Leadville Race Report

I’ll try to be as eloquent as others with race reports—there are some amazing stories out there. It all began at the pre-race meeting on Friday afternoon. Seeing the veterans from the Phoenix Patriot Foundation, riding with no arms or with one leg, pushing through with sheer willpower—it was humbling. As endurance athletes, we know a thing or two about pushing limits, but these men and women redefine strength. Ken Chlouber’s emotional speech reminded us that none of this would be possible without the freedom we have in this country.

20 years this race has run, and the stories never stop inspiring. I was honored to be one of 2,000 riders who earned a spot thanks to someone who one day will overcome their own hurdles to race this course. Sitting in that gym, watching the film "Race Across the Sky," I felt nerves, pride, and tears all at once. I thought of the pain and effort that got me here—rides with my buddy Jeff Ritzheimer, who first told me about Leadville on a trip to Rampart Reservoir in CO. I thought of losing 50 pounds, motivated by Rachel Carlson, and those early hill repeats on a 34-pound Specialized Enduro.

Eventually, I met Daniel Munoz and his dad, who brought me into their riding pack. Never did I think I’d do 50 miles on a mountain bike, let alone 104. Daniel’s relentless drive pulled me in and made the impossible seem possible.

As Ken put it, I was now part of the Leadville family. The message was clear: “You’re better than you think you are. You can do more than you think you can.” We chanted together, “I commit, I won’t quit.”

Race Morning: Saturday, August 10th 6:15 AM: Daniel and I rolled out to the starting line. Clear skies, cold air, and a beautiful sunrise—the race was on. The promo video and national anthem gave me chills. Time to shed the jacket and suck up the cold. The gun fired, and the energy exploded as 1,800 riders charged down 6th Street at 35–40 mph. Tires buzzed, elbows flew, and adrenaline surged. Someone yelled, “Come on, I didn’t buy this 19-pound bike to ride the brakes!”

St. Kevins came fast (no relation). I felt great, calling my moves, cheering friends like Mike and Laura on the tandem, and Lauren soon after. The first checkpoint flew by and then came Sugarloaf.

At the top of the Powerline descent, riders stopped at the sight of small ruts. I yelled, “Keep it rolling!” as I picked safe lines, giving props as I passed. Speed doesn’t win Leadville, but damn it’s fun flying down.

Pipeline came and went, then Columbine. Oh man, Columbine. 3,000+ feet up into the sky, at over 12,000 feet. The climb was endless. Gels, fluids, mental games. I wasn’t hungry, but forced myself to eat. As I hit the hike-a-bike zone near the summit, the finish tents still looked miles away. But I made it. Two bananas later, I was flying downhill, chasing time.

Back at Twin Lakes, I saw my family—Kaden yelling, “DADDY!” and Danika cheering. Their energy refueled me. I hit Pipeline again, and the crash came. My power dropped. I snagged a cup of Coke at the next aid station—instant boost. Time to chase Travis.

Then, disaster. My rear derailleur locked up at 20+ mph. I skidded to a stop. Chain wrapped twice, derailleur bent, and no cell signal. I borrowed a phone, called Rachel, then flipped the bike upside down to start repairs. Took a photo titled “Looking Grim”—never posted.

45 minutes later, relief: Rachel arrived with the Touareg. I was still in. We stripped, bent, replaced, and jerry-rigged what we could. Matt Buffington (Rachel’s cousin) helped with the hanger bolt and derailleur. Chain fixed. Rear brake spring bent—fixed that too. I was rolling again.

Alone into the wind, back to Powerline. Just past the fish hatchery, Strava’s station handed me a Coke. The sugar hit instantly. Crowds lined the Powerline climb—everyone walking except me. The cheers exploded as I grinded up. One bad turn nearly ended it, but I corrected, and the crowd roared louder. Four false summits later, drivetrain acting up, I knew the 9-hour dream was gone. Now, just finish.

I descended Sugarloaf with caution—didn’t trust the rear cage. The last major climb up St. Kevins drained me. At the final checkpoint, I actually stopped for a banana. Almost home.

Then came that sneaky little hill before the boulevard. Ugh. At the boulevard, I watched the miles tick—102, then... still 102. Longest mile ever. I passed Ricky McDonald of "Team Huffy," not knowing it was his 20th Leadville (2,000 miles!).

Finally, the red carpet.

Danika ran beside me, yelling, “Go Daddy Go!” Her eyes locked on mine, full of pride. Kaden ran over screaming, “DADDY!”

I crossed the line. 10 hours and 40 minutes. I was done.

This would’ve never happened without the crew—Matt, Tammy, and Danika’s endless spirit. There should be medals for the support teams.

A few days have passed now. The hype is fading, but the lessons and the ride are burned into memory. Thanks to everyone who helped make this happen.

I’ll never forget it.