I had never ridden my bike in West Virginia before. Honestly, I'm not sure I'd ever even been to the state. So when I heard about the Mountaineer Monster last year, it immediately piqued my interest. It seemed like a great way to see a new place and cap off the bike season with something truly challenging.

The Mountaineer Monster is a self-supported bikepacking race that starts and finishes at Chestnut Ridge Park, just outside Morgantown. The longest route is a 465-mile loop through the back roads of north-central West Virginia, with around 48,000ft of climbing. It's mostly gravel, or something close to it. Most of it is chunky, rutted and hasn't seen a grader in years. The climbing is steep and punchy in a way I've never experienced anywhere else in the United States: short, brutal pitches, one after another, that never really let up.

I signed up in March 2026 and promptly chucked any thought of the race to the back of my mind. I had logistics to finalize for a bikepacking trip to Morocco and a summer of mountain biking to look forward to. The Mountaineer Monster was always lingering somewhere in my head, but between the hustle and bustle of everyday life and the desire to mountain bike as much as possible, planning and research slid to the bottom of the to-do list. Summer absolutely flew by, and all of a sudden I was about a month out, so I figured it was time to get cracking. I dusted off the gravel bike, planned a few long rides to give all the gear a good shakedown, and did as much research on the route as I could. I made gear lists and spreadsheets of resupplies and lodging, and tried to understand the terrain and surfaces. I don't think I ever got to the point where I felt completely ready, but when the end of October rolled around, I figured I was as close as I was gonna get.

I drove out from Colorado and broke up the drive with a day in Columbus to ride with an old friend. It was a nice way to slow down before the start: a couple of long days on the highway, then a few hours pedaling around and catching up.

I rolled into Chestnut Ridge around 8 p.m. on Friday, got myself checked in, and grabbed whatever scraps were left over from the pre-race dinner. The vibes in the dining hall and the attitudes of the volunteers were excellent, but I never really feel like doing much socializing before events like this. I try to do my own thing, get my stuff packed up in the very particular way I like it, and relax a bit before the start.

After a fitful night of sleep in the back of my car, we rolled out of Chestnut Ridge at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday. I rode at a comfortable pace, chatted with some of the other riders, and tried to settle in. Around mile 35, I ran into a road closure while the police cleared up the remnants of a car accident. Luckily no riders were involved, but it was a jarring way to start the event.

After that I ended up riding with Ben Shrewsberry for a bit, and then we played leapfrog for another 50 miles or so. Somewhere around mile 100, Ben suggested we just ride together for the rest of the day and set up camp whenever we were cooked. I love riding by myself, but that sounded like a good plan. We were moving at about the same speed, and riding together meant we could chit-chat to pass the time. From then on we weren't just riding near each other, we were riding together, and it helped me settle in.

In Belington we resupplied at the Dollar General, then grabbed dinner and warmed up at Subway. While we were there, we picked a campsite for the night. Having an endpoint for the day took away a lot of that quiet anxiety: Did I ride far enough? Is everyone else riding through the night? We could just ride.

We headed out of Belington with less than 30 miles to our campsite, or at least that's what we thought. After a wrong turn, and the disappointing realization that we were riding on a road we'd already been on, we figured out we'd added an extra six-mile loop to the route. At least we only missed that turn once. The next 10 miles were pretty savage. It seemed like every quarter mile there was a knee-deep puddle that forced us to take off our socks and shoes, shoulder the bikes, wade through, and repeat.

After far too many hours, we were finally nearing our campsite, but not before the Mountaineer Monster threw us one more curveball. After wading through one last puddle, I hopped on my bike and realized I couldn't pedal. I could coast, but my cassette wouldn't spin at all. After a bit of trailside diagnostics, Ben and I realized my lockring had backed out and wedged itself against my derailleur hanger. I pulled my wheel off, hoping we could at least tighten the lockring a bit by hand, but after a bit more faffing about I realized it had completely stripped. At that point we just knocked it out, and Ben suggested I ride without a lockring until we got to camp. My shift quality was awful, but at least I could pedal, and the rest we could figure out in the morning.

After a less-than-glamorous four and a half hours of sleep, we loaded up our bikes and limped our way 20 miles into Philippi. Ben cracked his rim on one of the descents into town, but eventually he got his tire to seal again and we kept it rolling. On the way into town I pulled out my phone to see if there were any bike shops I could stop at. No dice. So I texted the race director, David, and asked if he knew of any way I could get a ride back to Chestnut Ridge.

David never answered my question about a ride. The next time I looked at my phone, he'd started a group text with five or six people I'd never met, explained what had happened to me, and asked if anyone could help. A few of them wrote back offering to help, but it didn't seem like anyone had the part I needed.

Then Thad texted: "I have what you need, have you made it to Philippi yet?" Less than fifteen minutes later, he was there, with the tools I needed and his own wheel. He pulled the lockring off his wheel, and I quickly installed it on mine. Just like that, my bike was fixed, and I didn't know whether to feel happy or devastated. I wanted to cry. Partly because it meant I had to get back on my bike, and partly because a total stranger had dropped everything to make sure I could.

The truth is, I'd been relieved when I realized I had a mechanical I genuinely couldn't fix. I was having a hard time committing to the ride, and it felt like an excuse to quit had fallen out of the sky. Something broken that I could point to, so quitting wouldn't just be me not wanting to do it anymore. But then Thad showed up, and I don't think I can fully explain how much that changed things. The desire to quit just fell away. I remember riding away from that gas station and telling myself, "I'm going to finish this ride." I still had most of the route ahead of me, but it didn't matter. Someone I'd never met had taken a part off his own bike so I could keep going. Finishing felt like the only real way I had to say thank you.

From then on, the bike ran perfectly, and for the first time all weekend my head was all in. Ben and I cruised through the next 80 or so miles. Right before Rowlesburg, I pulled over to plug in some electronics and told Ben I'd catch up with him at the top of the climb. When I got to the top and didn't see him, I figured he'd just kept riding. That wasn't strange; we'd been splitting up and regrouping all day. I made it all the way to Rowlesburg and still didn't see him. There was nowhere to resupply in town, so I figured he'd kept going, and with an out-and-back segment coming up, I'd see him there.

What I didn't realize was that I'd ridden right past him somewhere on the way into Rowlesburg. His cracked rim had finally kicked the bucket, and he spent nearly an hour limping down into town, where he ended up staying the night. He eventually got his tire to seal well enough to ride back to Chestnut Ridge on the road. Between the poor cell service and my desire to just focus on the ride, I never checked the live tracking again, and didn't really know where Ben was until after I finished.

I didn't have a plan after Rowlesburg. I figured I'd ride until I couldn't anymore and then curl up and sleep for a few hours, but that point never really came. The 50 miles after Rowlesburg have some of the most climbing on the entire route, but it's all super rideable. I was feeling good, the route was quiet, and the moon was full. Best of all, the dogs that chase you all day are asleep at night, so it's just completely peaceful.

When I checked my phone, I saw that Ramsey, another rider on the 465, had texted to offer me his motel room in Bruceton Mills. I decided to motor there as fast as I could and make that my stopping place for the night. I rolled into Bruceton Mills around 1:30 a.m., stopped at the gas station to resupply, then went to the motel for a quick nap. I set a timer for two hours, but after lying there for 30 minutes I realized I definitely wasn't going to fall asleep. So I got up, brushed my teeth, washed the dust off my face, made myself a strong cup of coffee, threw on all my layers, and hopped back on the bike with only about 30 miles to Kingwood.

What came next was the hardest riding of the whole route. Chunky, loose, steep "roads" where climbing was a grind and descending wasn't much faster. Trench-warfare riding, just plugging along. I rode it in the middle of the night under a full moon, completely quiet and completely alone. Speed didn't matter anymore. All I could do was keep moving and make it to morning. I never wanted to quit, but I can't say I was enjoying myself either.

Right before dawn, always the hardest time for me, I leaned my bike against a tree at the top of a climb, set a timer for twenty minutes, and sat there in the dark, almost sleeping but not quite. Then I got up and kept going.

The sun came up right as I was rolling into Kingwood. I stopped at a McDonald's for a hot breakfast and a very welcome cup of coffee, grabbed some more snacks on the way out of town, then climbed up and over Mount Phoebe. After that came a long run of pavement where I genuinely thought I might fall asleep on the bike. I was fading hard, more in my head than in my legs. The lack of sleep was catching up to me, but the sun was up and I just kept pushing forward. The hundred miles after Kingwood were mostly uneventful. Plenty of sections flew by, and plenty felt closer to rock crawling than gravel riding. I just tried my best to always keep moving, relishing the moments when I felt fast and accepting the ones when I felt slow.

I rolled back into Chestnut Ridge on Monday evening, and mostly I was just glad to be done. I could finally relax. For the first time in days I could be still for a few minutes, without worrying about moving forward. David was there waiting. He handed me some chips and a banana, and we talked for a while. Then I called my wife, Nora. I don't remember exactly what we said, but it was so nice to sit still and talk to her after a few days of not having the time or space to be present as a partner. Her support through this whole thing meant a ton to me.

It wasn't until the next day, when I saw an Instagram post saying I'd taken 22 hours off the fastest known time, that I realized I'd done a good job. I finished in 58 hours and 20 minutes. There aren't many moments in my life when I'm really proud of myself, but in that moment I felt it. I still feel it. It isn't about the record. What feels good is that I showed up and pushed past the limits I put on myself. I went out there and proved to myself what I can do. I'm proud that I wanted to quit, had the perfect excuse, and didn't. I'm proud that when a stranger handed me a second chance, I made it count.