Actif Epica 2024: An Adventure Without Snow - Part 2

 

Part 2: Getting Skinny

Recap: From Pandemic Sloth to Midlife Reinvention: Chasing Adventure and Overcoming Self-Doubt Through Bikepacking and Winter Bike Racing.

As the pandemic disrupted routines and supply chains alike, I found myself reflecting on life and the adventures I’d been putting off. Like many, I’d gained weight and lost fitness during lockdown, but as the world reopened, I felt a growing urgency to reclaim my health and chase new challenges—especially as I approached my 60s. This wasn’t about a midlife crisis; it was about reinvention. Inspired by the Tour Divide, a grueling 2,700-mile bikepacking race, and Actif Epica, a winter endurance event, I decided to push my limits. With encouragement from a ride buddy, I signed up for Actif Epica, despite my self-doubt, and began preparing for 50 kilometers of icy, snowy terrain. The journey wasn’t easy—ordering a fat bike during a global supply chain crisis tested my patience, and my wheelset was delayed in transit. This is Part 2 of a three-part blog post, and while the race is still ahead, the lessons are already piling up. Thanks for reading, and remember: it’s never too late to chase your next adventure.

Fat Bike Frame

Days before the race, I still didn’t have a snow bike. What I did have, however, was ambition—and the warmest winter in recent memory on my side. The forecast called for unseasonably mild temperatures, which meant the frozen roads I’d been counting on would likely turn into a sloppy, impassable mess of mud. Joy.

The warm weather added another layer of complexity. What should have been a crisp, snowy racecourse now had the potential to become a muddy slog. The frozen gravel roads I’d imagined were at risk of turning into a quagmire, and the thought of grinding through miles of slop was equal parts daunting and absurd—especially when you consider this was February in one of the coldest places on Earth.

At first, the thought of tackling a winter race without a fat bike felt like a recipe for disaster. Fat bikes, with their ultra-wide tires, are built to float over snow and, when studded, glide effortlessly across icy terrain. They’re the undisputed champions of winter riding, capable of conquering conditions that would stop most bikes before they could make any tracks. But mud? Mud is a different beast entirely.

Mud doesn’t just slow you down—it clings to everything. It wraps itself around your tires, turning them into useless, caked-up donuts that refuse to roll. It jams itself into every crevice of your frame, drivetrain, and brakes, sapping every ounce of momentum and leaving you grinding to a halt. And the bigger the tire, the more mud it collects. Fat bikes, with their massive, balloon-like tires, are practically mud magnets. In those conditions, a fat bike isn’t just overkill—it’s the worst possible choice.

I’d seen it happen before: riders on fat bikes grinding to a halt on muddy trails, their tires so caked with muck that they could barely spin. They’d stop every few minutes to scrape away the buildup, only to have it clump back on within seconds. It was a losing battle— one I wasn’t eager to fight. But here’s the thing: there’s always a solution if you’re willing to think outside the box and adapt.

Gravel Bike

So, I made the call: no fat bike. Instead, I'd get skinny and rely on my gravel bike, with its narrower tires and more streamlined design. It wasn’t the obvious choice, but it felt like the right tool for the job. I swapped out my tires for something narrower and less aggressive, knowing that wider treads would only act as mud magnets. Then, I packed my secret weapon: a ‘mud stick.’ For the uninitiated, a mud stick is exactly what it sounds like—a humble paint stick, repurposed as a gravel bike essential. It’s a simple, no-frills tool designed to scrape away the layers of mud and debris that inevitably clog your frame, tires, and drivetrain.

Tire Swap

There’s something oddly satisfying about the ritual of stopping mid-ride, pulling out your trusty paint stick, and clearing away the muck to keep rolling. It’s not glamorous, but it’s effective—a small act of defiance against the relentless grip of Manitoba mud. Sometimes, the simplest solutions are the most brilliant.

With my gravel bike prepped, my trusty mud stick at the ready, and my mindset shifted from “ideal” to “adaptable,” I mentally prepared for a long, hard-fought day in the saddle. The race might not have been what I’d originally envisioned, but it was shaping up to be an adventure … without snow. 

The Race: A Comedy of Errors

I lined up at the start, surrounded by fat bike veterans and ultra-distance enthusiasts, ready to do my worst on a gravel bike despite my lingering misgivings. Sure, I didn’t have the widest tires or the most specialized gear, but I had something that mattered just as much: a willingness to push myself with what I had and a determination to see how far I could go. I wasn’t the most equipped, but I was ready to give it everything I had.

Actif Epica 50K Start

Endurance racing isn’t just about physical strength or having the perfect equipment—it’s about pushing yourself to the edge of what you think is possible and finding out what you’re made of. It’s about confronting discomfort, doubt, and fatigue head-on and refusing to back down. It’s about discovering reserves of grit and determination you didn’t know you had.

As I stood at the starting line, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of nerves and excitement. The fat bike riders around me looked like they were built for the terrain, their wide tires ready to float over snow and mud. My gravel bike, with its narrower tires and sleeker frame, felt like the underdog in comparison. But that only fueled my determination. I wasn’t just racing against the other riders or the clock—I was racing against myself. I wanted to see how far I could push my limits, how much I could endure, and how creatively I could adapt to the challenges ahead.

Additionally, ultra-distance bikepacking is as much a test of navigation as it is of your determination. Races must rely on GPS devices, traditional maps, or race director-provided *cue sheets* to chart their course through remote, unmarked terrain. Unlike traditional races with clear signage and support crews, bikepacking routes demand complete self-sufficiency, forcing riders to make split-second decisions about the best path forward. A single wrong turn can mean miles of backtracking or hours lost in the wilderness, making sharp navigation skills as essential as physical stamina. Whether it’s following a digital breadcrumb trail on a GPS unit, deciphering contour lines on a paper map, or meticulously checking off cues on a sheet, the ability to navigate effectively is what keeps racers on track—both literally and figuratively—as they push through the grueling physical and mental challenges of the journey.

Actif Epica 50k Cue Sheet

Actif Epica, however, stands apart from other winter bike races. It’s exceptionally well-marked, with cue sheets, GPS maps, and periodic course markers for each distance. According to the race website, “With a return to the Crow Wing Trail this year, the race route consists of gravel & dirt roads, trail, and pavement going into and out of towns along the route.” After check-in, racers gather outside the iconic Sugar Shack, which serves as both the start and finish line for the event. It’s a rare blend of rugged adventure and thoughtful organization, making it a unique challenge in the world of winter endurance racing.

I’ve had the incredible opportunity to ride and race along the Crow Wing Trail, a journey that’s as rich in history as it is in natural beauty. But before diving into the trail’s story, it’s important to acknowledge that this path winds through Treaty 1 land, the traditional territory of the Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota, and Dene peoples, and the homeland of the Métis Nation. By reflecting on the harms and mistakes of the past and deepening our understanding of the lands we explore, work, and live on, we can take meaningful steps toward truth, reconciliation, and collaboration. 

Crow Wing Trail Map

The Crow Wing Trail itself is a living connection to history. Stretching 193 kilometers from the U.S. border in Emerson to the Canadian city of Winnipeg, it traces the route of the historic ox-cart trails that once linked the Red River and Crow Wing Settlements in the 1800s. Imagine the creak of wooden carts, the steady pace of oxen, and the bustling trade of goods that once defined this corridor. Today, the trail has transformed into a recreational haven, offering a peaceful escape for hikers, cyclists, snowshoers, and horseback riders. Whether you’re tracing the footsteps of history or simply soaking in the serene Manitoba landscapes, the Crow Wing Trail is a reminder of how the past and present can coexist in harmony.

Yet, while trails like this invite people of all backgrounds to explore and connect with nature, the world of cycling—especially racing—can sometimes feel far less inclusive. Racing bikes, while offering countless benefits, can often feel unwelcoming to beginners, women, and racial minorities. The barriers to entry are significant, starting with the high cost of quality bikes and gear, which can make the sport seem accessible only to those with deep pockets. The sheer variety of specialized equipment—from different types of bikes to a dizzying array of accessories—can also feel overwhelming and intimidating to those just starting out.

Then there’s the steep learning curve. For newcomers, terms like "derailleurs" and "cassette" might as well be a foreign language, and the fear of not knowing how to fix a flat tire or make basic adjustments can be enough to discourage anyone from diving in. 

And while I’m not the first to point this out, the cycling community itself can sometimes feel exclusive. Group rides and races are often dominated by seasoned cyclists who’ve been in the sport for years, leaving beginners feeling out of place or too slow to keep up. The technical jargon and competitive atmosphere can further alienate newcomers, making them feel like they don’t belong. 

I could write an entire blog post (or two) about the other aspects of cycling culture that create barriers to participation and inclusion. But here’s the thing: it doesn’t have to be this way. The cycling community has the potential to be incredibly supportive and inclusive—when it makes the effort to welcome and educate newcomers. We can do better. By breaking down these barriers, fostering a culture of encouragement, and making the sport more accessible, we can ensure that cycling becomes a space where everyone feels they belong. The joy of riding, racing and bikepacking should be for everyone, and it’s up to us to make that a reality.

That said, I can’t emphasize enough how welcoming and supportive the Actif Epica team was. Race director Dan is not only one of the friendliest people you’ll ever meet, but he’s also an accomplished ultra-distance racer himself, which adds a layer of authenticity to the event. The volunteers were equally amazing—thoughtful, helpful, and genuinely invested in making every racer feel supported. This was especially meaningful for my ride buddy, as Actif Epica wasn’t just her first race; it was her first winter race *and* her first 50-kilometer event. Talk about diving into the deep end! 

After check-in and a meaningful land acknowledgment, the 50-kilometer racers gathered outside the Sugar Shack for final instructions. I reminded my ride buddy to turn on her GPS, wished fellow racers good luck, and positioned myself near the front of the pack, ready for the challenge ahead. 

It’s worth emphasizing that land acknowledgments before a bike race are not just a formality—they are a meaningful act of recognition and respect that holds significance for everyone involved. These acknowledgments honor the Indigenous peoples whose lands the event takes place on, serving as a powerful reminder of the historical and ongoing injustices faced by Indigenous communities. They also promote awareness and appreciation for their cultures, traditions, and enduring connection to the land. 

As we stood there, poised to begin, the acknowledgment lingered in the air, grounding the event in a deeper sense of purpose and responsibility. It was a reminder that the land beneath our tires carries stories far older than the race itself, and that our journey forward is not just about speed or competition, but also about respect, awareness, and connection. 

By acknowledging the traditional custodians of the land, organizers and participants alike demonstrate a collective commitment to reconciliation and building positive, respectful relationships with Indigenous peoples. This practice fosters inclusivity and respect, underscoring that the land on which the race is conducted has a deep, rich history that long predates the event itself. 

Land acknowledgments also have the power to inspire important conversations about Indigenous rights and encourage participants to educate themselves about the original inhabitants of the land. They remind us that we all share a responsibility to honor and uphold the legacy of those who came before us. This isn’t just the duty of event organizers—it’s a responsibility that falls on every participant, spectator, and supporter. By embracing this practice, we collectively contribute to a culture of respect, awareness, and reconciliation, ensuring that the spirit of inclusivity extends beyond the race and into our everyday lives. 

In short, land acknowledgments are more than words—they are a call to action for everyone to recognize, respect, and honor the Indigenous peoples whose lands we live, work, and play on. It’s a shared responsibility that enriches our understanding of the past and helps shape a more inclusive and equitable future. 

With that in mind, the countdown began, and we were off.

The race kicks off along a dike trail for several kilometers before looping back into town on the main road. Like any off-road race, it’s your responsibility to know the course, understand its challenges, and navigate it safely. Given this understanding, my ride buddy and I had scouted the route a few days earlier. Pre-riding a course offers so many advantages: it helps you familiarize yourself with the terrain, identify tricky sections, and mentally prepare for what’s ahead. Even though I’d raced on the Crow Wing Trail before, I needed to get reacquainted with the layout, especially the one technical section that could make or break the race. 

But beyond the practical benefits, pre-riding boosts confidence—something that’s invaluable, especially for beginners. There’s nothing worse than feeling lost mid-race, having to backtrack, or worse, abandoning the race altogether because you took a wrong turn. A little preparation goes a long way in ensuring you’re ready to tackle whatever the trail throws at you. 

Garmin Failed Me!

Of course, no matter how prepared you think you are, sometimes luck has other plans. Case in point: I had meticulously installed and tested the GPS map on my Garmin Edge cycling computer, confident it would guide me through the course without a hitch. But wouldn’t you know it? Right after the start, my GPS failed. Completely. Out of nowhere. It was one of those moments where all you can do is laugh—because what are the odds? You prep for every possible scenario, and then life hands you the lowest card in the deck. 

After regaining my composure, I surged to the front of the pack, determined to stay on course. But in a twist of irony, I promptly led the entire group astray. Like lemmings, they followed, and for a brief moment, I was the accidental tour guide of a very confused group of racers. This would set the pattern for the entire race. I would regain the lead, only to take another wrong turn and find myself alone, retracing the route. It was a humbling reminder that even the best intentions can go awry, and sometimes, the only way forward is to laugh at your mistakes and keep pedaling.

And if there’s one place where adaptability is essential, it’s racing in the prairies. Racing a bike in the prairies is a uniquely rewarding experience, blending the breathtaking vastness of open landscapes with the unpredictable challenges of ever-changing conditions. The prairies are defined by their flat to gently rolling terrain, endless horizons, and skies that stretch as far as the eye can see. But the real star of the show? The wind.

Out here, we lovingly call the wind our "mountains." With few natural barriers to slow it down, the prairie wind can be both a cyclist’s greatest ally and their fiercest adversary. One moment, it’s at your back, gifting you with free speed. The next, it’s a relentless wall of resistance, testing your endurance and willpower with every pedal stroke. Prairie racing isn’t just about battling the elements; it’s about embracing them, adapting to them, and finding beauty in the struggle. 

The 2024 version of Actif Epica began on a punishingly windy day in February, with the only saving grace being the unseasonably warm weather. My GPS had failed at the start, and each time I veered off course, I was forced to push back against the headwind to regain lost ground. So, when one of the other 50K participants bridged up to me 30 minutes into the race, I welcomed his offer to work together. Drafting and collaborating with other cyclists isn’t just a tactic—it’s a necessity. In the face of an unyielding wall of wind, teamwork becomes the key to conserving energy and maintaining momentum. It’s a powerful reminder that, even in a sport often focused on individual performance, there’s strength in unity. Together, we pushed forward, proving that sometimes the greatest victories come from shared effort and resilience.

Race On!

The idea of working together against the relentless wind of Actif Epica gave me hope, but it couldn’t entirely silence the nagging doubts I’d carried into the race. Normally, I approach races with meticulous preparation—months of targeted training, a clear understanding of my limits, and specific performance goals taped to my top tube for reference. This time, however, Actif Epica was a last-minute decision, a leap into the unknown with little more than grit and a prayer to carry me through. My fitness was a question mark, and the uncertainty gnawed at me. Would I even finish? My imagination ran wild with worst-case scenarios: post-holing through snowdrifts on a fat bike weighed down by 65 pounds of gear, or grinding through endless miles of mud, my gravel bike caked in filth as I scraped away at it in frustration.

As it turned out, neither nightmare materialized. Luck—or perhaps the cycling gods—smiled on me. The 50K racers started early enough that the dirt roads held firm for most of my race, only beginning to soften as I made my final push to the finish line. But not everyone was so fortunate. Behind me, my ride buddy faced a different story. By the time she reached the melting stretches, the roads had turned into a sticky, soul-crushing quagmire. Many were forced to dismount, trudging along the roadside with bikes so clogged with mud they refused to roll. 

It’s moments like these that remind you how much bike racing is a game of variables—conditions, preparation, and yes, even luck. But there’s another layer to it, one that’s less about external factors and more about the rider themselves. Bike racing, like any sport, has its own language, its own secrets. Take *form*, for instance. To the uninitiated, it might sound vague, but to a cyclist, it’s everything. Form is the holy grail of fitness—a delicate alchemy of physical strength, endurance, and mental sharpness. When you’re in top form, you feel invincible, capable of slicing through headwinds, conquering climbs, and pushing your limits with a kind of effortless grace. But when it’s missing, every pedal stroke feels like a battle. And on that day, as I wrestled with my own doubts and the elements, I couldn’t help but wonder: did I have enough form to pull this off? 

There was only one way to find out. So I got as aero as I could, dialed the pace up to suffer, told my legs to shut up, and got down to the business of racing my bike.

This was the second part of a three-part race report, and while we’re getting closer to the finish line, the story is far from over. In the next installment, I’ll share the final push, the unexpected twists, and the lessons that made this race unique. If you’ve enjoyed following along so far, I hope you’ll join me for the conclusion, where it all comes together—or falls apart.

Thanks for reading and keep riding.