Getting Dusted: Scaring the (Big) Kitties for the Dusty Bandita

A volunteer shift for a women+ bike race has me pegged... under my bike

A moody sky set the scene the night before the race.

I headed up the night before to be sure to get a good night sleep. It was my first time completely solo in a long time and I wanted a calm morning where I could work out any problems ahead of time. When morning came, I made coffee, and headed to the registration table for intel. The intel was: It was very important I stay ahead of the riders.

"I know there's at least one super fast racer, should I stay in front of her or stick with the peloton?" I asked the event organizer.

"Stay in front of her, definitely. Every year she passes the moto lead. The rest of the riders will know where to go, the course is marked and we have marshalls out there. We don't want a lone cyclist getting lost, though really she's done this race enough times she knows the course just fine." She paused. "And we scoped the course too, but it's good to keep an eye on trail conditions." Another longer pause as she made serious eye contact with me. "The main reason we have a moto lead, though, is the wildlife."

This is not the wild case that was hanging out in the road. I don't think.

"Oh yeah, I think I saw a bear when I test-rode the course last weekend, but it didn't come on the road. It's good to have the loud engines."

"Well yeah them too, but... There was a mountain lion in the middle of the road yesterday. A car came up on it and it didn't flinch."

Shortly after arriving in Montana for my first summer, when I was living in my van, a woman was tragically killed by a bear while camping in the very town I was standing in, in the same town center where I'd camped five years previously. She had been generally "bear aware" but made a fatal mistake that caused her friends to listen helplessly while she was mauled to death. Not because she had food in her tent, but because she had previously had food in her tent and removed it after a bear was seen walking around.

She was riding a route created and maintained by the organization where I'd recently taken over as Editor-in-Chief, and I felt I had a duty to communicate to our readers how to properly recreate in bear country. I interviewed a wildlife management specialist, and did additional research to fill in gaps in my knowledge.

That same summer, a friend's rafting trip went awry when someone was bit by a rattlesnake. I responded with an interview with the Head Keeper in the Fish and Herbetology Department at the Cincinnati Zoo to learn more about snake behavior.

Mountain lions, though, I never got around to writing about. They're completely outside my spectrum of understanding. A friend was once stalked by one – my assumption is that the cat had a cub nearby and was making sure he stayed away, not hunting him – and any other story I've heard about mountain lions creates an image for me of a graceful, formidable killer you don't know is there until it's pouncing.

"So yeah," the organizer continued, "it's really important for you to stay in front. And she can really go. So try to stay pretty close during the flat sections, but when you get to the climb, just go as fast as you can because once you get to the descent that's where she'll pass and that's where it's most dangerous. So just, yeah, make sure you're in front."

"Roger that," I said and headed back to my bike with my assigned walkie talkie, first aid kit, and fistful of snacks. I suited up and took my bike for a test spin, anxious not to make a fool of myself while riding in front of the racers. Say, by stalling my bike or whiping out in front of them or getting passed immediately.

Luckily, none of those things happened until at least 15 minutes into the race.

I stalled at an aid station where none of the racers stopped, when the volunteers put a fake moustache on my helmet as the racers rounded a fast corner and zipped by before I had a chance to grab my snacks. They passed again as I waited for them on a flat straightaway going faster than my brain could comprehend, and once more while we were all riding and I was trying to stick with them but keep the dust down and the fastest of them just cut right around me.

A rider making her way to the top of the climb during the 2024 Dusty Bandita. Photo by Travis Brier

"OK," I said to myself. "I guess we're racing now." From that point, I picked up the speed and when we got to the big climb, I kept in mind all the lessons my partner had reminded me from videos of Chris Birch we'd been watching together. The one thing Birchy didn't talk about in any of his helpful videos is what to do when you're being chased by a pack of women and your GPS starts sending you mixed signals about a possibly missed turn five miles back just as your zooming into a 90° turn.

So I made my own calculations. Speed - skill ÷ options = shift down to second to slow down and crash into the big dirt wall in front of me.

I got pinned for a moment under my bike. The racers were coming behind me but were faster than I could calculate (despite the complicated math problem above that may signify otherwise, I'm not the best at mathematics). Were they 20 minutes behind me? 15? 3? I shimmied myself to a position where I could leverage the bike and wedged it off my foot. Following the instructions of another instruction video I saw, posted by a woman of about my size, I turned my back to my bike and crouched down, grabbed the handlebar with one hand and the luggage bar with the other, and stood.

Upsie-daisy, we were all on our feet now.

I did a quick check, straightened the things that had gotten twisted, made sure nothing was seriously injured (I could move all my joints without extreme pain), and chuckled to myself as I hopped on my bike to save myself the embarrassment of being caught on the uphill section of the ride.

A Dusty descent (I think), image from the 2024 Dusty Bandita, photo courtesy Travis Brier.

I crested the climb and began the descent, careful to maintain good time (and good times) without losing control of my bike or ramming into a giant cat. Everything clicked after that crash. I felt confident. I had fun. I felt... badass. My shin stung from a gash just below my kneepad, reminding me how important protective gear is. My angle was abuzz and swelling in my boot — and still, two months later, still tingly and a bit swollen — but not broken and not incredibly painful. I was alert with the adrenaline rushing through me, shifting my weight and countering the bike on the sharp turns.

I made it down to the bottom, waited for a rider to enter my rearview mirror as I picked a new playlist in my headphones, and went back to work.

The rest of the ride was a coast with one more big climb, this time less rutted and with less exposure. I could enjoy the ride, not combat it, and take in the views, the rush of the river, the shifting light as the day stretched from morning into afternoon and the clouds broke apart like dinner rolls.

Soon I was back at the campground, switching out of my sweaty gear.

I mounted my pedal bike and headed up to the finish line to meet my friends and celebrate the racers. A fellow writer eventually took me to the fire hall to have my injuries looked at.

"Looks like you crashed," the firefighter said.

"Sure did!" I said.

He checked my vitals, did the same movement check I did, and tossed me an ice pack. "If this swells to, oh, twice the size tomorrow or the next day, definitely seek help. Otherwise, I think you're just gonna be sore for a while."

A year before, I'd raced the same 82-mile course on my bicycle and had a blast. This year has been a set of different challenges, different accomplishments, different goals. Next year, maybe I'll race again. But if the stars align I'll be crossing yet another 2-wheeled adventure off the list.

Enjoying a beautiful Sunset after a beautiful day on the motorbike.

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