Every year, the gravel cycling world turns its attention toward Emporia, Kansas.

Thousands of riders from around the world travel to Unbound Gravel. The event attracts roughly 5,000 participants and generates millions of dollars in economic activity for the community. For a few days each year, Emporia becomes the center of the gravel universe.

It’s an impressive success story.

But I think many rural communities are asking the wrong question.

The question isn’t, “How do we become the next Emporia?”

The better question might be, “What is our version of Dufur?”

Last year, I stood on the side of a wide Eastern Oregon highway and watched a field slowly come apart with the snow-capped Wallowa Mountains in the background.

Not explode.

Not some dramatic highlight-reel moment.

Just … come apart.

It was late morning. That dry Eastern Oregon light that makes everything feel sharper than it probably is. I could hear freehubs and the hum of tires on the road before I could see faces. A thin line of riders stretched across the road. Shoulder dust lifting slightly when someone drifted too far left.

Then the hesitation.

A rotation half a second late.

The crosswind shifts just enough.

That’s all it takes out there.

Separation.

On a cool fall morning in southern Oregon, the parking lot at the base of Dollar Mountain was alive with that distinct energy that only comes when a long-awaited project finally opens to the public. Trucks and vans loaded with bikes lined the parking lot and road. Riders clipped on helmets, swapped greetings and stories, and set off to ride and explore.

You could feel it before the first tire even hit dirt. This wasn’t just another ribbon-cutting grand opening. Instead, it was the start of something bigger.