The Big (Not So) Lonely

Words by Hannah Dhonau, photos by Erich Weidenkeller and Sean Dronia

In 2019, I hit the end of my Tour Divide race a little more than 10 miles outside of Mack’s Inn, Idaho. The dominoes that led to scratching from the race began to topple well before that year’s grand depart from Banff. That spring, I lost motivation for the solitary weekends of riding around the stark Utah desert while friends mountain biked and skied together at every opportunity.

My training plan showed the green blocks on the calendar, indicating the “successful” workouts. I knew checking the boxes wasn’t enough to get down the length of the continent. I hoped—though I knew better—that once I got to Banff, I would find some new motivation and purpose for the race. On the first day, hiking up Koko Claims, I linked up with more racers as we hiked our loaded bikes up the rockfall. It was one racer’s birthday, and we sang a winded rendition of “Happy Birthday” as we descended toward Fernie. As I lost ground during the Divide, all I could think of was how isolated I was now that those new friends were days ahead of me. After five days of trying to ride at the pace of those miles ahead, instead of riding at my own sustainable speed, my body and brain were done.

The circumstances around my toeing the line for the 2021 Big Lonely, the 350-mile bikepacking race’s second edition, could not have been more disparate from my attempted run down the Divide. Both the context and the version of myself I brought to Oregon were stronger and more certain than I ever was in 2019. At The Big Lonely, I had my two teammates from the Radical Adventure Riders (RAR) Gravel Team with me, Charley and Delaney. We stood at Phil’s Trailhead west of Bend, Oregon, in the 28ºF cold, not yet ready to ditch our down jackets or say farewell to the hum of idling car engines.

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Our friends were there to see us off, and the three of us were ready—as we’d ever be—to pedal into the darkness for the start of this 350-mile rodeo. We’d head north via singletrack to Sisters before hitting some dirt roads and pavement into Madras. Then, if all went well, we’d make it up and over the Ochoco Mountains into Prineville. From Prineville, we’d roll south before swooping back toward Bend by way of the Paulina Crater. It sounded so simple when you mentioned only the town stops.

I first met Charley and Delaney at RAR Gravel Camp in late February 2020. Twenty of us gathered in southern Arizona at the invitation of Sarah Swallow to ride in community with one another, and for some of us to seek a spot on what is now the RAR Gravel Team. Sarah envisioned a team of 10 FTWN-B (femme, trans, women, non-binary) riders who would race at four national gravel races over the coming year, in addition to each individual working in their community to increase representation at local events.

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Over those four days of riding everything from brake-clutching singletrack to smooth gravel, I got to know Charley, Delaney, and our future teammates. I saw how Charley rode with unparalleled confidence and smoothness. Maybe it’s the prowess gained while racing cyclocross, maybe it’s natural skill, but they can descend the sketchiest trail with a calmness about them. I’d chase them through gulleys, trying to follow their line in the dirt, laughing and squealing at how fast it felt to descend like them.

I grew to know that Delaney is the first to laugh at a joke. Even when it’s not a great joke, they’ll crinkle their nose and smirk to let you know it was at least a little funny. Delaney rode with determination, able to hang on to the front group through the fastest sections while also able to take the moments to remind us how lucky we were to be right there in that moment.

RAR Gravel Team formed shortly before the US entered its first COVID lockdown in March 2020. We kept up a weekly Zoom call, checking in on one another and our rapidly changing routines. We rolled with the postponed race dates and shifting landscape of what it meant to be a bike team in a time without events. We kept riding, some of us more than we ever had with an abundance of time and an absence of plans. As the months ticked by without formal races, we dreamed up bigger and bigger rides we’d do one day, maybe together.

The Big Lonely came across my radar at the prompting of my friend Jackie, who met Jesse Blough, The Big Lonely’s race director, during the Silk Road Mountain Bike Race in 2018. While Jackie and I spent most of 2020 and 2021 planning progressively bigger and dumber rides from our front doors in Utah, she planted the seed about this race in Oregon scheduled for October. The 2020 edition of The Big Lonely saw pouring rain and near-freezing conditions turn the Ochocos’ dirt roads into mashed potatoes. Racers ahead of the rain scooted past without much issue, while those behind the storm walked their bikes for miles and miles with wheels too gobbed-up to roll. Call it the pandemic effect of wanting a tangible challenge to push through, or call it being a middle sister with something to prove, but The Big Lonely intrigued me, and I wanted in.

Throughout the spring and summer of 2021, my text message thread with Charley and Delaney ebbed and flowed with talk of The Big Lonely. Of the 10 of us on RAR Gravel, the three of us were perhaps the least sensible but most eager to try this challenge. We compared and contrasted our bike set ups, tire choice, packing strategy, and snack storage between our day jobs and other team races. We sent one another resupply beta and gathered the all-important information about water sources with the help of friends who recently toured the route. It felt so different, so much stronger, a preparation than the Divide.

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The night before The Big Lonely, we finally (finally!) got to see one another again after a long summer apart. With the help of Jesse Blough, we’d organized an FTWN-B meet-up for racers and any friends in town. We ambled around Pilot Butte, where the race finishes, before rolling through town via bike paths and backways. The group of us sat down to tacos and beers, and conversation flowed from home towns to previous races. There was a palpable warmth to that patio table, even as temperatures fell with the sunset. I’d never before gotten to know folks before a race like this, and I’d never been around so many FTWN-B racers at that. By the numbers, the start list was twice as many men as women and non-binary racers, but I wouldn’t have known from the energy and commanding presence of the riders at dinner. As night fell and the to-do lists remained, we parted ways with well-wishes and whiskey shooters in our pockets as a good-luck treat.

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The next morning, we climbed up flowy singletrack on the way toward the first high point of the race. It was a blurry train of blinking rear lights and headlamps weaving between the pines. Even in the darkness, I recognized the voice of another rider, Hannah Somhegyi. Hannah and I met at RAR Gravel Camp and raced together at Ruta del Jefe, two of only a handful of finishers that year. We leapfrogged for the first part of the route between Bend and Sisters before reconnecting around mile 60 and riding together to Lake Billy Chinook. As she pushed the pace with that strength I saw at Gravel Camp, we caught up on the last two years of life: from new homes and new jobs to new loves. The temperatures rose as we climbed up to the top of the bench above the lake before laughing down the swooping descent to the bridge, where she linked up with Jamey Bryant for the ride into Madras as I settled into my steady climbing rhythm.

I caught up to 2021 Tour Divide winner Lauren Brownlee on the eastern side of the lake, who glanced back with a “Nice work!” as I spun toward her. We spent the miles into the next town stop, Madras, sharing stories of our respective Divide races and preferred Trader Joe’s snacks. I grew to realize how different our experiences had been, not only in terms of pace but also in community. I spent days at the end of my attempt without seeing another racer, having fallen well behind everyone, whereas she was around racers on the pointy end most of the way down the Divide. As we cruised along the pavement stretch, I felt so grateful for this bit of company, savoring the conversation and the sound of another person’s pedal strokes.

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We joked that the first day was “The Big Social,” as Hannah, Jamey, Lauren, and I all wound our way up in the Ochocos and into Ashwood. Jesse had warned us of the “magic fridge” there and its ability to suck people in, as it had in 2020 when the rains started in earnest. The drier weather, albeit cold, made it a more efficient stop, with time enough to visit with dot-watchers and the keeper of the fridge. I last saw Lauren as she was sleeping on the side of the climb up the Ochocos, taking an eight-minute power nap on her way to winning The Big Lonely.

As I knew would happen, the race stretched out quickly that first night with folks employing different—or absent—sleeping strategies. Hannah and Jamey slept soundly for nearly a full night’s rest while I attempted bivy naps on the roadside to even out my slower pace. The second morning, I stopped on a switchback descent to will some warmth back into my body with push-ups as Hannah and Jamey cruised past me. My 2019 self would have felt the frenzy to keep up with their pace, to burn the matches to stay with the group. This round was different: I was calmer, more confident in my ability to keep on keeping on, as long as I moved at a sustainable pace. I watched their silhouettes disappear into the early morning fog.

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I was solo, by definition, but I could see the tire tracks of my fellow racers as I made my way first to Prineville, then up toward the Crater Rim, eventually along the Swamp Wells Trail all the way to the finish up Pilot Butte. I recognized Hannah’s GravelKings, Jamey’s WTB tires, and the numerous Rene Herse knobs in the dirt. Climbs passed quickly as I tried to spot what line the racers ahead of me had taken over the coarse lava rock. At high points, I could see their footprints in the sand as maybe they too had stopped to take in the view of all the ground we’d covered. Each town I stopped through, folks would ask what I was doing, if I was with those other riders. I’d grin and say, “Yup! When did you see them?” eager to find out not for competition, but because I was so proud of how well they were riding. I wanted them to succeed almost more than I cared for my own finish.

Most of my time on the Divide felt achingly lonely as I tried my darndest to keep up with a body that was falling apart. The Big Lonely, despite its name, never felt lonesome. Alone, sure, but never lonely. Never lacking community and warmth for those two-odd days in Oregon’s high desert. The community around the event is what propelled me through those 347 miles. The community of fellow riders whose tire tracks I sought out in the damp gravel and those whose texts and calls came in when I popped into service through towns. There were the folks I knew: teammates sending me reminders to keep snacking, keep pedaling. And there were the strangers who wished us well as we pedaled out of town. While the Divide taught me the anatomy of a scratch, The Big Lonely taught me how to fix my problems, how to trust the work and the community behind me, and continue on into the unknown.