Nationals left me with a burning hunger in my chest for more racing. The day after STXC, we piled in the car for the 15-hour drive to Vermont. The week leading up to the race flew by with recovery naps, rides that felt more like swimming due to the humidity, lots of reading, yoga and some berry picking. Friday: I hopped back on course. The track was full of punchy, rooty climbs, some natural rock gardens, a big rock slab A-line, a couple of jumps and lots of ripping single-track. The technical nature of the course assured that consuming focus would be essential for success. Take one corner poorly, lose a couple seconds. Daydream and miss the most direct line over the roots, wham! Another couple of seconds. Every crevice of the course would count. Racing on courses of this nature ensures no shortcuts which always provides an incredible learning opportunity. I couldn’t wait. Saturday: A leisurely morning before warming up. I find myself back on the line. I am fourth wheel when we hit the single-track. I can see a little gap begin to open up as Lea Davison begins to pull away from the pack. I make a quick pass to third wheel, riding behind teammate, Savilia. Savilia and I begin the chase. On the rock slab, I am able to pass and settle into my own rhythm on the roots. I am feeling pretty good and know I have more to give. I can hear Savilia behind me and its fun to be riding with my teammate. As we near the end of the second lap, she takes the lead. As we hit some swooping berms, my front tire gets away from me and I have a gentle slide-out. I lose some time but am back chasing. As we head on our final lap, I know this is it. Savilia is still in sight. However, I get a little ahead of myself. I am too careless and botch the first technical climb I have made every lap without fail. I awkwardly push myself up the climb and lose some more time. As the lap dwindles to a close, I am not quite as fast as I have been every other lap. I cross the line in third. Although I always love a tight battle to the end, right now, I am content with just being able to race with a clear head. Although I will always be working to manage the health problems I have long been struggling with, the difference is that now I have tools that enable me to manage this effectively. I am over the hump. And to be able to write that means so much more than any result every could- for right now: being able to do what I love is enough. I am still settling back into the groove of actually racing which takes a little practice (as opposed to surviving with my symptoms). Cross Country Podium! Short Track Podium! Sunday is Short Track. After a good warmup, we are back under the start banner. We are off! I am sitting fourth wheel as we hit the first corner. I hear the sound of a collision as somebody hits the barrier. I don’t look back. The course is one long grassy climb to a singletrack full of roots and quick, loose turns and then an exposed gravel climb. As we complete our first lap, I wait to see who will take the next pull. Lea has led the first lap and I don’t want the rest of us to just suck her wheel the whole race. The pace slows as Lea waits for someone else to pull. I wait for one of the riders sitting second or third wheel to go but when neither of them go for it, so I hop in front. I don’t go too crazy pushing the pace as the pack has already shattered and its still early. About 3/4 of the way through, Lea launches a strong attack leaving three of us in her wake. After the singletrack section, I notice we have dropped the other rider, leaving just Savilia and I. I quickly call to Savilia to work together so we can open up the gap. The race turns tactical and I am able to play my cards right as we come into the final climb. I launch my attack and grab silver behind Lea. Joined in for a Q&A session with the original chapter of Little Bellas. Incredible program and so cool to be a tiny part of it. It’s been an awesome weekend and I am thrilled to be back racing. Although its crushing to know that I will not be named to the official World Championships team due to the barriers I faced at the beginning of the season, I am beyond thrilled to have turned around the end of this year. I have one more shot at qualification at Mont Sainte Anne and will be focusing all my energy there. Thank you to Dario, Josh and my parents for their phenomenal support that makes this all possible.
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My sleepy eyes blink open to read the red numbers on my clock: 5:51 am. I freeze. I stare at those three numbers a little longer. 5:15 am? The time my alarm is supposed to be set to? No luck. 5:51 am it is. I have a 6:30 flight to make, and my alarm has failed me. In a whirlwind, I make it out the door and when 6:20 rolls around, I am counting my lucky stars to be seated on a plane. Luckily, that is the most stressful part of my travel day and ten hours later, I touch down in Washington Dulles, Virginia to begin the 4.5-hour drive to Snowshoe. I am very happy to climb into a real bed and get a good night of sleep. Wednesday arrives and after a morning of stretching on our sprawling balcony overlooking the stunning blue of the Appalachian mountains, I return to the course I remember so fondly from last year. I am not disappointed. The climbs waste no time: they are clean and efficient in getting suffering underway with steep, fire road pitches. The descents are classic East coast style riding, full of rocks and roots that keep you on your toes at all times. Race prep passes in a blur and before I know it, race morning is upon me! The roads are wet from last night’s rain and I know the course has transformed to slick, icy madness. The race will be all about who can stay the smoothest in volatile conditions. We are off! We surge up the ridiculously steep start climb and battle to be first into the singletrack. I fall into fifth wheel. When we hit the first climb, I make another pass and we begin to fight up the first climb. The first rooty singletrack is glassy and presents little to no traction. The rider in front of me slips and before I know it, we are pushing ourselves up the roots. We make it to the next climb and I begin to push to make a pass. However, it feels as though someone has their fist around my throat. I can’t breathe. I focus on taking deep, calm breaths and ride on. We hit the descents and I focus on making up time and my breath. When we hit the next climb, I push as hard as I can but still struggle to breathe. I can see the podium spot I desperately want 10 seconds up the road. The race continues in this fashion. I dig as hard as I can but can’t quite seem to close the gap. I cross the line in 4th, 100% spent and happy to have finally had a top-level race where I was able to fight for contention. Although not the result I was dreaming of, I got a taste of my recent health progress and I can’t quite put to words what it meant to feel more like myself while racing. I also can’t help but feeling grateful to cross the line behind some crazy fast ladies that push me to be better every step of the way. Congratulations to my teammate, Savilia, for taking the National title! Sunday is short track. I clamber on the bike and begin my warmup in an attempt to revive my sluggish, heavy legs from the previous day. Pretty soon, I am back on the line. The whistle releases us and immediately thirty of the nation’s fastest women are loose! I find myself in the front group after the first lap but on a wheel whose rider lacks the punch of the first group. The first split happens, and I am too late. I make a pass anyways and am now dangling in no-man’s-land. When two other riders find my wheel, the race is back on. I don’t know much, but I know I am maxed out to keep the pace. I pass the start and see “6 laps” counting down the time left. It seems like an eternity. I keep fighting. Despite gasping for air, I can feel a little more punch on the last climb that will determine the race. The final climb rolls around and I make my attack. I open up a small gap between me and the other riders and roll into the finish in 9th. It feels good to have been able to breathe a little more (with help of a new inhaler) and put down a race with a result that shows how hard I have fought this season. I am optimistic that I can solve the breathing problems with help of an inhaler for the exercise induced asthma I was recently diagnosed with and am more fired up than ever to finish this season strong. One thing is certain, the progress I have made this season has far outweighed the heartbreak. Huge thank you to the team behind me that has made each rung up the ladder attainable: your continued belief means the world to me. I cannot wait to get more of the full flavor of racing without health limits as I carry this momentum forward into Vermont this weekend and the Mont Sainte Anne World Cup!
A couple of my friends from Stanford had the wonderful idea for a group of us to write blog posts about our summer adventures. The blog can be found HERE but I wanted to attach my post on here as well. When I planned my 2018 season 10 months ago, today, July 2nd was circled in red pen. It was one of the days that represents the reason I wake up in the morning, ready. It would be the day that many of the world’s top cyclists would board planes from hundreds of different states, countries, & backgrounds to come together for the second round of World Cup mountain bike races the following weekend. I would be one of them. Ever since my toes skimmed the water of mountain biking, World Cup racing has been its heart. These races are the epitome of the sport. The names called out through the auditorium are the sport’s infamous legends; the athletes worshipped by the cycling world. These courses are the most grueling and relentless that can possibly be packed into 5km laps. They are designed for physical and mental suffering; no one crosses the finish line without fighting a battle. To get to this start line, you have to be the best. The best at suffering, the best at being tough, the best at being confident. You have to be the right balance of easy-going and high-maintenance. You have to be picky about your pancake mix but be ready to eat powdered eggs. You have to know the difference between 22psi and 23psi but be ready to gauge your tire pressure by feel and call it good. Grit, perseverance, focus and sacrifice are not characteristics; they are your construction. There is not a single athlete who makes it to these events by chance. Pinning on a number plate is a lifestyle built out of sacrifice, and, at the risk of sounding cliché, blood, sweat and tears. The stakes are the highest, and the pressure can be smothering. However, the minute the gun blows, the suffocating anticipation evaporates and the “point” of it all becomes impossible to miss. The passion is contagious, the rawness electrifying. I fell in love with cycling for the adrenaline, but I remain in love with cycling for another reason. When racing, I have an hour and a half to live the way I strive to every day: fearlessly. Racing is about pushing yourself past any preconceived notion you have of your limit. A 90-minute race is a rollercoaster of emotion: there are a million battles bookending the heartbreak and triumph. There is doubt and despair but there is also confidence and hope. Off the bike, I have a list of attributes I can pin to myself the same way I recognize my face in the mirror. I am tough. I am confident. I don’t bruise. I am fearless. But when I race, I am vulnerable. Every breath is a fight in itself, and riding as the bold racer I aspire to be can feel nearly impossible. At times, pulling off an effort that I can smile about after I cross the line seems unimaginable. However, then racing forces me to sift through layers in my heart I didn’t know I had and further tear my muscles to pieces. And to love that 90 minutes enough to devote every day to it. As odd as it is, there is a whole world of endurance athletes who feel the same way, some of whom have become my best friends. So today, my best friends board planes to chase their dreams. And when I looked at the calendar 10 months ago, I knew I was going to be one of them. I knew it like you know it has rained the night before by the way the air tastes and the color of the light. You don’t even have to see the puddles to know. But I am writing this today on a different plane. And not by choice. After the first World Cup trip this season, I did not qualify for the second one. Despite the fact that I am making real progress with the health condition I have been battling for the past four years and despite the fact that I am still usually able to perform as one of the top U23 women in the United States with this health condition, I was not seen as a viable candidate for this second trip. Which does more than just sting, but I understand. So today, I am not flying to Italy for the fifth World Cup of 2018 and I will not be in Andorra for the sixth World Cup. So as some of my best friends, those I have spent the past five years working with toward a common goal, pushing each other to new heights, board planes to race this weekend, I am flying to Baltimore, Maryland, to meet with a new doctor. At this point, this isn’t a story I’m necessarily ready to tell or really have the words for. If I were to try and describe this in one word it would be anger. Or frustration. Or hopelessness. But it could also be gratitude. Or confidence. Or passion. Long story short, one year into my cycling career I started blacking out during my races, experiencing symptoms like dizziness and feelings of removal. Needless to say, these symptoms make riding to one’s potential and racing on a world-class stage difficult. So, we sought help. What started out as a visit to my primary doctor turned into visits to UCSF and then to Stanford and then to New York and then to Texas, and as the flights added up, so did the diagnoses. Every doctor had a different explanation and every doctor admitted my symptoms were a little unusual. From medication trials and strange diets to MRIs, CT scans and EKG’s - we did it all. In the beginning, I would leave each visit bursting with hope, convinced we had found a solution. Then I would line up to race, and be more symptomatic than ever, doing everything I could just to drag myself over the finish line. As the appointments collected tallies, I left little pieces of my heart all over the world, and hope became harder and harder to stumble on. But this year, this season, has been different. I have been meeting with some new doctors who have propelled me forward. I have found a medication that has given me some relief. I understand certain triggers. Today, I am flying to see yet another renowned doctor, this time a specialist in the right field who I hope will give me more tools. For the first time, I have been making progress. That doesn’t mean this battle is over yet, but it means I am closer. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have days where I wake up feeling drained of hope. Like I have been swimming with 300-pound weights strapped on, prolonging drowning, prolonging suffering. My fight seems naïve and the mountain climb, never ending. On these days, I am drained. I am sick of my own sob story, of saying the same thing after every race. Of pouring my heart and soul and every ounce of my being in this sport to have it spit back in my face. So why am I still in it? Because I have other days. The days when I wake up with a fire burning through my chest, with such ferocity it scares me. It leaves no room for doubt. I have belief rooted in me, in a place so deep, sometimes it hides in the shadows. But it never, ever leaves. It destroys the heartache. And on those days, I know I have it in my soul. I know I can be at the top of these races if I can survive this a little longer. I am starving. And I know I will fight this until it’s over, and I have won. The embers in my gut are sparking, ready to ignite at any second. Whether they finally burn tomorrow or in a month or in a year, you can make damn sure you will feel their glow. This is me, doing what I love. And on the in-between days, I know racing is about the fight. It is about finding your limit and then beating your head against a wall until it shatters. Racing is about failing, your biggest worry unravelling, and then picking yourself off the ground to do it again the next chance you have. Racing is not defined by your paper results of success. Racing is about the way you pick yourself up; not how long you can stand in the top, bathing in the glory. And on these days, I have knowledge. I know I will swallow a hell of a lot more before I walk away from the reason my heart beats. And when the belief feels dusty, I know I have my proof in the data and my resilience. I know that this pulses through my veins and that my happiest place is on the start line. I know I will push through the shattering until the healing is complete. I don’t know what this doctor will tell me. What if he tells me I will never overcome this? For a split second, I think I would drop racing, but then I, it doesn’t (really) matter. This is the reason my heart beats. But not every day is race day, not every day feels desolate and not every day is bursting with hope. And so, most days are just about soaking in all the beauty that I have. I am (always working on) finding gratitude, patience, and peace. Luckily, there are a million things that make that easier. I wake up most mornings breathing easy. The dry Colorado wind rustles through the RV that is home this summer, carrying songs of the river and mountain peaks- the stories of rhythm and unsolicited grace. I can feel the passion rumbling through my blood, as sure as the river’s flow, the steady mountain peaks. I know that my day training will be well spent. I know that every pedal stroke, every drop of sweat, every heartache will be repaid with enough patience. But mostly, I focus on finding love in every moment. And sometimes that means remembering I am more than just a cyclist. And sometimes it means defining myself as a cyclist. Either way, I try to love as deeply as I can. The type of love that will make whatever outcome, wherever I end up in 15 years, worth this. Regardless of my obstacles, the biggest blessing I could have is love and I am so grateful to know the reason my heart beats. That knowledge means that despite it all, I am in the right place.
BATTLE AT NORTH FORK, I CUP- LIBERTY, UTAHAfter a quick flight to Marlyand for another doctor’s appointment, I hop in the car for the drive from Durango, Colorado to Liberty, Utah. 8 hours later, we arrive. A nice sunset spin and a good night of sleep later, it is time to get on course! The course profile is daunting, 7 miles and 1,350ft of climbing per lap. However, despite the 90 plus degree heat and brutal climbing, I soon realize that lots of climbing means lots of descending! The descents are long, with swooping berms and sharp corners that are easy to overshoot. The climbs are seemingly never-ending with lots of short punchy sections thrown into the sustained climb, just to make sure you never get a minute’s rest. The trail is a fine powder, making the dust a force to be reckoned with. Tomorrow promises a brutal race. Race morning dawns and I am excited. I get a good warmup and make it to the line. I am happy to discover that there are as many women as men on the line! The Elite Women will be racing at the same time as the Elite Men as well as the Masters. Since the course is mostly singletrack, this means that passing will be tricky. 3, 2, 1! We are off! I get the hole shot and begin the steep climb into the first singletrack descent. I am a little timid about digging too deep right off the line at altitude, so I allow two women to slip by me before the trail funnels to singletrack. We begin the fast descent and I realize a little too late that the extra match I would have burned to be first into the singletrack would have been well spent due to the gap I would have been able to build. Oh well… We hit the first climb and Sophia, the first woman, begins to pull away. My legs are itching to follow her, but I am stuck behind another rider. As soon as the trail opens up a smidge, I make a quick pass in the grass and begin to chase. I close the gap down to 15 seconds by the time we enter the big 800 feet climb. I am still charging but begin to feel a little hazy. I know if I push too deep, I will sink deep into my symptoms. I am careful to ride at my limit but not push past the point of no return in the stifling 95-degree heat. I know I am forfeiting time on the climbs, so I focus on making up time on the descents. I hit the last lap ready to leave everything on course. I destroy myself on the climbs and fly on the descents. I cross the line with a faster last lap than the leader, having lost the majority of time on the second lap. I am happy to have ridden a clean, fun race as well as with the progress I have been making in regard to my health. Two months ago, when I raced at this elevation in milder heat on more medication, I became so symptomatic that I was unable to finish my first lap. I know I am headed in the right direction and couldn’t be more fired up for Nationals in two weeks! Thank you to Dario, Josh and my parents for the support that enables me to race at this level! Mt. Ogden Midweek Series Just a couple days after the I-Cup, it was go-time again. Ever since I had started racing, I had heard tales from my teammates of the infamous Midweek series where many of my friends got their starts racing. It is exciting to have the chance for another race under my belt to tune up for Nationals.
6:30pm arrives and the sun is still hot at 6,500 ft at Snowbasin Mountain. The course is powdery and dry with some long, steep climbs and fast, rocky descents. I line up alongside the Pro Men as all the Pros will be starting together. It’s pretty cool to chat with long-time teammate Anders Johnson on the line. Finally, we are off! I am careful not to dig too deep of the line at altitude and just to hang with the men, but I quickly find my pace and begin to make some passes. I grit my teeth and push on the climbs and find flow on the descents. For the first time in the past four years, I feel like myself: I can use the power I have trained. I don’t feel symptomatic. I can’t stop smiling. I keep pushing across the line and take the win. Now it’s time to focus and get in the last crucial training touchups before Nationals. Thank you to those who continue to support me. |