The Beauty in Suffering – A One-Day Ride on the Katy Trail

The Beauty in Suffering – A One-Day Ride on the Katy Trail

Written by Sam Steinlicht

My day began like so many others—long before sunrise, at 4:00 a.m. I went through the familiar motions of race morning, forcing down my tried-and-true breakfast of Pop-Tarts and bagels, even though eating was the last thing I wanted to do. My parents had joined me for the weekend as my SAG crew, and their presence meant more than I could express.

We arrived at the Clinton trailhead around 6:30 a.m. The air was bitterly cold, the kind of morning that makes you question your sanity before a ride even begins. My dad laughed, shaking his head, reminding me I’d chosen one of the coldest days of the year for this attempt. By 6:40, I was layered up and rolling into the darkness.

For the first hour, I rode in complete blackness. Fallen limbs and piles of autumn leaves littered the trail, my light cutting through a fog of mist and motion. Raccoons and possums darted across the path—it must have been “critter hour”—and I nearly collided with one every few miles.

My first planned stop was in Sedalia, 40 miles in. I arrived feeling strong but overheated, so I stripped off layers and grabbed a fig bar. My nutrition plan was simple: sugar water, maple syrup, and candy. Solid food never sits well with me on the bike.

From Sedalia to Boonville, everything clicked. My power numbers were higher than expected, and my average speed held steady around 20 mph. At Boonville, I made a quick stop for a Pop-Tart and hot cocoa, then pushed on. Hartsburg came next, at mile 111. My legs felt incredible, my power continued to build, and I barely stopped—just long enough to grab another Pop-Tart.

The stretch from miles 111 to 150 was pure magic. The trail wound through some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen, and for a while, I forgot about my legs entirely. At mile 150, in Portland, my average speed had risen to 20.4 mph. My dad told me I was already 90 minutes ahead of the record pace. The thought crossed my mind that I might even challenge the all-time record set by a relay team—if I could hold on.

But then came the storm.

Before leaving Portland, I made a crucial mistake: I ate a massive chocolate muffin. It sat in my stomach like a brick, and I paid for it over the next several miles. Soon after, rain began to fall. It wasn’t torrential, but it was cold enough to sap my energy and morale. The trail softened beneath my tires, and my speed dropped. I wanted to quit—badly. I had already gone farther than I ever had before, and every instinct told me to stop.

But quitting wasn’t an option.

I turned my bike computer to a blank screen so I couldn’t see my power or distance and just kept pedaling. When the rain eased around mile 180, I stopped for hot cocoa and potato chips—a strange but welcome break from sugar—and pushed on. My legs came back to life for a while, power rising again to 215–220 watts.

At mile 200, the final planned stop, my dad warned that another storm was closing in. I shrugged it off. I felt mentally strong and ready to finish. But as the sun began to set, the temperature plummeted, and the real suffering began.

From miles 200 to 240, I entered a new realm of pain. The rain intensified, and darkness closed in. My legs stiffened from the cold, and my hands went completely numb. I could barely feel the handlebars, let alone grasp my bottles or reach for food. I had nothing left to eat or drink, more than 8,000 kilojoules into the ride.

I was deep in “bonk city.”

The only thing that kept me moving was memory—the recovery from being hit by a car last year, the months of pain and patience it took to come back. Compared to that, this was just another test. I kept turning the pedals, one stroke at a time.

At St. Charles, about 12 miles from the finish in Machens, my dad told me I’d need to backtrack after finishing since there was no car access to the trailhead. I nodded, too tired to speak, and pressed on into the freezing night.

By then, the world had narrowed to a dim beam of dying light and the rhythmic crunch of wet gravel. My body was shutting down, but my mind had detached from the pain. I was no longer thinking about miles or numbers—just survival.

Finally, I reached Machens. I unclipped, nearly collapsing, and fumbled to stop my computer. It took three minutes to press the mud-caked buttons with hands that no longer worked. I tried to take a photo of the finish, but I couldn’t even unlock my phone.

My final moving time: 12:19:17.

Average speed: 19.4 mph.

Elapsed time: 12:42:57—the new fastest known time for a solo supported rider on the Katy Trail.

The final 90 miles had dragged my average down to 18.1 mph, but I had done it. I sat in the car beside my parents, shivering, silent, and deeply grateful—to God, to my family, and to everyone who had helped me get here.

That night, I understood something profound. Growth doesn’t happen in comfort—it happens in the struggle, the suffering, the moments when you want to quit but don’t. There’s a rare kind of beauty in that.

Do hard things. Seek adversity. Find the beauty in suffering.