Events: Black Fly Challenge 2025
“It’s going to be a fast course,” was the mantra I repeated as I plummeted down another descent in record speed. I was back in the Adirondacks to race the Black Fly Challenge after missing a year, and I was hoping the Giant Revolt under me would hold together. Holding the claim as one of the oldest gravel races in the country, the Black Fly Challenge delivered in one of the fastest races in years.
But I almost didn’t race it. Leading up to the event, the forecast for the weekend looked dismal. Having participated in two prior spring events in heavy rain, I was out of stamina to endure another bike race full of relentless precipitation. A sudden turn in the forecast shortly before decision time led to the trek north to the town of Inlet, NY, this year’s finish line for the unique race.
White number plates denoted “B” racers, lined up behind the “A” field.
The Black Fly Challenge is unlike any other event I’ve ridden. The race is a town-to-town challenge that is just under forty miles in length. Of those miles, twenty-five are proper gravel in one continuous camping road. Each year the start/ finish towns swap. But even before that, the Black Fly Challenge registration features a bib swap up to a week before the race, close to the time I was deciding whether to participate. Instead I went to race.
One of the early climbs in the Black Fly Challenge.
Back to my rampaging descent, and I shouted to the racer next to me that I had never held my handlebars as tight as I had during the downhill. The surface of gravel, sand, and river stone rattled every inch of the body. The whole race is physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting. It might not be UnBound, but it’s a speed course with peril. When I caught myself focusing on tire tracks skidding off the course, I snapped my attention down the road and managed to keep the bike from plowing into the coniferous saplings, involuntarily present in a dangerous location.
This year’s race departed from a new location in Indian Lake, NY. One thousand participants rolled out of the parking lot of the Indian Lake Public Library where I got a pathetic start. It was so slow, I could hear the dismissal of the “B” race, thirty seconds behind us. For a short time, I thought to hang with the back of the “A” race. The front bunch rode away, requiring deep efforts at the start. The first ten miles of this gravel event are rolling paved roads. Among those miles, I dragged along a couple of powerful riders. Too often our paceline got tantalizingly close to the front group before having to dig deep again. Eventually, I peeled off, knowing the efforts were costing me.
Shortly after crossing the coveted gravel threshold, the largest climb on course commenced. We were scheduled to gain one thousand feet of climbing within the first seventeen miles. The summit of the first climb would mark the highest point on the Black Fly Challenge course. I toggled my Garmin screen, trying to keep abreast of the slow upwards progress. Meanwhile the forest gave off its beautiful scent of balsam, much resembling ripe strawberries in sweetness as songbirds chirped gleefully amongst the hardwoods. Also, the “B” race swiftly passed me as if I were unaware there was a race in progress. The longest climb would be followed by a nearly four-mile descent.
There are at least three bridges on course for the Black Fly Challenge.
It was this descent and others that required absolute concentration. Early in the race, this was easy. Being mentally fresh meant each divot, rock, pothole, and ditch could be identified with care. As the race wore on, the mentality was worn elastic. More divots were struck, rocks rattled the steerer tube, and potholes took control of the bike and rider. Drainage gutters were utilized more and more. There were grunts from participants when larger obstacles were struck. Mountain bikers made gravel riders feel positively ridiculous as they blew by at what felt like double pace. Water bottles littered the descents at the back end of the course.
Per Black Fly Challenge organizers, the heavy spring rains had taken a break the week prior to the event. This allowed the sandy gravel to maintain moisture while firming up the base. The 2025 event would be one of the fastest if conditions continued to be dry. Sure enough, the sand sections were quick. The tire setup was geared toward the firm side with [too] high pressure. The field was deadly quick when caution was typically observed. Groups rode along together instead of individual efforts with safe distancing.
To do it over again, I would have let a little more pressure out of the tires. Given the circadian rhythm of pedagogical compensation, I stuck with the stock tires on the Revolt. The 60 psi/ 4 BAR was geared a little too toward the miles of roadway and less forgiving on the gravel descents. Luckily the surface was packed enough to prevent slippage on the steep climbs. Having thought the tires would be the weakest point, I would soon find out a larger problem.
The course surface was flat for 2025 on account of above average rainfall in the spring and a sudden drying out the week prior to Black Fly.
As the bike groaned from a prolonged descent, I began to notice a rattling sound. Unsurprising given how harsh the bike was treated on the back half of the course. Trying to diagnose the issue, at first it sounded like the front derailleur had been struck and rubbing the chain. But then I noticed my riding style had changed. With ten miles to go, that rattling sound was diagnosed: my saddle had come about as loose as possible without falling off. It was sliding back and forth on the rails, a few turns of the screw from jettisoning completely.
I pulled over once in a quick attempt to fix it, except my only tool was too small (I was convinced the stem would come loose and carried tools for that). I rode past a campsite that had a couple of mountain bikes. Immediately I regretted not pulling over to ask if they had tools. Mountain bikers always have tools. I shouted to each feed zone and no one had tools. I felt like I was reaching for the handlebars as if I were Graeme Obree stretching out to maintain contact with the hoods. Each time I stood, I was unsure a saddle would be there when I sat back down.
The final mile of the Black Fly Challenge entering Inlet, NY, is a technical mountain bike trail with soft soil and double track. It’s more of an ATV path. Attempting to stay ahead of riders, I attacked the final turns, almost missing one above a stream before crossing a footbridge. One rider passed me, thanking me for yelling at him after he took a wrong turn. He promptly descended through the trees to the finish. My Black Fly end could not come soon enough; I needed to get off the bike promptly. My wish granted, I negotiated the hard right hand turn and passed under the finish banner. I had finished my third Black Fly Challenge in four years, my second race ending in Inlet. My fastest of the two in this particular direction.
Immediately I was rolling through the finisher party area. Dozens of bikes occupied racks. I managed to find a spot to stow the rattling bike, and I headed to the food tent for the included lunch. There I sat, on a bench in the shade of the hockey box of Inlet, chewing on a cheap burger while a random Australian Shepherd stared at me, waiting - begging - for me to drop something. Having finished my lunch, I walked past the music stage, past the Black Fly Challenge merch tent, past the community water bottle filler, and back to my bike. My plan was to return in a few hours - despite having accommodations in Inlet, I had to ride back to Indian Lake to retrieve the team car. Having swapped the gravel bike for the road bike, I started my return trip promptly and with a tailwind.
The Black Fly Challenge was the final leg of my spring campaign. I was both excited and saddened to have finished the race. The ambitious goal was exciting to have concluded, while at the same time saddening to have ended this project. Hours later, I returned to Inlet with my road bike atop the team car to find everyone in the finish area had packed up and headed out. Even the town pizza joint had begun cleaning up. I decided to take a load off and lay on the hotel bed, contemplating my next move. Come back again next year. That was my first thought. That, and sit by the lake to watch the sunset. The sun had plummeted behind both the clouds and horizon as I imagined hanging on the shore of Fourth Lake for all of eternity.
