The Hundo: Cramping Through the Grus

“The Hundo MTB race was a success.” Sometimes that’s all that needs to be said.

All four of us finished. Nobody got really hurt. We shared a great weekend in the mountains. In endurance sports, that’s a win.

The weekend started the way all good mountain bike races should: camping with friends. We set up camp the night before, watched the U.S. Men’s National Team handle Paraguay, and enjoyed the luxury of Brad’s buddy lending us a Starlink. It felt like a strange blend of backcountry camping and modern convenience.

One of my favorite parts of the weekend was simply riding over to the start line from camp. No frantic parking lot, no rushing around, no stress. Just a short pedal through the cool Colorado morning to the race venue.

Before the race even started, we got our first dose of excitement.

Kurt had just purchased a new bike for this race, a shiny new Scott Spark. Ironically, it was the same bike as mine, only the wicked fancy version with all the bells and whistles. While we were unloading gear and getting ready to drop off our halfway bags, Kurt’s pedal simply fell off the bike.

Not loosened.

Not squeaking.

Fell off.

As the guys scrambled to diagnose the problem, I grabbed everyone’s drop bags and headed off to make the delivery. Thankfully they were able to get the pedal reattached without any issues, but for a few moments it looked like Kurt’s race might be over before it even started. It was a wild way to begin the day.

Of course, after the pedal scare was resolved, Kurt would go on to disappear into the distance and put the rest of us on notice for the remainder of the race.

The race itself started on a beautiful piece of private property with a clear stream winding through the valley. Standing there before the start, I couldn’t help but think it looked like a fantastic place to fly fish. Then the countdown began and all thoughts of fishing disappeared.

The race started uphill.

Of course it did.

Everything starts uphill in Colorado.

The first mile was the typical chaos of a large mountain bike race. Congested riders, bottlenecks, people fighting for position. The course quickly funneled onto a gravel road climb where everyone began sorting themselves out. Riders surged past while others settled into their pace.

I’ve done enough endurance events to know that the race isn’t won in the first hour. Still, those opening miles are always filled with adrenaline. You tell yourself to be patient while simultaneously trying not to get stuck behind the wrong group.

Our little crew stayed together for much of the first ten miles. Then I glanced down at my heart rate and realized I needed to back things off.

Kurt disappeared into the distance and was never seen again.

The rest of us continued our own races.

I crossed paths with Brad and Mike throughout the day, usually at aid stations. Brad and I rode together for a stretch after the second aid station, sharing miles before settling back into our individual efforts.

The course itself was generally well marked, but mountain bike races have a way of humbling everyone. At one trail junction, Mike accidentally followed the wrong route and ended up off course for a couple of miles before realizing his mistake. The detour allowed Brad and me to move ahead of him. Considering how strong Mike was riding, that wrong turn likely cost him some valuable time, but he regrouped, got back on course, and kept grinding toward the finish.

As the day wore on, I would see Mike and Brad arriving at aid stations as I was rolling out. Brief reminders that our little group was still out there battling the same course, just at slightly different points in the day.

Then came the halfway point. The bag drop aid station. That’s when things got real.

The heat built. The miles accumulated. The endless climbing began to take its toll.

I tried to stay on top of nutrition. Tailwind, gels, fluids, and the occasional fig bar at an aid station. I felt like I was eating as much as I reasonably could while still riding. Mountain biking creates a unique challenge. Unlike running, there aren’t always convenient opportunities to fuel. Sometimes the trail demands both hands, your full attention, and every ounce of concentration.

Whatever I was doing wasn’t enough. The cramps started. Then they got worse. And worse.

My quadriceps began to burn and pulse with every pedal stroke. For one of the few times in my endurance career, I found myself doing something unusual.

Taking trail breaks.

I’d stop, stretch, eat, drink, wait for the muscles to calm down, and start moving again. Then I’d repeat the process a few miles later. It became a battle of attrition between my mind and my legs.

Near the top of the final major climb, I was preparing for another break when another rider passed by and asked a simple question.

“Cramps?”

“Absolutely,” I replied.

He smiled. “You like spicy?”

Before I could fully process the question, he handed me a small bottle of what can only be described as spicy mango cramp-relief magic.

“Take this and don’t drink anything for five minutes.”

At that point I was willing to believe anything.

I followed his instructions and continued down the trail.

Whether it was science, placebo, luck, or wizardry, it worked.

I rolled into the next aid station, grabbed a pickle juice shot, and choked it down. I hate pickles. But endurance sports have a way of redefining your standards. When desperation arrives, preferences disappear.

That combination got me to the finish line. And standing there was my trail hero. I got the chance to thank him one more time.

Kurt crossed the finish line well ahead of the rest of us. I came in roughly an hour behind him and finished second among our group. Mike wasn’t far behind me. Together we sat in the finish area with burritos and cold beverages, swapping stories while waiting to cheer Brad across the finish line after his own grueling day.

Watching your friends finish might be one of the best parts of endurance sports.

The suffering is temporary. The stories stick around.

As we sat together afterward, recapping the highs, lows, cramps, climbs, mechanical scares, wrong turns, and near disasters, I couldn’t help but appreciate the uniqueness of Buffalo Creek.

The trail surface there is unlike almost anywhere else. Riders often refer to it as “kitty litter,” but geologists know it as grus - decomposed granite formed from a 1.1-billion-year-old underground magma chamber. Millions of years of weathering broke the granite apart into the loose, gravelly surface that now defines the riding experience. It shifts beneath your tires, steals momentum, and demands your attention. It’s frustrating and fascinating all at once.

The landscape itself feels ancient because it is.

Perhaps that’s why events like The Hundo are so rewarding. The race is temporary, but the terrain has been shaping itself for over a billion years.

As we packed up camp and headed home, I kept thinking about a quote from Seneca:

“We treat the body rigorously so that it may not be disobedient to the mind.”

The Hundo delivered plenty of opportunities to test that idea. Some days the body cooperates. Some days it cramps. Either way, you keep pedaling. And this time, all four of us pedaled our way to the finish line.