Regular readers of my Substack know my schtick: Cycling as life. Pedaling and — especially — racing a bike yields grand lessons and reflections.
But sometimes…a race report is just a race report. That’s what you’ll read here: my perspective on the Paskenta 100 – which I rode on Superbowl Sunday, recently featured in EuroTrash as the first “Mike’s Ride of the Week.”
Team Davis’ strategy session (From left: me, Dan, Victor, David, Aaron)Readers Rides Call For Submissions
Known as “The group ride with a trophy,” no one promotes, advertises, or organizes this race. There are no course markings, though there is a finish line: a spray-painted stripe on a random stretch of road a few miles from the Chico State campus. Yet every year for three decades, over 100 riders have been showing up, typically including many of the region’s strongest racers.
After hearing about this race for years I signed up — er, lined up (there’s no registration either) last year, and enjoyed one of my best-ever days on a bike. Amid buffeting crosswinds I managed always to be the last rider in an ever-dwindling group, repeatedly finding the echelon’s final protected strip of country road, until three of us chased two leaders along the downwind final 20 miles; I ended up fourth out of more than 100 riders.
Last Sunday, though, I suppressed my self-expectations: In our carload of five riders alone were three of Davis’ strongest MAMILs — Aaron, Dan and David — plus one legit bike racer: Victor, whose lean build and Spanish accent betray Euro-cycling flair and talent.
Then when we arrived I immediately spotted several evident hitters*, their kits, cut and confidence all on display. A top-four repeat seemed like an extremely distant possibility.
Victor is obviously a hitter.
The course’s distinguishing feature is a four-mile stretch of gravel about 60 miles in. In 2025 I’d entered that section with two other riders, the field having been shredded by the aforementioned crosswinds, and negotiated it mostly fear-free, selecting smooth lines with relative ease. I hoped this would be the case again this year.**
Actually, there’s another key feature: the unpredictability of a route that has remained the same for 30 years, yet as an unofficial race course, is subject to vagaries. Notably: stoplights, about seven of them, which can rather dramatically narrow or widen gaps between groups, plus occasionally closed shoulders, detours, debris — last year it was downed trees, a storm having recently blown through; this year, we learned, construction barriers would force us to dismount and walk our bikes, somewhere around the 70 mile mark. I told my carmates not to worry: by that time we’d be riding in small groups, exhausted, limping our way to the finish, our positions largely secured.***
The first several miles of the Paskenta 100 roll easily out of town, stopping at lights, gruppo compatto — everyone together. Last year that “neutral rollout” lasted a good 12 miles, only breaking up when we turned west, but this year, on the same long, northbound stretch where in 2025 several riders stopped for a “natural break,” confident they’d easily latch back on, a couple of guys hurled haymakers — big, swinging attacks that few wanted to chase. While I was hesitant, Davis Dan matched every blow, so I followed familiarity, holding close to Dan’s wheel; after the third big effort, I looked around and saw all of seven others and thought, “Maybe this is it — maybe this is the selection, the group that rolls together to the finish.”
The neutral rollout [And, I know…shades go outside of helmet straps. But I love my Tifosis!]
Hardly. One rider in particular, a local pro who won this race last year, continued to accelerate wildly and often, and all but one of us decided we didn’t have 85 more miles of violent effort in our legs; as we eased up, chasing groups tucked in behind us, until I looked back and saw forty riders, pedaling steadily, no crosswinds threatening their draft. Dan rode at the front, occasionally edging ten, twenty meters ahead; I tucked into the group, now and then spotting Aaron, David and Victor.
With little wind and no climbs to jostle this group into activity, I began to worry that we would enter the gravel secteur in a large and largely unpredictable pack, but doubted that I was strong enough to jolt a few joiners into forming a break. But initiation didn’t fall to me: One of those hitters — last year’s mustachioed second-placer finisher — jumped off the front; concerned, I literally introduced him: “He finished second last year,” I called out, but just one rider followed — so I stomped and chased him, and soon our trio had thirty meters on the mega-pack.
We rotated steadily, Mr. Mustache leading 50% of the time, and me and our third breakmate splitting the other half. Glancing back I gauged our margin at 50 meters, and while we had over half the race still to ride, considering the evident insouciance I’d felt in the large group, I was thinking we might be in with a shot.
Alas: our rotating was too unsteady; soon the third mate stopped taking pulls. I went to the front when we hit the first of two small climbs, but then Mr. M called it: “They’re coming,” he said, and began to soft-pedal. As we crested that rise, the pack, strung out but mostly collected, rode past.
Knowing that the gravel lay just ahead, I resorted to drastic measures and went back to the front, hoping the second, longer rise might split the group, but the ensuing sweeping downhill proved amply long for most everyone to catch back on. Soon I saw it: the left turn, pebbles scattered across the intersection, harbingers of the rough road ahead, and then — poof: a thick cloud of dust arose as the first racers hit the gravel.
Blind beyond 10 meters, I followed wheels, hoping the riders ahead would select lines thoughtfully. Alternately I’d find a smooth lane and breathe easy, and then we’d swing around a bend and my wheels would begin to chatter over a stretch of washboard, or skid along a loose patch. With every small descent or gentle curve I’d watch a gap open to the riders ahead, a gap that I’d close when the road tipped up: lose ground, then gain it back; it felt Sisyphean.
After about a mile the farm road plunged briefly but steeply into a rutted bend, the roughest patch we’d hit. Water bottles flew; wheels bounced. Riders around me swore, and I passed two, including Victor, who had stopped to check or fix their bikes. (I learned later that Victor had dropped his chain; he remounted it quickly, but as fast as we were riding, recovering any lost time — especially alone — would prove exacting.) I gripped the drops of my handlebars far too tightly — they used to call it white-knuckling — and pretty much just held on, hoping to remain upright and not too far from the wheels in front of me. Again I had to press to chip away at the margin ahead.
Now the pack had split, and I rode between a lead group of 12 and the stragglers behind. Trying to recall the terrain from last year, I imagined that soon I’d see an open plane of gravel, transitioning to blessed pavement — but not yet. Still one rise, then another, and then the longest climb, a gradual push of 200 meters. My quads were searing and I felt like I was breathing through my pores, but I caught the group’s last rider, and then held on — and left the gravel with that lead group.
David was there, looking as fried as I felt; I didn’t see any other Davis-mates. The batch of 12-ish offered no respite, though: immediately a front duo, appearing relatively fresh, ramped up the pace through a pothole-pocked couple of miles, which smoothed out when we reached rolling hills.
Our group rolled together until we saw the first sign: ROAD CLOSED — the under-construction section of road, bookended by barriers we’d need to hike our bikes around. A couple of guys hurried through, but we mostly walked in an orderly manner, hopped back on and pedaled easily to the next barrier…
…around which the first several riders practically sprinted. Swung their bikes past the end of the barrier and running-remounted, cyclocross style. I was one of the last to reach the road-wide piece of concrete; I struggled to lock into my pedal, but didn’t fret: Surely these guys wouldn’t break up our crew of gravel-survivors and lead-chasers here?
But that they did: Once I’d clipped in, eight were 30 meters ahead, pedaling hard. I stood on the pedals and punched furiously, but to no avail: I caught David, who’d also chilled through the dismount, but no one else. We pulled up and allowed a few other suckers to catch on; together we gave it one last push, but four-against-eight isn’t a fair fight, not in cycling, and we silently agreed to let them go.
Dammit.
Over the next small climb, David — who’d told me he was cramping — succumbed and fell off of our sad little group. Our remaining four plugged through the final 25 miles together, trading pulls in mostly fair and regular fashion, a headwind prolonging and frustrating our effort. We hit every stoplight in the final town before the finish, and waited for what felt like minutes at each one. We weren’t concerned: we were confident in our margin to the next group.
One of our four decided to sprint at the finish, for…eleventh place? When we arrived, the winner — the repeat winner — stood holding his trophy, an iteratively-cobbled piece; every year the winner glues on some tchotchke. Not exactly the Stanley Cup, but I’ll admit: I was envious. Maybe I should have tried to go with him.
No matter, though: It was another solid day out. Unlike last year, ten degrees colder, the weather was comfortable; I’d ridden strong — very strong, I’ll claim — and most importantly, I and everyone I was aware of had stayed upright: Less than a minute behind us — I’m glad we didn’t ride any easier! — Aaron and Victor rode through with a group of 15 or so; David finished soon after them, faux-sprinting for his spot. Dan came in some minutes later, having evidently paid for his early efforts. Together we rode — very easily — back to the car: Burritos awaited at a college-town spot nearby.
The easy post-ride ride.
Reading this post, I realize the day did yield a life lesson, albeit a cynical one: When you’re competing — even competing for nothing but bragging rights and an arrestingly ugly trophy — anything goes. Gain every edge you can. Rubbin’s racin’.
I haven’t decided whether I’ll return to the Paskenta 100 next year: Those ten dust-and-fear-filled minutes through the gravel have me a little freaked out. But if I do, I’ve promised myself: I’ll be ready for anything. No truces, no detente. All in, every meter — on or off the bike.
*Hitters: Cycling-insiders’ lingo for exceptionally strong riders.
**Foreshadowing.
***Again: Foreshadowing.
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