or everything—else first.
3. Self-Confidence & Growth: This one might be the most fun. The boost from achieving a goal fuels us to set the next one. Setting and reaching goals builds up a portfolio of achievement, allowing us to consider next-level pursuits that earlier would've seemed impossible.

Remember, dear reader, it's been four years since I sat on that couch watching those videos. It's as if future-me was pulling me toward Leadville because she knew I'd come to realize everything above. At the time, I just needed something to wake me up.

My First 100 Miles

I had never ridden anything near 100 miles off-road, or on, for that matter. But I had prepared for a marathon in the past and understood the basics of endurance training. Over 16 weeks, I watched my running ability grow from one mile to 26. After what I'd just been through with my husband, I had solid faith in my capacity to adapt and endure. I didn't want it to go to waste.

And so it began. I decided to ride 100 miles of mixed surfaces on Eric's birthday weekend in September 2020. I remember announcing this to two of my riding buddies one spring afternoon as we set up for a ride in Blackwater Falls State Park: "I'm gonna ride 100 miles this year!" Neither one told me I was crazy. They supported me by joining me on my long-distance gravel rides, as did many others, and coming up with incredible routes around West Virginia.

In the early days, my training consisted mainly of adding mileage. Almost every weekend, my friends would devise a gravel route that upped the ante from the previous week. I learned so much on these rides, including what and what not to eat, how too much water made for too many stops, and how a new chamois could make all the difference in the world.

As September approached, I spent hours on RideWithGPS devising a local 100-mile route. I wanted to start and finish at my home outside Davis, WV. At 6:00 am, joined by four ladies, I rolled out onto Canaan Loop Road in the dark. Descending Forest Road 244 in the chill morning air was better than a cup of coffee. I was awake now! After a short time on 72, we turned onto River Road along the Dry Fork of the Cheat. I wanted to be here for sunrise, and we were. Settling in at a steady pace along the river on which Eric and I had run so many kayaking trips, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

Returning along the river and eventually joining the Allegheny Highlands Trail, we reached the first planned stop about 30 miles in. My friends Ed and Stro were running SAG (short for support and gear), so we topped off our water and snacks and checked over the bikes. Some riders left while new ones joined. Charlie stayed on, and little did I know she planned to ride the whole route. We headed through Parsons onto Government Road, a lovely stretch of gravel along the Shavers Fork of the Cheat. I felt strong as we pedaled out and back along the river. Retracing our steps through Parsons, we headed toward the start of the Blackwater Canyon Trail, a.k.a. the Meat Grinder.

Peaks and Valleys

Any long-distance, human-powered trip traverses many peaks and valleys, regardless of the terrain's elevation profile. Sometimes, the mind, body, and spirit are in sync, and the effort comes easily. This ride up the Meat Grinder did not! Nothing was in sync. Thanks to a poor bike fit, my body was firing off all sorts of pain notifications. My mind started to wander into boredom, and my spirit was sinking like a rock. This was not a difficult climb, but I was more than halfway through the day, and the relentless grade was taking its toll. How could I do another 40 miles if I felt like this now? The climbing had only just begun.

Climbing—that's what I was here for. If I were going to race the LT100, I'd better get used to it. Leadville's infamous Columbine climb starts at mile 45 and climbs 3,150 feet over seven miles—an average grade of almost 9 percent. The high point and turnaround of the race is well above the treeline at 12,516 feet elevation. This stretch of rail-trail I was riding wasn't even a quarter as challenging. Knowing this didn't make the climb seem any easier, or the pain dissipate, but it buoyed my spirit just enough. I am doing this for a specific purpose. This 100-mile ride may have been the culmination of my training for 2020, but it was only the beginning of my training for Leadville, Colorado.

We eventually passed the plunging roar of Douglas Falls and topped out onto a gravel road heading toward Thomas. I yearned for a coffee and pastry from TipTop, but there was no time. My support crew was waiting with the next round of supplies at mile 76: Blackwater Bikes in Davis. By this point, I was hungry and tired and spent too much time wandering around, going to the bathroom, snacking on pretzels, and sitting down. I look back now and realize I was highly under-fueled during the ride. I hadn't yet heard the adage: "Leadville is an eating contest disguised as a bike race." Most long-distance events are. I simply didn't know how much I should've been eating.

The Home Stretch

It was 3:30 pm, and I had another 30 miles to reach my home atop Canaan Mountain. I was exhausted. Endurance efforts of this type are typically considered a solo endeavor. But our group that ascended the Blackwater Canyon had grown. Charlie was still with me, and several of my training buddies joined. Knowing my friends were up ahead gave me much-needed mental and emotional sustenance.

We climbed up A-Frame Road on the eastern rim of Canaan Valley and took a break at a spectacular overview of the Canaan Valley National Wildlife Refuge. It dawned on me that I had to cross the valley and climb up to the top of the far ridge. I didn't know if I had it in me. My friend Chrissy, a yoga teacher, encouraged me to stretch my back and legs using the railing for "legs up the wall" pose. As I lay on the deck, looking at the clouds overhead, I could feel all the used-up and tired energy draining from my lower body and getting restored with freshly oxygenated blood. The feeling came back to my feet. More rides would benefit from such a stretch!

We caught golden hour while traversing Canaan Valley on the Middle Valley Trail. We joined up with the Blackwater View Trail, a few miles of freshly built singletrack by Appalachian Dirt. We popped out onto the Beall track parking lot, and I realized my rear tire was extremely low. I should've gotten off and added air. But we still had four miles to go and a steep climb. I knew if I got off the bike, I wouldn't get back on.

Shortly after, we crossed the 100-mile mark. My friend Dan whooped, hollered, and congratulated me: "100 miles, you did it!" He was right, but I was still three miles from home, so I couldn't relax. I did, at least, crack a smile.

Pulling into the driveway, packed with friends already celebrating my arrival by the bonfire, was surreal. My body was trashed. I was so tired that I couldn't find the energy to be excited. But as I sat down, legs still buzzing, I took it all in. I did it. I rode 100 miles—103.4 miles, to be exact. I proved I could spend all day on a bike. I had much to learn, but Leadville suddenly became possible.

I soon realized this mission had grown larger than me and my two wheels. I was not the only one heavily invested in my success—my friends, family, and crew were, too. As my first attempt at the LT100 approached in 2023, I began sharing my journey online, and the circle expanded to include those who heard my story and were inspired. 

Truthfully, I'm not some genetically gifted rider, nor do I have any particular background that makes this mission easy for me. I'm also no spring chicken. But I've learned that a challenging goal met with dedication, consistency, and a good training plan can transform us into something much more powerful than we can imagine. My magic number was 100 miles. What's yours?

I've written many entertaining stories about my journey to Leadville here on The Victory Lap. Subscribe and come along for the ride!

If you enjoyed this story and it made you go "hmmm," please forward it to a friend. For more frequent meanderings, follow me on X @vweeks and Instagram @victoria.weeks.

A version of this article was originally published in the Summer 2024 Edition of Highland Outdoors.