Hoodoo 500: Two-Time WUCA Ultra Distance Champion

This was, by far, the most prepared I have been for an ultra race. While it was the same course as my first ultra race one year ago, a very different rider showed up to the start line. Not only was I familiar with the course and format of the race, I’ve also had a year of testing nutrition, dialing-in crewing, refining pacing, and sharpening my mindset to handle the unexpected. Even with the setbacks of getting sick a few weeks out, the looming move two weeks after finishing, and experiencing more life stress than ever, I felt ready.

After Race Across the West (RAW), life shifted. My wife and I doubled down on bike racing, making big life decisions to reduce friction and have more focused time. Of course, this has meant a lot of upfront cost: stress now, dividends later.  RAW showed me what a fully executed plan looks and feels like, and I wanted more of that feeling. 

I literally felt that if no other race in my life ever went well again, having that experience would be enough. I also felt something new: a strange mix of quiet confidence and flexibility. RAW had been the playbook of preparation and execution done perfectly. Hoodoo, by contrast, arrived after illness, packing boxes, and second-guessing the timing of…everything. But when I stripped all of that away, there was a simple truth left: my fitness and learned skills were in the bank.

Check-In, Community, and Focus

Check-in felt surreal. Ultra racing has its familiar faces—people everyone knows because they’ve been at this for years and done incredible things. I’m still relatively new to cycling, especially ultra, but this year I was greeted by people who knew me or at least knew what I’d done in the past year. It was a reminder of why I love this community: the mutual respect, the energy, the way we all cheer each other on while trying to push past our own limits.

I truly never set out to be a record-breaker. I set out to become my best self. It just turned out that my passion, willingness to put in hard work, and a lot of natural skill landed me on a path of records.

Compared to last year, when we were learning all sorts of new elements, this year felt so smooth and dialed-in. Bailey knows my nutrition and bikes inside and out. My dad knows the route and the flow. We’ve all “been there” before. 

We prepped nutrition in the days prior, stickered the car, checked the bikes, organized cold-weather gear, staged spares. I slept well, woke up calm, and headed to the line with far fewer butterflies. Nothing in my way except me.

At the start line, I chatted with a few riders—folks I’d gotten to know over the past year and a couple I’d connected with on social media. During the neutral rollout, I chatted with Michael McKnight who was debuting in ultracycling from his background in ultra running. He was appropriately nervous, but I knew he would be fine having been around the endurance block a time or two. The rain ended up being quite a battle for everyone.

Another rider, Adam Holz, later told me he’d come to Hoodoo because of me and he set a new 300-mile record. That fired me up—seeing someone jump in and crush. I’m curious where he takes ultra next.

Early Glitches, Quick Re-centering

Two small mistakes almost knocked me off center. First, I didn’t check tire pressure that morning. (Checked the day before, but I usually confirm the day of.) It didn’t bite me, but it easily could have. Second, when the neutral zone ended and the race “really” began, I pulled up the course on my head unit—empty. Routes gone. No idea why. I know the course fairly well, but not having the GPS at the start is the kind of thing that can snowball if communications falter.

I felt that little surge of panic, then made the decision: get to the shuttle, hop in the car, load the route, and reset. It was a good reminder: preparation is everything, because preventable issues can wreck your headspace. I let the frustration sharpen my focus and let the stress of life changes go in that moment. I told myself: you have one job today—execute. Pedal, pace, eat, make the next right decision. Locked in.

Before I knew it, I was entering Hurricane and my crew was already shocked with how fast I was going. I was frustrated with my head unit, I was frustrated with our radios being unreliable and I was frustrated that my crew wasn’t 100% ready for me because they didn’t get far enough ahead. Last year I rode the opening climb up the Dugway out of Hurricane. I was the only rider not to shuttle. This year, I chose speed and efficiency: shuttle it, push the first section, fuel in the car, then go. It worked. I got the route loaded, calmed down, and rolled.

At this point, I realized just how unreliable the radios were. Even with open road and the crew being in range, it was really hard for me to use them. I had to be very strategic and very aware because for a stretch, it's a narrow highway, with a shoulder that’s just wide enough for the rumble strip. So most of the time, I was riding on the white line or in the lane. The speed limit is 55 or 60 mph, so the cars going by are traveling at 70 or 75 mph and passing within inches and not always waiting for a gap in oncoming traffic. That stretch of road felt a lot busier this year and was pretty terrifying. I was annoyed, but I refused to let my frustration infect the rest of the race. I trusted the process and I trusted my crew.

Once we turned after entering Colorado City, the roads became the version that Hoodoo is known for with big views, good pavement, and smoother flow. I was pacing well, but it became evident that I wasn’t quite top-end fresh, having been sick two weeks earlier, but I adapted to what was in the tank for the race day. I started passing unsupported riders and seeing friends along the way. I saw Marshall Nord, who I met in Florida at Sebring. He’s always super energetic and fun to see. I was excited to see him come out to Hoodoo. Then I came up on Leah Goldstein grinding near the top of the climb. She’s a total legend. I carried a small GoPro with me  this year and was able to capture moments with each person I rode by. I’m looking forward to sharing those stories soon. 

The Bryce Turn, Sprinkles, and Flow

Near the Bryce turn, we did a quick bike swap, hit a bike-path exchange, and I rolled a section where the crew can’t follow. The pavement was wet from earlier rain, but the sky had cleared. The 300-mile riders got the brunt of the downpour. I mostly dodged it.

The whole middle section of the race felt choppy last year with construction and wind making it a bit touch-and-go. But it was all smooth and fluid this year. Even though there wasn’t a huge speed difference, the feeling was different. There was definitely less mental tax, I just fueled like clockwork and kept the pressure just right for the ability my body had today.  

Escalante is gorgeous. I don’t think I really got to appreciate it last year, because it was a major pit of despair at that point. But I took it ALL in this year. You ride through all this beautiful red rock and canyons with a beautiful creek. You take a short, but steep climb out and end up on the spine of this mountain, with drop offs of hundreds of feet on both sides of you and it's just immaculate. Like it's it's wildly beautiful, and it's just this out of this world type of place. So fun!

Climbing toward Boulder Mountain, I kept it conservative. There was plenty of day left and no medals for winning the halfway mark. At the top, I layered up for the descent—it was warmer than last year, but I knew cold was coming once darkness fell. There was wildlife everywhere on the descent which was frightening and the roads were also wet. I didn’t bomb it. I respected the mountain and the conditions.

Night Mode: This Is Where We Make It Happen

Night fell, the crew went into direct follow, and I flipped the internal switch: this is where we make time. Last year, this phase was my second hole. I didn’t understand how to time caffeine, I was swerving from drowsiness, and I even stopped for a nap which was super discouraging. This year, I marched up the climb and it was so much faster. I was standing up on the steep parts and stretching out a bit. I had absolutely no saddle issues—shout-out to Infinity Seat! I could have sat the whole time, I only stood to vary the muscle loading. My body felt solid.

Halfway through the night, I got a fun surprise! Bob, a friend of my dad, happened to be camping near the small town of Bicknell that we were passing through. So he watched for us in his SXS and then tucked in behind my follow car with lights and music, and up ahead, was a whole little fan club banging pots, honking ATV horns and cheering in the middle of nowhere. It was perfect timing, right around halfway and truly injected a big dose of joy!

Then came the long, slight-downhill stretch where a TT bike shines. I hopped on and flew–I was pedaling 25 to 30 mph the whole way, even with little kickers. I pushed it a little bit to keep the speed going, keep the momentum up and I just fly and I have energy. The caffeine is right, the nutrition is right, and the bike is right, the fit is good. Shoutout to Pat Casey at Peak State Fit who helped me find the perfect position–aero and sustainable. I can't say enough about Formula 369. It agrees with my gut and just works! My Ventum bikes have been flawless. This was my fourth or fifth race where I’ve had zero bike issues. 

By the time we made it to Panguitch, we were ahead of last year’s splits, and my mind turned to the next big objective: the climb toward Brian Head.

The Maple-Syrup Diesel and the KOM Climb

Tracking showed that the first-place voyager, Chris Stevens, was still up the road. He was riding a brilliant, simple plan—steady power, aero choices, and 3.5 liters of maple syrup as his only fuel. When I finally reeled him in on the climb, I was honestly in awe. He’d been diesel-ing all day. We chatted for 7–8 minutes about his setup, the challenges, the fun—and then I pressed on.

I had saved for this climb. Even after being sick, I knew this was my moment to cement the day. I averaged around 264 W for two hours of this climb with 380 miles down and 100+ to go. I even snagged the Panguitch to Brian Head KOM on Strava. It’s not the most contested segment, but 4,000 feet of climbing to 10,500 elevation, that far into a race is absurd!

It started to sprinkle in the final miles to Brian Head, and with last year’s sketchy, dark descent still living rent-free in my brain, I wondered what lay ahead. It was very wet with gravel washed across the road and tight hairpin turns. I stopped at the top, threw on a rain jacket, better gloves and decided the goal of the descent would be “stay alive.” So I kept it conservative.

Then–fling! I thought maybe I got a flat tire, but then realized it was a broken spoke and my wheel started to wobble but it wasn’t rubbing the brake. I decided to ride it gently as long as it felt safe. I was near the bottom and it made another noise. I decided enough was enough. I pulled over, hopped on the TT bike, and figured we’d stop for a wheel exchange later. 

It was still deep darkness and the crew had to direct-follow until 7 a.m., so any bike swap would mean stopping them behind me on dark roads. I was flowing on the TT, climbing surprisingly well and crushing the downhills. Stopping would cost more than the minor gains I’d get from switching back to a road bike for the remaining climbs. I made the call to just keep rolling. In ultras, forward motion is fast.

Dawn Math and the Runway to the Finish

Last year, I hit the same valley at first light, peeling off layers and trying to convince myself the day would rescue me from the hole I’d dug. Headwinds crushed that hope. This year, it was emotional and a completely different script. I’d ripped the big climb, survived the descent, and now I was arrow-straight and motivated on a bike I love, with no wind. I started doing math. The goal was to come in around 26–27 hours; 25 was a stretch; sub-24 was a dream. My rolling splits pointed to 26, then 25:30 looked possible. Then…maybe closer to 25.

There was one more real climb before the fast run-in through Snow Canyon. I stayed on the TT bike and kept the pressure on, doing 270 - 280 W which was controlled but assertive. 

At the top of the small “volcano” bump near the end, I stripped off night layers, slapped on the state-park wristband, and told the crew it was time to fly. I bombed down Snow Canyon, filmed a short video, and popped out to light rain.

Near town I realized that if I pushed hard enough, I might be able to take a full four hours off last year’s 29:06. So I pushed 256 W and cranked out as much as my body would possibly let me. I had one clumsy moment at a light where my tired brain took the wrong cue and I nearly had an awful end to the race. Luckily, I corrected and crossed safely.

Finish, Aftermath, and Community

I rolled in at 25:10, completely spent and so happy. My face was puffy, my legs were smoked, but I was buzzing. I’d pushed the final hours harder than I ever have at the end of an ultra, and the course rewarded it. I had caught Chris ~100–120 miles from the finish line (he’d started two hours ahead) and finished a little over three hours ahead of him. He still crushed it—28.5 hours on maple syrup, beating the unsupported course record by five hours and finishing 30 minutes faster than my supported time last year. He smashed.

Post-race was classic with the traditional eat-nap-wake-eat-sleep cycle. I even pedaled to the banquet the next morning, which felt like a victory in itself. The finish atmosphere was pure family. Deb (race coordinator) joked via text mid-race that they might need a drug test at the end. At the banquet, Deb creates these fun, gag-gift awards. So three of us who broke records were called to the front of the room and someone in scrubs handed each of us a latex glove and pee cups for samples. The youngest rider was given a teddy bear and the last rider to cross the finish line, the Lanterne Rouge, was given a real lantern. It’s that kind of event—wholesome, a little goofy, deeply supportive.

I soaked it in, reflecting on the training, planning, and then the moment of performance, it felt almost unreal. Ironically, it was short-lived because we moved 10 days later, but I was willing to get back to real life stuff, all to be able to do more of this, feel more of this feeling. 

The Bigger Picture

I took 3 hours and 56 minutes off my own course record and left with more fire, not less. That’s not about a trophy case; it’s confirmation that I’m where I’m supposed to be—doing something I love, with people I love, in a community that lifts each other up.

This isn’t a solo act. My wife is everything in these supported races. My dad shows up despite my mom’s health battles; my mom supports me no matter how she feels. My brother, his girlfriend Shannon, and their kids came and wrangled our kiddos so we could race. Friends popped up in the night to bang pots and yell. Deb and the Hoodoo family put on a world-class event with a small-town heart.

We’re already talking about next year—new distances, tweaks to the route, and more people discovering this amazing course. If you’ve ever wanted an unforgettable bike experience, Hoodoo has a flavor for you: 300, 400 (new), 500, staged options, teams, supported or unsupported. The roads, the climbs, the views—it’s all there.

For me, Hoodoo 2025 was proof that preparation plus adaptability beats perfection. I wasn’t perfect going in. But on the day, I was present. I controlled what I could, accepted what I couldn’t, and kept moving forward. That’s ultra. That’s life.

Two-time WUCA Ultra Distance North American Champion, and still just getting started.