Madtown Jam 50: I Came, I Rode, I Owe the City of Madison an Apology

Madtown Jam 50: A Love Letter to Suffering, South Dakota, and One Very Ill-Timed Coke

Most of what I write here is about the bicycle industry — the business of it, the gaps in it, and the occasional thing that needs to be said out loud. But I also ride. This is one of those posts.

The Madtown Jam is a gravel event in Madison, South Dakota, supported by Berry Fast Bikes, a local shop that clearly loves this stuff enough to help make it happen. This is my recap of the 50-mile option, and I use the word "50" loosely.

The Madtown Jam 50 is put on by the City of Madison, SD and Berry Fast Bikes, and if you haven't done it, you should fix that. There's a 100-mile option for people with a different relationship with suffering, a 25-mile option for people who've achieved some wisdom, a 50-mile option for people like me, and a Strider event for the ones who will eventually pass all of us anyway. I hope this event comes back next year. It should.

The 50 is listed at 50 miles. It is 59 miles. Possibly 59.49. The organizers know what they did.

The Start

Mass start, one hour after the 100-milers rolled out. My friend Mike and I made the tactically sound decision to line up directly on the start line. It was logical — lining up in front is how you avoid adding a mile to a 59-mile ride. People filled in around us. They said things. I wish I could remember exactly what. It was probably "Ope" or "Okie dokie." Very Madison. Very correct.

There was a 10-second countdown. They literally counted down from 10. Out loud. Like a rocket launch, except the rocket was somewhere around 70 people on gravel bikes who'd signed up for the 50. It was weird. It was funny. It was oddly beautiful. We made it to 1 and rolled out at a pace best described as "enthusiastic parade."

The Field

Familiar faces everywhere. Former customers. Riders I hadn't seen in years and had quietly assumed had stopped riding. They had not stopped riding. Their gear made this abundantly clear. I'm not saying new gear makes you faster or that it's required to enjoy cycling — but these people are clearly enjoying it enough that their wallets have gotten involved. Respect.

I love getting passed. Genuinely. I got my BSO at a young age and it did to my cycling fitness what committee work does to good ideas. I'm not uncompetitive — I absolutely want to beat the person directly in front of me — but watching fast people evaporate into the horizon is one of the great joys of events like this. The 100-milers are a different species. A few of them passed me on the final approach into town. On their 100th mile. I was on my 58th, quietly wondering if I'd even make it to 59.49.

The Course

Roughly 40/60 pavement to dirt, maybe less pavement. Some dirt sections were so smooth they felt like pavement, which felt like cheating in the best way. The highlights were the "minimum maintenance" roads — and let's be honest, "minimum maintenance" is doing a lot of diplomatic heavy lifting for "these roads were created by public works programs and haven't had a meaningful conversation with a grader since" — and the singletrack at the end.

Pre-race instructions spent real time on the creek crossing and the logs. The creek crossing required some precise weight distribution and commitment. My feet did not get wet. That skill comes from years of tiptoeing around topics at the family dinner table.

The log, however. The log required lifting your bike over it. I did not lift my bike over it. I dragged my bike over it like a man who has made peace with his limitations. The log felt like the Great Wall of China. I felt like a tourist with the entire family in tow, dragging luggage over something that was clearly not designed for luggage.

The Bike

I rode my Salsa Warbird. SRAM Force AXS 2x12, Onyx hubs. I have one bad AXS battery in rotation. Remember when your mom said check your pockets before doing laundry? I don't. One of my batteries went through the wash. Usually that's just pocket change and my wallet absorbing the damage. Checked it the night before: 90%. Three miles in, 25%. I did not panic. My contingency plan had layers: swap it with the front derailleur battery, or — and this is where it gets creative — SRAM users aren't hard to spot in a group. Their brakes tend to announce themselves, and they'll tell you they're on SRAM before they mention they're into bird watching. I love SRAM. My brakes don't howl. I'd like that noted. Finding a loaner at a rest stop was absolutely on the table. Over 1,000 shifts later it got me home and that plan stayed in my pocket.

I also have a saddle I've been meaning to address since approximately the last time those minimum maintenance roads were graded. And a stem. And possibly the saddle position. All the parts are in my garage. The will is seasonal.

My helmet managed moisture about as effectively as a comment section manages conflict. It was 80-plus degrees. I also forgot sunglasses, which became relevant when we spent a meaningful portion of the ride staring directly into the sun. I realize I'm not a gravel racer. I'm a person who prefers a 20-mile mountain bike day subdivided by tacos or a coffee stop. I was a guest here, and I acted like it.

Nutrition

I signed up 48 hours before the event. Self-supported: Camelbak vest, LMNT on the bike, and what I can only describe as a snack drawer — bars, gels, jerky, Nerd clusters, baby food, Uncrustables. I brought a buffet and barely touched it. I drank most of the fluids. This became evident later. I won't elaborate.

I carry tools the way a good mechanic should: CO2, pump, tube, multi-tool, first aid. The only mechanical was a stick that lodged between the cassette and hub around mile 30 and caused the chain to slacken every time I stopped pedaling. I used zero of my tools to fix it. I used my hands. The first aid kit did get used. Pack yours.

The Rest Stops

Three stops, well placed, enthusiastically staffed. I used none of the food or supplies at any of them, except the encouragement and one small can of Coke from the final stop at St. Peter Church. That stop was staffed by what I can only describe as angels. The Coke was aggressively necessary and lasted approximately five miles before the effect faded like a good plan in a budget meeting.

The Sleep Situation and a Word About Mike

My Garmin told me to take a rest day. My Garmin has been tracking my sleep long enough to develop opinions, and on this particular morning it had them in writing.

I want to say something about Mike. We've been on a lot of rides together and a lot of other journeys that have nothing to do with riding and everything to do with advocacy work we both care about. He is a great human. There may not be words that fully cover how much I trust him. If Mike says something is a thing, I'm on board. No questions. Everyone should have a friend like Mike.

The last big event Mike and I did together was the Dakota 5-0 — which you should do — where I also slept poorly the night before and spent significant miles fighting to stay conscious on the bike. I haven't figured out whether the lesson is "stop doing big events" or "figure out how to sleep." Probably the second one. I'll get back to you on the sleep.

We assessed the morning honestly and agreed on a probable six-hour finish, worst case.

By mile 40 my legs were fine and the rest of me was filing paperwork to leave. I stared at my Garmin. I stared at Mike's rear wheel. I counted fence posts. I looked at clouds. I briefly forgot I was in a bike race. The Coke helped and then it didn't.

The Finish

Mike's countdown started around 30 minutes out. Then 12. Then 6. Then 3. We turned north. Half a mile to go.

One hundred yards from the finish line, my body announced it had other plans.

I grew up drinking from garden hoses and splitting one can of Mello Yello among friends. My baseline resilience is, I believed, solid. But somewhere between the last rest stop and the timing mat, my body made a unilateral decision.

I'll let you reconstruct the scene in your own imagination. What I'll say is this: somewhere in a finish line photo from the Madtown Jam 50, if the frame is wide enough, there is a man in the background in a gravel lot, 100 yards from glory, contributing to the local ecosystem in a way that was neither planned nor dignified. I would very much like to see that photo. The contrast with the triumphant finishers in the foreground would be art.

I did cross the finish line. John, the owner of Berry Fast Bikes, commented that I should smile more. If he had only known.

The finish line had music. Loud music. I want to be clear that I understand I am objectively wrong about this and that finish line music is a tradition I respect in the abstract. But if my tombstone says anything, it will say one of two things: Get off my lawn or Turn down the music. I have genuine respect for Elton John as a human being and an artist. The person performing Crocodile Rock at the finish line was not Elton John. It was also not Bob Seger. I’ll just leave it at that.

To the City of Madison, South Dakota and Berry Fast Bikes: thank you for an excellent event. The course is fantastic, the volunteers are genuine humans who care, and the whole thing is worth your time. Sign up. Bring sunglasses. Consider the 25-mile option if you possess wisdom I currently lack.

And to the City of Madison, South Dakota specifically: I'm sorry for desecrating your main street. I'll handle myself much better next time.

(Probably.)