The Dead Swede 2023

What a wild ride. With deep Wyoming Roots, The Dead Swede is a race that has been on my radar since its inception and on my race calendar (literally), for the last six years. It’s never a good feeling when you’re unable to participate in a race that gets your juices flowing, but for whatever reason, this event has been elusive for me—and yet it’s been one of the races that I’ve felt the most connected to, inspired by and excited about, despite not having raced it.

Between injuries (tendinopathies), commencement speeches, wedding gigs and early season basketball tournaments, I’ve been a scratch year after year for this early season clash in the Bighorn’s. So, when I put in a long ride early the week before the race down in Jackson Hole the morning after a wedding officiating gig (93 miles in the saddle), just twelve days before The Dead Swede, a ride that left me feeling shattered, I knew I was on the brink, yet again. And then I woke just two days before the event with a mild grade 1 hamstring strain following a leg lift the day before, so I entered the race fighting some, “Here we go again,” demons.

With Kamiah competing down at a University of Wyoming swim meet in Laramie over the weekend, I was I already hitting the road for Southern Wyoming and I was bound and determined to at least show up to the start line of this one and see how it would all shake out.

It’s been an abnormally wet spring in Montana and Wyoming, and it poured for the entire drive from Bozeman to Hardin, Montana. It was a complete deluge driving through Billings. I was one of the last to arrive at the packet pick-up but being pros at putting on a top shelf event, the race organizers give racers a generous window, from early afternoon to 9 pm to grab their registration packet and race plate.

After picking up my packet, I stopped by a hotel to visit with some friends from Bozeman who I had been hyping up on this race. All the three of them (my buddy, his wife and their seven-year-old) were signed up for the 20 mile ripper, and they let me know about an email they had just received announcing a route change for the 60 and 100 mile races. That’s another awesome thing about this race–with 20, 40, 60 and 100 mile options, there’s something for everyone. Due to the monsoon like rains that ravaged the Bighorn’s all day (and flooded Billings), there was a late route twist to the course (these men and women are so pro and really know how to put on a race), so we went to bed knowing it would be slippery at sloppy at times.

Like most race-day mornings, I was up early. I had everything laid out on the bed the night before and gave myself plenty of time to slowly work through my morning routine. Overnight oats were the breakfast of the day and after a quick Starbuck’s run, I showed up to the start line an hour ahead of our 8 am (60-mile) departure, an hour after the 100 milers hit the road and got lucky, snagging one of the best parking spots in the house.

Kendrick Park is an idyllic location for the start and finish and all of the post-race festivities—who needs the trek to Emporia, Kansas, when you’ve got The Dead Swede firing in Sheridan?

After shaking out the legs and testing the hamstring a bit, I made some mistakes early, swapping out a hydration pack last minute, opting to go lighter, but still sporting a hydration pack with the plan of only stopping at one of the four aid stations on course. The last-minute pack switch cost me in two ways. First, it wasn’t until the gun went off and I was navigating my way through an excited field of riders that it hit me, “Oh shit. My plugs.” When I swapped out bags, I didn’t remember to grab my plugs (so, this meant picking clean lines and hoping the gravel Gods would be with me, no flats). The second thing that my last-minute shenanigans cost me was a clean runout. By getting to the start three minutes before the gun went off, I found myself in the very back of a 250-rider field, making for a chaotic start, and a lot of bobbing and weaving in the first eight minutes, but I’ve got to say, with race organizers, volunteers and racers/riders like this field was full of, it made for a fun start with lots of smiles and friendly banter.

In those first several minutes, I found myself reflecting on my last big race, The Crusher in the Tushar, a similar style event (a big, mass participation gravel race), held in Beaver, Utah, in July. The Dead Swede has a similar feel, but without the pomp and circumstance (the Crusher is a part of the Life Time Grand Prix so all of the pros and higher end joes are in attendance). It’s not that there wasn’t a stacked field of riders at The Dead Swede, there was just a more laid-back vibe.

I felt really good about my race at the Crusher, but one month later, the wheels came off. After developing COVID-19 and dealing with fallout from that and managing a thoracic spine injury, my August and September were pretty much a bust. I spent a lot of time in the saddle in October, capping off the outdoor season with a long ride back in my old Yellowstone stomping grounds where I worked as a ranger for years, and then I was hitting the trainer (indoor bike) hard from November through early April. Every outdoor ride I’ve done this spring has been with The Dead Swede on the brain, and I knew going into this one that the 60 miler was going to be manageable, if I could just navigate the hammy (strain).

The rollout, first eight(ish) miles on asphalt had all of the makings for a superior race and event. The vibe was chill, the smiles were big, the bikes were varied, and there was a palpable excitement and sense of nervousness in the air, wondering how messy things would get once we hit the dirt. There were so many strong riders in the field, up front, mid-pack, out back. I’m always inspired by the people taking on these events and the folks up front were pinning it.

I had been eyeing this tall, 6’3 Norwegian looking rider the last several miles on the pavement, thinking he could be a good rider to link up with as he looked strong, steady and smart. He wasn’t nervous or twitchy, but seemed pretty unflappable.

It was a wet, muddy and slippery first twenty-seven miles, not including the pavement—but not in a sketchy or drivetrain ravaging way, but rather in a way that made for a really fun and adventurous race.  From the time we hit the dirt around mile marker 10, it was pretty much full gas to the finish. I connected with the rider I was targeting on the first punchy rollers and knew if I could stick with him, it’d be a good day. Jens, the strapping, strong and capable 6’3 rider, was a young stud with an engine from Spearfish, SD. Born in Casper, WY, just like my grandma Isabell—he too had Wyoming roots, along with solid bike handling skills in the slippery stuff. It was clear from the outset that this guy had an engine and I knew I’d spend the rest of the day fighting to stay attached to his wheel.

On our first dirt stretch, I learned that Jens was a physical therapist, and I picked his brain on the hamstring strain. He graciously offered some tips on how I could recruit more quad and try and take a little strain off the hammy, that was starting to make some noise (get uncomfortable) around the 14 mile mark.

We road well together for the first 27 miles and then just before the first big climb and following an aid station that we blazed through, I let Jens know I was going to dart ahead and find a bush to relieve myself. It’s always a tough call when you’ve got to go and you’re in a good group or tandem. We weren’t even to the half-way mark and I had to go, but I really didn’t want to lose, Jens. Despite my efforts to make it a quick stop, Jens and a group of four other riders we had been working with for the last mile, darted ahead. I assumed I’d catch them on the climb and while I was able to go by the other riders we had been grouped up with for the last ten minutes, Jens, climbed as strong and steady as he rode the flats.

I had to really dig deep on the climb, putting in a long threshold effort for the duration of the steep ramp to try and reattach to him. Though I made some headway, it took another five minutes of chasing to catch him. Around the 32 mile mark, just about half-way, I was back on his wheel and the only question now was if I burned too many matches to stick with him.

I lost contact with Jens a few more times over the next eight miles, but never letting the gap get too big and then around the 40-mile mark, we made our first stop at an aid-station. After a quick stop (another great experience with the volunteers of this race) and a nice greeting from his wife, we gained a second wind and hit hard.

After nearly three hours of racing together, we worked in tandem for the last 24 miles, “clippin’ those last miles, trying to hit that stretch goal of going under 4 hours and while we were digging deep and hurting, we kept smiling and had so much fun out there. We hit the final three climbs hard, riding side by side. When one would get out of the saddle and push, so would the other. I felt like Keegan and Russell out there 😆.

It takes a village to pull these weekends off. I couldn’t be more grateful for the people who put on this race. I’m really grateful I connected with Jens (what a good and kind human); I’m grateful for auntie Nicole who got Kamiah to Laramie; I’m grateful for my wife (my biggest believer) and parents and friends who were supporting and showering love from across the mountains; and I’m grateful for a capable body that rallied, a strong mind that navigated those early blunders (onto the next) and the hamstring pain, and a courageous heart that wanted to go big and race hard for my Pops on his birthday.

I can’t say enough good things about The Dead Swede. The organizers, the people, the community. The Dead Swede represents everything good about off-road bike racing. The culture, the community, the tactics inside the race. It was all good. I’m so grateful for event organizers like these folks, who really walk the talk and get it. It’s going to take more than a hamstring strain to keep from competing in this one year after year. I can officially say that my wedding calendar is booked the first weekend of June each year, because I’ll be in Sheridan, hopefully on the wheel of my guy, Jens, racing and riding a beautiful course, at a special event, with a strong community, in the Bighorns.

After sharing hugs and exchanging contact info with Jens, I ate the BBQ sandwich that comes with the race registration, loaded up my bike and began the long drive to Laramie, where I watched my daughter race in the pool the following day. It was long eight hour trek home to Bozeman, Montana, that night, but we stopped in Sheridan, and I told Kamiah all about Jens, the Bighorns and The Dead Swede.

We’ll see you in 2024!

With nothin’ but love, mwl