Challenge of the DAMn-ed: 242 miles, 24 hours to bike across Minnesota
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Anthony Williams stepped off his bicycle late Saturday morning and let out a soft groan as he sank into a red folding camp chair on the side of a gravel road. A fine layer of brown dust covered him, from his pink helmet all the way down to his patched, black leggings.
Someone handed him a paper plate with two tortillas filled with peanut butter and honey. He slowly took several bites then paused, too exhausted to notice the honey dripping onto his lap.
“I’m having a really hard time staying awake,” he said.
The 25-year-old St. Paul man had just bicycled 124 miles in roughly nine hours — but he was only halfway to the finish of The Day Across Minnesota, a 242-mile ultra-endurance cycling race known as “The DAMn.”
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The goal is pretty straightforward: Push off at midnight from Gary, S.D., a hamlet on Minnesota’s western border, and pedal to Hager City, Wis., just across the Mississippi River from Red Wing, Minn., before midnight strikes again.
The challenge, though, can be brutal. Finishing before the time cutoff demands riders navigate wind-swept gravel roads, battle sleep-deprivation in darkness and coordinate resupply stops to fuel more than a dozen hours on the bike.
For those who do finish, there’s no prize money or Tour de France glory waiting at the end, just the knowledge that you beat the DAMn. And there’s no shortage of contenders.
Registration for this year’s Day Across Minnesota and the Double DAMn — a 495-mile out-and-back option that riders have 48 hours to complete — was capped at 500 riders and sold out in less than four hours.
On the route Saturday, Minnesotans of all backgrounds put themselves to the test, including at least one former professional racer and competitors ranging in age from 11 years old to 84.
‘I’ve got a lot of pizza’
The city limits of Gary, S.D. run up to the Minnesota border. The main drag is home to a cluster of grain silos, a baseball diamond and the Alibi, one of the town’s two bars.
Riders trickled in throughout the day on Friday. By nightfall, the number of cyclists nearly doubled the town’s population of 242.
Some riders made last-minute adjustments to their bikes in portable repair stands, while others who arrived earlier in the day simply napped on the boulevard, trying to squeeze in a couple hours of sleep before the midnight rollout.
Three-time finisher Stephen Wilson, 39, topped off the air in his knobby Panaracer tires with a hand pump before double-checking that his boxes of race food were properly packed.
“I’m not big on all the [specialized] endurance nutrition, so I’ve got a lot of pizza,” he said. “And I made a batch of brownies.”
Two blocks over, first-time DAMn rider Sara Smith, 37 used twist-ties to attach her race number to the handlebar bag of her custom steel race bike, while her partner Jacob Dwyer, 37, poured pre-measured baggies of liquid calorie mix into plastic water bottles.
According to race rules, riders are allowed to bring a support team, but stopping for support is only permitted at up to three self-designated points throughout the race.
“We’re going to have support every 60 miles,” Smith said of her team, which consisted of Dwyer and her friend Ted Clausen, 43. “It’s going to be a boost seeing them, and they’re gonna feed us quesadillas.”
Around 11:30 p.m., red blinking lights on the racers’ bikes began to fill the avenue behind the starting line. A few riders ducked into the Alibi for a last-minute round of beers — a Day Across Minnesota tradition, according to Trenton Raygor, the race director and one of its founding members.
At midnight, fireworks ignited above the Minnesota state line. Jeff Engesser, the town fire chief, led out the column of riders in the town’s fire engine, lights ablaze.
Racing toward daylight
The nighttime downhill start was exhilarating, chaotic and fast, according to riders. Swarms of racers grouped together, forming pacelines that used aerodynamics to optimize speed and efficiency.
By the time the lead group descended into the Minnesota River Valley at mile 60, they had averaged a blistering pace of over 22 miles per hour.
After six hours of riding in pitch darkness, riders tackled a steep, rocky minimum-maintenance road near Franklin, Minn., in Renville County as they climbed out of the river valley. For the middle of the pack, riders averaging closer to 14 to 15 miles per hour, the timing of the sunrise aligned nicely with their ascent of the hill.
It’s one of Raygor’s highlights of the entire race: “You come out of a tunnel of woods and into this field and the sun is there.”
“It’s something special, your day changes like that,” he said.
The punishing grade proved too steep for some racers, leaving them pushing their bikes up the slope. One rider let out a “God is good,” as she pedaled over the crest.
Fighting fatigue
By 10 a.m., more than two dozen vehicles were parked along the edge of Sand Lake, 2 1/2 miles south of Winthrop in Sibley County. The intersection marked the halfway point of the route and proved to be a popular checkpoint for support crews.
Volunteer helpers at the Bone Saw Cycling Collective checkpoint sat in camp chairs and checked their rider’s progress on the race’s live-tracking website. The crew provided support for a mix of team riders and friends of the collective.
“How do you put on shammy butter?” asked racer Anthony Williams, who had just polished off his second peanut butter-honey tortilla wrap, his mood improving noticeably since his arrival at the checkpoint 30 minutes earlier.
“We’re anticipating riders’ needs when they’re in a state of maybe not knowing exactly what it is they need,” said Jenny Huster as they presented Williams with a third tortilla wrap.
Huster, an experienced gravel racer and friend of the Bone Saw group, said it’s not just about team affiliations but rather the community as a whole. “It just feels rad to be around people that unapologetically support one another.”
As Williams prepared to start the second half of the course, a flurry of cheers and ringing cowbells announced the arrival of Bone Saw team member Pallav Kumar, 27.
“I’ve had some moments,” Kumar groaned. “I was on the side of the road trying not to fall asleep!”
‘What keeps people coming back’
The DAMn originated from an idea by Raygor, who first rode the route with his friends Robert Hest and Carl Newberg in 2016. That September day, the trio sailed across the state in 14 ½ hours. It was enough of a rush that Raygor recalled Hest telling him, “You’ve got to do something with this!”
Raygor, who has organized a popular and shorter gravel cycling race called The Filthy Fifty in Lanesboro, Minn., since 2013, put out an invitation over the winter. In August 2017, 150 riders lined up at midnight in Gary for the first official run. This year it was nearly 400.
For the vast majority of cyclists, riding 100 miles in a day is a huge accomplishment. The Day Across Minnesota is particularly cruel in that a rider might successfully ride 200 miles but still fail to finish.
At mile 200, the hills kick in. The final 40 miles through Goodhue County pitted racers against fierce coulee climbs in Minnesota’s Mississippi River bluff country, ending with one final minimum maintenance road leading to the outskirts of Red Wing.
Through town and up the Eisenhower Bridge, riders cruised to the finish line down the road from the Harbor Bar on the banks of the Mississippi River. Family, friends and Raygor were there ready with a hug and a recovery beer, or root beer.
This year, both the men’s and women’s course records were broken. Innokenty Zavyalov, 33, of Minneapolis posted a new best time of 11 hours and 16 minutes, while Claire O’Leary, 32, also of Minneapolis, cut more than an hour off the previous women’s record in a time of 13 hours and 39 minutes.
Organizers introduced a nonbinary category to the DAMn in 2024, with Bone Saw rider Kumar setting the course record at 22 hours and 37 minutes.
By the end of the day, 320 racers completed the DAMn out of 395 starters, the highest finish rate ever according to Raygor. The youngest to roll out from Gary, 11-year-old Molly Ehlers, pedaled 121 miles of the route, a feat her parents dubbed “The Day Across Half of Minnesota.”
Williams’ headlight died with 15 miles left to go. He chased tail lights in front of him to stay motivated, and eventually rolled across the finish line with a time of 22 hours and 10 minutes.
“I didn’t think I was going to finish,” he said. “I told myself I was going to quit at mile 180.”
The Bone Saw team arrived shortly before sunset, after most racers and families had already packed up and started their return trips home.
Cheering for every headlight that approached in the darkness, they patiently waited for the course’s last rider, known as the lanterne rouge.
This year, the lanterne rouge was awarded to Eamonn Casey, 28, who finished with fifteen minutes to spare. He had crashed at mile 47, having caught a wheel in a gopher hole and rode the rest of the course with swollen, torn-up hands.
“It’s such an incredible feeling to be in a community that celebrates those at the back of the pack just as much as those in the front,” Casey wrote in a message after he finished.
“I think that sort of recognition of perseverance is what keeps people coming back.”
Audio transcript
That's 240 miles, people, meaning riders had to bike at least 10 miles an hour to make it under the time cap. Yikes. NPR photojournalist Ben Hovland was there to capture the ride for all 24 hours, and he joins me right now. Ben, what were you thinking? I mean, this sounds like this is way too hard.
BEN HOVLAND: Well, you know, for 400 starters, they didn't think it was too hard. It was a blast, Cathy. Basically, people started in Gary, South Dakota, which is just across the border, and rode all the way to Hager City, Wisconsin.
CATHY WURZER: Oh, my gosh. So this is obviously a very popular thing.
BEN HOVLAND: Yeah, absolutely. You know what, registration sold out in four hours when it opened in January.
CATHY WURZER: Wow, OK. Did you have a chance to talk to anybody?
BEN HOVLAND: I sure did. Here's what one of the riders, Steven Wilson, had to say when I asked him why he wanted to start his fourth time across Minnesota.
STEVEN WILSON: I've done it three times before, managed to somehow get to the finish line on all those occasions. Nothing's guaranteed, though.
BEN HOVLAND: Why? Why do this?
STEVEN WILSON: You know, it's-- in a way, it's fun. It's definitely a challenge, so you know, you're not proving anything to anyone but yourself, but there's something to be said for that. Just proving to yourself what you can do if you put your mind to it.
BEN HOVLAND: So starters ranged in age from 11 years old to 84. And, you know, the 11-year-old didn't actually complete the entire course, but she still made it 121 miles, a feat her parents dubbed the day across half of Minnesota.
CATHY WURZER: Well, she put me to shame, let me tell you. So I've never heard of this race before. How did it get started?
BEN HOVLAND: Great question. The race is organized by a person named Trenton Raygor, and he actually has been organizing a smaller bike race, a gravel bike race in Southern Minnesota called the Filthy 50. He's been doing that since 2013. But several years ago, he got thinking about designing this route that would go across Minnesota and wanted to give it a try. And here's what he had to say about it.
TRENTON RAYGOR: I initially created the route, the 240 mile route to ride with my father over the course of like, three days. And he and I were going to do it together. And in 2016-- and I told my wife, I said, you know, I'm going to go out and we're going to ride this-- ride across the state on my birthday weekend.
And she goes, your birthday is a day. It's not a weekend. You get a day. And so I talked to my dad and I said, Dad, like, I get a day, right. And he's like, I can't do it in a day. So I asked my friend Robert Hess and my friend Karl Newberg if they would join me instead.
BEN HOVLAND: Right. So that September day, the three of them, they sailed across the state in under 15 hours. It was enough of a rush for Raygor that, you know, when he was telling this to me, his buddy Rob turned him and said, you've got to do something with this course. So over the winter, he put out an invitation for riders to come and join him next August. And in 2017, 150 riders lined up at midnight in Gary for the first official edition.
CATHY WURZER: Oh, my gosh. OK, I know you are an avid cyclist, and I've had the great, good fortune to ride a bike with you, which was really fun. I know that you are really good at this, but how in the world would you prepare for something like this? I mean, yes, physically, but also mentally.
BEN HOVLAND: Yeah, a great question. You know, there's actually a lot more to it than just riding a ton of miles. Several riders, they told me they had actually already gone and ridden 200 miles. But others told me that they actually practiced riding at night. So the midnight start means that racers are riding for just about six hours in pitch darkness. And so that takes a lot of practice and skill.
Also, some pre-rode the final sections of the course into Hager City. So the last few miles are actually some of the toughest. They take you through the bluff country down near Cannon Falls and into Red Wing. So they knew ahead of time that they needed to mentally prepare for those toughest sections of the course.
CATHY WURZER: And if I'm not-- well, I'm familiar with the Hager city area. There's some gravel there, too. I mean, and you say it's hilly. I mean, it can be kind of tough.
BEN HOVLAND: Yeah, exactly. Actually, I'm not sure of the exact figure, but the vast majority of the entire route is on gravel roads. So that's another factor you have to deal with, you know, the right tire choice, the right tire pressure as well as to make sure that you have the best grip on these roads.
CATHY WURZER: We only have a couple of minutes left here. I want to ask you about the bikers. I mean, they have to take breaks, right? I mean, at least bio breaks, have to fix their bikes, maybe. I mean, this is a 24 hour race. So who's helping them?
BEN HOVLAND: Great question. A lot of the riders-- most of the riders have support teams. And they are allowed to rendezvous with the riders at three self-designated checkpoints along the route. And those support teams are huge. It really takes a village for these individual riders to make it all the way across. So at these checkpoints, they stopped and got food, got water, changed their clothes, all of that.
How are your legs feeling?
ANTHONY WILSON: Legs are fine.
BEN HOVLAND: It's just the saddle?
ANTHONY WILSON: Yeah.
BEN HOVLAND: Or your--
ANTHONY WILSON: Just my butt hurts. My butt hurts a lot. A lot.
BEN HOVLAND: I got some Skittles if you want some Skittles.
ANTHONY WILSON: Nice.
BEN HOVLAND: Yeah. So that--
CATHY WURZER: Skittles are always good.
BEN HOVLAND: Yeah, yeah, exactly. That was rider Anthony Wilson stopping at the halfway checkpoint. And, yeah, you're right. Skittles fueling is one of the most importance of the race. Like, riders consume thousands of calories throughout the day.
CATHY WURZER: Oh, my gosh. OK, so what would you say was the biggest challenge that riders were facing?
BEN HOVLAND: Besides making sure that they had enough energy to get across the line, I would say the mental barrier of pushing your body, asking your body to keep going. The riders were out there for, some, up to 23 hours. And just to keep pushing your bicycle over and over really takes a lot of mental fortitude.
SPEAKER: I had a really hard time staying awake.
BEN HOVLAND: Yeah.
SPEAKER: At the first beginning part. I like, had to stop and--
BEN HOVLAND: Just chill for a second?
SPEAKER: Yeah, I like set a timer on my phone to the [INAUDIBLE], so like the timer would play on my headphones to wake me up so I didn't fall asleep. That part was really hard.
CATHY WURZER: Oh, my gosh. I can't even imagine that. Yikes. So did the winner of the race get anything for all this grief and pain?
BEN HOVLAND: There's no prize money. There's no tour de France glory. I think the first finishers in some of the categories got a plaque. But really, it's the satisfaction of knowing you did something incredibly, incredibly difficult.
CATHY WURZER: Wow. Well, that is one heck of a story you told, my friend. Thank you so much, and I bet you took pictures, too, didn't you?
BEN HOVLAND: Yeah, definitely. You can check them out on mprnews.org.
CATHY WURZER: And you are a fine, fine photographer, Ben. Thank you.
BEN HOVLAND: Thanks so much, Cathy.
CATHY WURZER: That's MPR photojournalist, Ben Hovland.
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