Midsummer Challenge 2025

Thursday. Noon.

The forecast changes everything.

McKenzie Pass, originally the spine of the route, is sitting at 36 degrees with sleet. The mountains aren’t ambiguous about it. They’re closed.

Ryan looks up from his phone. “What do you think?”

“We listen to the mountains,” I say. “We adjust.”

The route shifts. Smith Rock replaces the pass. The ride doesn’t get easier. It just becomes something else.

Saturday. 7:33 AM.

Thirty-seven degrees at rollout. Two riders where there should have been ten. The longest day of the year begins without ceremony.

No crowd. No countdown. Just the quiet understanding that this is going to be a long one.

The Departure

We roll out of Argonaut HQ into cold air and empty roads. The first miles come quickly. Legs feel good. Maybe too good.

Past Shevlin Park, onto familiar roads that carry you out of Bend and into something quieter. The kind of roads that reward rhythm.

Sisemore Road arrives early. Pavement gives way to gravel. The ride settles into its real form.

“Twenty miles per hour already,” Ryan says. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

We both know the answer. Not long. But it doesn’t matter yet.

The Rhythm

By the time we hit the stretch past Tumalo Dam, the pace is holding. A mail truck driver waves as we pass. A small acknowledgment that what we’re doing is slightly out of place.

Then the turn onto Heberline.

The road changes immediately. Loose rock. Shifting lines. The kind of terrain that forces attention.

Conversation disappears. The focus narrows to line choice, traction, and keeping momentum through sections that don’t want to give it to you.

This is why we ride it this way. Not because it’s easier, but because it asks more.

Mile 30 comes and goes. There’s a café we could stop at. We don’t.

The ride has found its rhythm, and it’s easier to stay in it than to step out.

The Trance

At some point, the ride simplifies.

Left pedal. Right pedal. Check for traffic. Drink. Eat. Repeat.

The route moves north, threading through roads that feel intentionally hidden. The kind of roads you only find when you’re willing to go looking for them.

A hawk crosses overhead. A reminder that we’re part of the landscape now, not just passing through it.

Fuel becomes routine. Bottles emptied and refilled. Gels consumed without thought. Everything is reduced to maintaining forward motion.

The bike disappears. The inputs remain.

The Checkpoint

Mile 70. Terrebonne.

We stop briefly. Water, food, a reset.

The numbers are good. The pace is still high. But the body is starting to register the effort.

Back on the bike, something shifts. Not dramatically, but enough.

The RM3 feels more settled, more responsive as fatigue builds. It tracks cleanly through corners. It carries speed without needing to be forced.

It’s not about speed anymore. It’s about efficiency. About how much energy is being preserved.

That’s what starts to matter.

The Transformation

Somewhere past the halfway point, the noise falls away.

No work. No obligations. No external structure.

Just the road, the movement, and the effort required to keep it going.

This is where the ride becomes something else. Not harder, but clearer.

You stop thinking about the distance. You focus on the next mile, the next pedal stroke.

The bike doesn’t ask for attention. It just responds.

The Trial

Mile 100.

The weather returns.

Clouds roll in. Temperature drops. A headwind builds in a way that feels deliberate.

“Jacket?” Ryan asks.

“Yeah.”

The legs are tired now. Not sharp fatigue, but something deeper. The kind that doesn’t go away, just settles in.

The pace drops. The effort doesn’t.

Everything becomes more intentional. Fueling. Positioning. Managing output against the wind.

The ride tightens again.

The Return

The last miles don’t arrive all at once. They build slowly, one stretch at a time.

Back onto familiar roads. Back toward Bend. Back toward where we started.

Six and a half hours of moving time.

Two hundred kilometers.

We roll back onto Lolo Drive without much to say. No finish line, no crowd. Just the quiet recognition that it’s done.

Or at least this version of it is.

Because rides like this don’t really end. They reset something. They recalibrate what feels possible.

The RM3 settles back into stillness. The effort is over, but the effect remains.

The longest day of the year closes out the same way it began—quietly.

But once you’ve gone that far into it, you don’t come back the same.

You just start looking for the next one.