Mid South has been on my calendar for the last two years. Last year, it was cancelled due to high winds that sparked fires across the red dirt plains of Oklahoma. This year was a year of redemption.

I wanted to go back for a lot of reasons. The challenge of grinding through red dirt, the rolling terrain, the hundred-plus miles of suffering and joy. But just as much, I wanted to go back for the atmosphere, the music, and the people. If there’s ever been an event with a vibe, Mid South is it.

I made the trek out to Oklahoma with Mike P and Mike May. We rolled in Thursday afternoon just in time for the Denim Ride, a 12-mile cruise where you show up in your best denim vest, adorned with patches earned and collected from past adventures. It’s all about good times and chatting up fellow riders before gathering for a group photo, then rolling out together to a high point where Bobby Wintle, the race director and MC of all things Mid South, holds court.

Bobby addressed the congregation of denim-clad riders from the top of a four-wheeler, delivering a sermon that cut right to the heart of things. He reminded us that the world is in a difficult place right now, and that all we really have is time. It was the kind of moment that reframes a bike ride into something bigger.

Friday, we watched the pros launch off on the 106-mile course. While we waited for them to make their way back into town, bands played on a stage backed by a large video screen showing live race footage. For those who couldn’t be there in person, the whole thing streamed live on YouTube.

The music was a highlight all weekend. Johnny Mullenax, Matthew Scott, and Brahmulus each took the stage and delivered, adding to that unmistakable Mid South energy that’s impossible to replicate anywhere else.

Saturday, race day, I was pumped and ready to go. Leading up to the event I had been wrestling with doubt. My training mileage hadn’t been anything to brag about, and my longest ride beforehand was 85 miles on relatively flat roads with minimal wind. The 100-mile red dirt beast ahead of me was a different animal entirely. But standing there in the morning chill, I couldn’t tell if what I was feeling was nerves or excitement. Either way, I felt ready.

Nearly 2,200 riders lined up for the start. Just over 1,100 were taking on the 100-mile distance, another 1,000 were riding the 50-mile course, and a determined group of a hundred-plus were completing the double, a 50K run followed by the full 100-mile ride. The energy at the start line was electric.

The first 28 miles were cold. The temperature at the gun was 42 degrees, and I had made a calculated gamble on my kit. I went with bib shorts and a short sleeve jersey, layering an underlayer and full-fingered gloves to take the edge off. My logic was simple: suffer a little early and be grateful later when the forecast called for highs in the upper 70s. I was betting on the day.

At the first rest stop, we ran into several other riders from our local Springfield Bicycle Club, which gave the whole thing a welcome small-town feel in the middle of a massive event. We fueled up on oranges, pancakes, and sports gels before rolling back out.

The dirt was firm and dusty, the kind that coats everything and gets into everything. I wore a buff and tried to pull it up whenever we rode through a cloud of red dust, though I suspect I inhaled a fair amount of Oklahoma regardless. My Garmin logged 28 categorized climbs on the day, but that number doesn’t tell the whole story. There were plenty more that didn’t make the list, not because they were easy, but because the terrain never really stopped rolling. It was relentless in the best possible way.

If I’m being honest, my biggest problem of the day was fueling, or more accurately, not fueling enough. By the second rest stop at mile 62, the temperature had climbed and so had my fatigue. We drank a couple of Cokes and worked through some chips and fruit, which helped take the edge off, but what I really wanted was real food. Something substantial. It wasn’t in the cards. We took our time anyway, hydrating and refueling as best we could, knowing what was ahead. The third rest stop wasn’t until mile 95, and that was a long way to go on fumes.

Anyone who has watched a Mid South recap on YouTube knows that a water crossing is practically a rite of passage. I had seen enough of them going in to know it was coming. When we finally rolled up to it, there was a clear path around for those who wanted to stay dry. I didn’t take it. I pointed my bike straight through and made it across without going down, which felt like a small victory. My gears, however, were not. They sounded like crap after.

For all the climbing the course demanded, it gave back on the descents. There’s something equal parts thrilling and terrifying about hitting 30-plus miles per hour on a gravel road, watching the red dirt blur beneath your wheels. But the roads were surprisingly smooth and manageable, and once you committed to it, the speed felt earned. Those descents were some of my favorite moments of the day.

At mile 95, Salsa Cycles had set up their Chase the Chaise photo stop, and it was exactly what a broken-down rider needed and didn’t know how to ask for. Chairs, couches, coolers packed with soda, beer, and other delights scattered across a pasture in the middle of nowhere. I cracked open a Fanta and just stared out at the open land, completely empty. Someone came over and tried to hype me up, pointing out that there were only 10 miles left. I appreciated the effort. It didn’t work. It took a second Coke and some steady encouragement from Mike P before I started to feel human again.

But we weren’t leaving without a photo on the chaise. The centerpiece of the whole stop is an ornate couch that Salsa hauls out to the Oklahoma countryside for no other reason than to give exhausted riders something ridiculous and wonderful to sit on. That chaise lounge is the reason I once bought a $50 pink chaise off Facebook and started hauling it out to Springfield Bicycle Club events to do the exact same thing. It’s that kind of event. The kind that inspires you to bring a little of it back home.

Whatever magic was in those two Cokes, it worked. The final stretch back to town was nearly all downhill with a gentle tailwind at our backs, and I felt like a completely different rider. My legs came back. The world made sense again. We fell in with a pair of cyclists who were ready to race it home, and somewhere after a hundred miles of red dirt and suffering, so were we.

Mike P and I had made a deal: we would cross the finish line together, but we were going to sprint it out. And we did. Cowbells rang from the crowd lining the chute, and the announcer called our names as we crossed. On the other side, Bobby Wintle was waiting with a hug for every finisher, the same man who had set the tone for the whole weekend from the top of a four-wheeler three days earlier.

The clock showed nearly 11 hours of elapsed time, with about 8 and a half hours of actual moving time. It was a long day by any measure. Not my first century, but without question my favorite. Mid South has a way of doing that to you.