I’ve been a part of more gravel races than I can count. Most of the time, my role is that of a photographer, capturing the moment. On some levels, that sounds exhilarating. While it is a blast, most of my time is spent waiting, watching … and thinking.

Recently, I shot photos at Cascadia Super Gravel outside of Olympia, Washington. It was my first time there. While I’ll circle back around to more details of the event itself, I want to pick up where I left off in that first paragraph … thinking.

On a random weekend in June, I found myself driving through Moab, Utah.

Long before I reached the edge of town, I knew I had arrived.

Sprinter vans lined the highway with expensive mountain bikes hanging off the back. Signs advertised jeep tours, climbing guides, and bike shuttles. Every parking lot seemed full of dusty adventure rigs. There was an unmistakable energy in the air.

You could feel it.

The race directors that I know do not want to sell harder.

They already feel the weight of promotion. The pressure to post. The anxiety around registration numbers. The sense that every piece of social media or email newsletter content needs to perform immediately.

That pressure often leads to urgency. Louder messaging. More reminders. A harder push.

Urgency rarely builds trust. But storytelling works differently. It does not ask people to act right away. It helps them understand first.

This article reframes storytelling as something sustainable for race directors. Not a campaign. Not a tactic. But a long-term way of helping people get familiar with your race before they ever decide to register.

Pretty much all of the race directors I work with and talk to already believe content matters. You see, the problem is not belief. It's really about expectation.

Content marketing has been tied to the idea of virality ... BIG reach ... FAST growth ... a post that suddenly BLOWS UP. That expectation actually undermines good work. Why? How?

When content does not spike or blow up, it feels like failure. When nothing takes off, people assume they are doing it wrong. So they change formats, chase hacky trends, or stop altogether. Many feel deeply discouraged (it happens to me, too).

In practice, content that works rarely looks exciting while it is happening. It looks consistent ... yawn.

Most people see a gravel race as a single day on the calendar.

Riders show up, roll out, race their course, and head home. But if you have ever organized a race or worked in outdoor recreation, you know there is more going on beneath the surface.

The real learning begins after the race, when the surveys start drifting back in. This is where the story reveals itself.

I’m back in Portland this week after a whirlwind trip to Arizona, which included speaking at the Spirit World fundraiser for the Arizona Trail. What is funny is that even though I spent a good amount of time writing and prepping for this speech leading up to the event, when it was time actually to speak, I pivoted.

I spend every day in the classroom, Monday through Friday, teaching undergrad students. Over the years, I’ve developed my own style for how I teach. Giving a one-way speech as a monologue isn’t necessarily my jam, so when it came time to speak, I set aside my notes and tried to make it interactive and a two-way conversation about “gravel as the gateway to becoming a trail town.”

While I have repeatedly touched on this topic, I wanted to revisit it and share the contents of my speech, even though I didn’t touch on everything that night in Patagonia. If I were to give a “proper” speech, this is what I would’ve shared ...

On Thursday, October 23rd, I will be here not as a racer but as one of the featured speakers for the Spirit World Fundraiser for the Arizona Trail, an evening that blends storytelling, community, and purpose. The dinner, hosted at the Patagonia Lumber Company, raises funds for the Arizona Trail Association’s ongoing work maintaining and expanding one of the most iconic long-distance trails in the country.

A few years back, I found myself riding in the Oakridge-Westfir area at Mountain Bike Oregon. To me, it’s the kind of place that makes you believe in second chances, not just for old logging towns, but for entire communities looking for a new way forward.

The singletrack was (and is) world-class, and the ridgeline views were unforgettable. But what struck me most wasn’t necessarily the trails, it was the people. A small, tight-knit community that had weathered economic downturns and reinvested in itself through the simple act of getting people out on bikes.

That didn’t happen overnight.