I never thought I’d be writing an article about professional gravel racing. Yet, here we are.
Unbound Gravel has become the biggest day on the gravel calendar. For many of us, it’s bigger than US Nationals, bigger than Worlds. I decided to skip the US Pro Road Championships in West Virginia to focus on Unbound Gravel this year.
Once in Emporia, it’s rubbing elbows with other riders and industry leaders, checking weather forecasts, and finishing the weeks-long ‘Unbound training block’. It feels like a professional road race with bigger tyres, less sleep and pancakes at 3:30 a.m.
Earlier this season, I lined up at the Tour of the Gila, one of North America’s few remaining UCI-sanctioned road races. And honestly? Aside from the missing caravan that supported the peloton across five days of racing in New Mexico, Unbound Gravel felt just as tactical and intense. But while gravel racing has evolved, the infrastructure is ‘off the back’.
Gravel has changed so much in the past few years, especially at the pointy end of the race. We must keep building race structures that reflect the level of competition. Right now, we’re still trying to squeeze elite-level athletes into a format originally designed for mass participation. There’s a strong pull to preserve the “spirit of gravel”, but that spirit keeps cracking under the weight of the pro field.
The vetting issue
Let’s talk about the elite field. Technically, riders have to apply. Life Time, owners and organisers of Unbound Gravel and the array of five ride distances across two days, say they review past Unbound participation and results from other gravel races, plus the categories across other disciplines. Athletes in the Life Time Grand Prix are automatically included, which, going into this year’s Unbound Gravel, was 22 women, myself included, and 22 men before adding wildcards. On paper, that sounds fair.
On race day this past Saturday it felt too loose from the start. The front group was fast, but the skill gap was wide. Emily Newsom went down and hit her head when someone crashed in front of her just four miles from the start, she said. There were others, too. I had to navigate multiple crashes on Divide Road, one of the more technical sections of the course.
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Hannah Shell had a rider abruptly braked and she crashed, then flatted. Sarah Sturm crashed on Divide Road too, though she said it was a rut that got her and not another rider, and came up to me mid-race asking for concussion advice. Unfortunately, I’ve had plenty of experience in that department, like many others in the peloton.
I asked Sarah if she had a headache or brain fog. She just said her head felt “weird”. She couldn’t tell if it was the “normal” kind of weird you get from racing 200 miles or the “bad” kind that comes from a concussion. She pulled out of the race around mile 70 at First Aid, probably her first DNF in a major race. It’s crazy to think that in a professional sport, we’re still self-diagnosing brain injuries mid-race. This shouldn’t be the standard.
It was on Divide Road that there was a great divide in the women’s field, where the winning move got away. I was out of position, caught behind chaos. The risk environment felt higher than it should have.
Rewind to two weeks earlier, I met a rider in a sauna during heat training. She wasn’t sure whether to start in the elite field or the mass start. She chose to start with the elites. That should not be a choice. It’s like letting a category 5 rider decide whether or not they’d like to start with the amateurs or pros. This is unheard of in other disciplines.
A separate women’s start is a huge step forward, which organisers provided for a second year in a row. However, that only works if the elite field is truly ‘elite’. Vetting should consider results, safety, skill, and whether an athlete has the support to race 200 miles of tactical gravel, safely and competitively.
Aid station escalation
Let’s stop pretending this is still self-supported racing. Aid stations now look like F1 pit stops – labeled coolers, musettes and hydration packs, a procession of team tents and endless clipboards. The top riders show up with serious infrastructure. It’s no longer a luxury, it’s now required to stay competitive.
My ‘team car’ is my Honda CR-V hybrid. There are many bigger vehicles, vans and other setups. Even I know that if you don’t have someone ready with bottles and calories at aid stations, you’re not racing.
Aid Station 1 was in Alma, after 70 miles of racing. I stopped for 10 seconds to get a new hydration bladder and my pockets stuffed with gels. By the time I got rolling, I was already off the back. The field had split in two, and my group rotated hard to close the gap to those in the chase who didn’t stop.
Aid Station 2 was another 78 miles later. I knew I had to roll it, and so I did. I grabbed a mussette with food and two bottles from my crew – husband, coach and female mechanic Deb. People were everywhere, searching for their support crews among a sea of tents and confused volunteers. It felt more like an expo than a pit lane.
Maybe it’s time to mark elite hand-off lanes or separate pro-only zones so we don’t collide with age-groupers mid-race. The 100-milers had joined the 200-mile route just 18 miles before, so it was crowded. I always fear that somehow I will miss my people and need to ride back through the chaos, essentially marking the end of my race.
Drafting meets the parade
Then there’s the anti-drafting rule. Quick recap: Elite women can’t draft off men or amateurs, and vice versa. If you do, you’re relegated to the bottom of the elite results and the LTGP points list.
It worked well at Sea Otter. Why? Because we had separate days. The elites raced on Thursday, and the amateurs raced on Friday. The elite women started 20 minutes behind the elite men. The course wasn’t very conducive to drafting anyway. That was the soft launch and Unbound was the real test.
In Emporia the elite men rolled out at 5:50 a.m. local time and the elite women followed 15 minutes later. Amateurs, close to 1,500 strong, left at 6:30 a.m. and that 25-minute gap between us and the amateurs sounds like enough, but it’s not.
In the end, our chasing group of four, Sofia Gomez Villafañe, Rosa Klöser, Cecile Lejeune, and I, caught the 100-mile riders in the final 20 or so miles of the race. Most were lovely. Some cheered, some stopped to film us. Flattering? Sure. Dangerous? Definitely.
I got pinched behind an amateur rider and had to burn matches to chase back on. A race car honked repeatedly as we passed. It felt less like a race and more like a parade, with recreational riders pulling off the course for selfies.
We were pushing 22 mph through groups going 12 mph. In addition, TT bars are still legal for amateurs but banned for elites, so we’re weaving past unstable aero setups in the closing miles of the sport’s biggest race. We took risks because that’s what it takes to win. But in those moments, the risk wasn’t just ours. It was theirs too.
Sea Otter showed us how it can work: separate days, separate fields. Copy and paste.
What needs to change
If gravel wants to grow without losing its soul, it needs standards, not red tape. I love this sport, and I want it to grow. But I also want it to be fair, safe and professional.
Gravel grew up fast. It’s not the quirky cousin of road racing anymore. It is truly its own discipline, and it deserves to be treated like one.
We don’t need to go back to the past. But we do need to be honest about where we are and start building a better future for where gravel is headed.
What needs to change:
- Vet the elite fields. Don’t let people decide between elite and non-elite. Things should be more cut and dry.
- Acknowledge skill gaps. Safer races start with realistic entry criteria.
- Separate starts and separate days. Elites and amateurs don’t belong in the same bunch.
- Protect the women’s start. Period.
- Set support expectations.
- Standardize (or expand) aid. More structure = less chaos = fewer trips to the ER.
