Beata D Wronska

Marathon MTB World Championships - 52 Miles and 10,500 Feet Through the Rugged Dolomites

2026-09-21T16:55:31.592-04:00

52 miles. 10,500 feet of climbing. 6 hours and 35 minutes. Ninth in the world in my age group.

It was brutal. It was beautiful. It was tough.

And I got it done.

After months of thinking about this race, planning for it, training for it, studying the course, and imagining what it would be like to race through the Italian Dolomites, September 13 finally arrived.

Race morning was beautiful and cool as we drove toward Fiera di Primiero. The mountains were glowing around us, and after a week of everything from sunshine and heat to thunderstorms, downpours, and hail, it was finally time to stop thinking about the weather and simply race whatever course we had.

The women lined up together, and somehow I found myself on the front row next to my longtime Italian friend and competitor Lorena Zocca, surrounded by a great group of women from all over the world around us.

And then we were off.

As we rode out of the race village along the river, I found myself right at the very front of the entire women’s field. Three of us were riding across the front—me on the left, another woman in the middle, and Lorena Zocca on the right—with the whole pack behind us.

For those first few minutes, everything felt almost surreal. USA across my chest, the river beside us, Dolomites towering around us, and the World Championships finally happening.

Then we turned onto the steep, twisting concrete road, and suddenly the race got a little crazy.

The women’s field began mixing with the men who had started ahead of us, and before long there were riders everywhere. Different categories were blending together on the climb, people were moving forward and backward, and it became increasingly difficult to know exactly who was where.

Somewhere in all of that, I spotted three Italian women from my age group going by me. I noticed each one and made a mental note. I was sure I was keeping track of the women in my category and knew exactly where I stood.

At least, that’s what I thought.

The first climb would take close to an hour, and once we reached the wet singletrack, all of that traffic became an entirely different problem.

Three days of heavy rain had transformed the trails.

Roots that had been perfectly manageable during our pre-rides were suddenly like ice. Wooden bridges were slick. Rocks were wet. Tires slid sideways. Riders were walking, crashing, and stopping in places where momentum was everything.

There were moments when I wasn't really racing the women anymore. I was simply trying to find a clear piece of trail.

And then there were those wonderful little openings when suddenly nobody was in front of me.

One of my favorites was the bike park.

After fighting my way around a couple of riders—including one who nearly stopped directly in front of a steep, slick wooden ramp—I finally had open trail.

For a few glorious minutes, I could just ride my bike.

Berms. Rollers. Speed.

Freedom.

And then, of course...

Back to climbing.

We climbed through tiny villages, mountain pastures, and some of the most spectacular scenery I've ever raced through. There were cows and cowbells, mountain huts, beautiful wildflowers, and those enormous jagged Dolomite peaks always somewhere around us.

There were moments when I wanted to look around and take it all in.

And moments when I absolutely did not want to know how much farther up the mountain we still had to go.

Somewhere during the second half, however, my race began changing.

I had started feeling sick before race day, and as the hours passed, my body simply wasn't responding the way I knew it could. My heart rate felt like I was racing hard, but the power wasn't there.

First, a Swedish woman in my category caught me.

Normally, that would immediately switch something on inside me.

Go.

Get on her wheel.

Don't let her go.

But this time I couldn't respond.

I watched her slowly ride away from me.

Not long afterward, I heard a woman’s voice behind me.

“Beata?”

I turned toward her. It was a German rider.

“I saw your name on the list! We raced together in Florida at the 12 Hours of Santos. You beat me. You won.”

It took me a moment to place her. Here we were, years later, two women who had once raced each other in Florida, suddenly riding together again in the middle of a World Championship in the Italian Dolomites.

We talked for a moment.

And then she rode away from me too.

That one hurt.

I knew how competitive I was. I knew how I normally raced. I knew the person who sees another woman disappearing ahead and immediately thinks, No. You're not getting away from me.

But that person simply wasn't there.

My body didn't have the response, and strangely, neither did my mind.

And unfortunately, the Dolomites weren't particularly interested in giving me time to figure it out.

The course seemed to have an endless supply of mountains.

Somewhere during one of those long, hot, exposed, bumpy gravel climbs, I remember staring ahead desperately hoping for just a little flat section—or, miracle of miracles, a downhill.

Then I saw the next course arrow.

It pointed up.

"Of course it's up," I said out loud. "Of course it's going up."

And up we went.

Eventually I stopped trying to force something my body didn't have.

I just kept riding.

And there was still an enormous amount of riding left.

One trail became affectionately known in my head as the Snot Trail because the wet roots were so unbelievably slick.

During the dry pre-ride, I had flown through it. Now my front and rear tires were sliding sideways across polished roots, my left foot was constantly coming out to dab, and my right quad was beginning to cramp from doing so much of the work.

At another point I looked down at the little sticker Pax had put on my top tube before we left home:

YOU'LL BE FINE.

Those were the words Pax and our neighbor Jim had jokingly been telling me before Italy.

Now I was saying them out loud.

"You'll be fine. You'll be fine. You'll be fine."

One slippery root at a time.

Eventually I reached Pax at the final feed zone. He gave me my bottles and essentially told me what I already knew.

Don't worry about the result anymore.

Just keep going.

Finish.

So that's what I did.

There were still insanely steep wet switchbacks, rocky descents, and a suspension bridge I informed the laughing volunteers that I absolutely did not want to ride again.

They laughed.

I laughed.

Someone told me to look far ahead.

Someone may have suggested closing my eyes.

Wonderful advice for crossing a suspension bridge on a mountain bike.

Somehow I got across.

And then, naturally...

UP.

One final concrete climb that seemed determined never to end.

Every time I thought I could see the top, another set of switchbacks appeared.

I would climb all the way across the grassy mountainside, turn, climb all the way back, and think:

Okay. That's the top.

Nope.

More.

Another switchback.

Another false top.

More climbing.

At least this part of the mountain was beautiful. There were cows with their bells and fields filled with tiny purple flowers that looked almost exactly like the crocuses we have at home in spring.

Eventually, even that climb had to end.

And then came the final technical descent.

My forearms were so pumped that holding onto the handlebars was becoming a challenge. Rocks that had given me absolutely no trouble during the pre-ride were now wet and polished by thousands of tires.

Once I committed to a rocky section, there was no changing my mind halfway through.

You had to go.

Let the bike move.

Let the tires slide.

And trust that somehow everything would still be underneath you when you came out the other side.

On one of the slick rocky switchbacks, I passed a rider sitting beside the trail wrapped in a silver emergency blanket while volunteers attended to him.

That was a pretty good reminder that even this close to the finish, I still needed to pay attention.

Finally, the rocks ended.

I made one last turn and suddenly found myself flying down smooth concrete.

Cool air hit my face.

And there, immediately beside me, was the river.

Beautiful, clear mountain water.

All week I had been saying I wanted to get into that river, but around town it was always surrounded by walls, bridges, and concrete structures.

Here it was wild and open.

I could have stopped my bike, walked down the bank, and stepped straight into that beautiful cold water.

And for a few seconds, after more than six hours of racing the Marathon World Championships, I seriously considered doing exactly that.

Apparently getting into the river had become more appealing than getting to the finish line.

But the finish was only minutes away.

So...

Finish the race, Beata.

The concrete path carried me toward town.

Barricades appeared.

I rode through a little playground area.

Left turn.

Another left.

And suddenly there it was.

The huge finish arch.

Music.

People.

The announcer.

USA.

There was a guy riding just to my right, and after everything that had happened that day, apparently some tiny competitive part of me was still alive because I looked over and tried to encourage him to sprint me to the finish.

He didn't look particularly interested.

Fine.

I sprinted anyway.

I think I passed him.

Then I crossed the line.

He finished behind me and gave me a little fist bump.

Pax was waiting there, taking a video.

And just like that, it was over.

6 hours and 35 minutes.

52 miles.

10,500 feet of climbing.

9th in my age group at the Masters Marathon World Championships.

Was it the race I dreamed about?

No.

I'm competitive enough to admit that.

I came to Italy wanting more. I knew what I had hoped I could do, and there were moments afterward when it was difficult not to define the entire experience by the number beside my name.

But with a little distance, I see something much bigger.

I raced my mountain bike for 52 miles through the Italian Dolomites.

I rode mountains I'd never seen before.

I raced women from around the world.

I struggled.

I laughed.

I slid sideways across wet roots.

I rode through tiny Italian villages, past cowbells and fields of purple wildflowers.

I crossed that ridiculous suspension bridge.

I saw Pax waiting for me at the feed zones.

I finished.

And when I think about this entire trip—the pre-rides, the meals, the friendships, the crazy logistics, the laughter, the beautiful villages, the storms, the stress, and all the little adventures in between—I can't possibly reduce it to one result.

Of course results matter to me.

Racing matters to me.

I'll learn from this one, just as I've learned from every race before it.

But sometimes we become so focused on the outcome that we forget how extraordinary the opportunity itself is.

I got to line up at a World Championship in Italy.

I got to wear USA across my chest.

I got to race some of the strongest women my age in the world.

And after 52 miles and 10,500 feet of climbing through one of the most spectacular places I've ever ridden a bicycle...

I crossed that finish line.

Ninth in the world.

Maybe it wasn't the race I imagined.

But what an incredible adventure it was...

It Takes a Village

And there was something else that made this day incredibly special.

The Crew: Me, Mike, Trish, Amy, Pax, Matt

I was proud and grateful to be there representing my country, wearing USA across my chest, and representing Sycamore Cycles back home in North Carolina. CUORE created an awesome custom Worlds jersey for me, and it felt pretty special to pull it on that morning and line up in Italy wearing my country’s colors.

My bike rode incredibly well through everything the Dolomites threw at us. Wet roots, slick rocks, mud, steep climbs, and technical descents—it never gave me a reason to think about anything except riding. I absolutely loved racing my new Gulo wheels, my Selle SMP saddle kept me comfortable through more than six and a half hours in the saddle, and my DeFeet accessories helped keep me comfortable through a long day in constantly changing mountain conditions. And on a course made so wet and muddy by days of rain, Squirt Cycling products helped keep everything running smoothly all the way to the finish.

Behind the scenes, Pax and Mike had their own race going on. They did an incredible job navigating those mountain roads, racing from feed zone to feed zone, somehow appearing exactly where we needed them, and taking care of all of us racers throughout a very long day.

It really does take a village.

I’m incredibly grateful for the people who supported me, the partners who helped me get to that start line, the equipment I could completely trust underneath me, and everyone who became part of this adventure.

More Than a Race

As much as this trip was built around one very important day on the bike, when I look back at Italy, the race is only one part of what I remember.

There was Fiera di Primiero itself, this beautiful little village tucked beneath the rugged Dolomite peaks, with flowers spilling from balconies and bridges and the river rushing straight through the middle of town. There were walks through the village, dark chocolate gelato that was so good I immediately announced, “I’m staying,” dinners in little restaurants, homemade meals at our villa, and evenings spent laughing with friends.

There were the pre-rides too—hours together on the bikes exploring the course and those incredible mountains. Some days under brilliant blue skies, others in rain, hail, and thunderstorms that seemed to change the mountains completely. There was plenty of stress mixed into the adventure as well, beginning with our rather complicated escape from Venice and continuing with weather that seemed determined to keep us guessing right up until race day.

And there was Venice itself—brief, hectic, beautiful, and completely different from the peaceful little corner of the Dolomites that eventually became our home for the week.

But mostly, there were the people.

The conversations, the laughter, the rides together, the meals, the gelato stops, and all those ordinary little moments in between the big ones. We came to Italy because of a bike race, but somehow those moments became just as much a part of the experience as anything that happened between the start and finish lines.

Maybe that's one of the things I love most about racing in places like this.

The race gives you a reason to go. But once you're there, life gives you so much more.

ORAMM 2026 – Mud, Mountains, and Gratitude

2026-08-08T19:04:25.568-04:00

Every ORAMM tells a different story.

Some years it's the heat.

Some years it's the climbs.

Some years it's the people you meet along the way.

This year, it was written in rain, mud, rolling clouds, slippery roots, rock gardens, and nearly seven hours of adventure through the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Ever since Marathon Nationals, I'd been looking forward to ORAMM. It would be my final long race before the biggest challenge of my season—a chance to spend nearly seven hours pushing my limits in the mountains.

Sixty-five miles.

More than 9,000 feet of climbing.

Seventeen women lined up in the Open category, and I knew almost every one of them was younger than me.

ORAMM has never been an easy race. It is usually hot, humid, and unpredictable. Some years the heat becomes the biggest challenge, while other years the weather throws something completely different at you. This year I found myself hoping for clouds, cooler temperatures, maybe even a little rain—anything but another ninety-degree sufferfest.

Well...

I definitely got my wish.

By the time I picked up my packet in Old Fort, thunderstorms rolled across the mountains. As I walked across the historic bridge, the sky opened completely. I laughed, pulled my race packet over my head, and ran back to the car in my brand-new ORAMM shirt while rain poured down around me.

The storm delayed any real warm-up, but eventually the rain eased just enough for us to line up.

From the gun, I felt surprisingly good.

Really good.

I found myself riding with the lead group almost immediately. Madison, one of the strongest riders in the Southeast, came around me early, and I jumped onto her wheel. Only seven or eight minutes into what would become nearly seven hours of racing, everyone was already riding at threshold. I looked down at my power numbers and couldn't help laughing. Even the guys around me joked about how hard we were pushing this early in the day.

One final paved climb stretched the group, and I finally lost contact with the leaders. Looking back, I realized I was completely alone between groups. A minute later, two riders came charging from behind. I eased just enough for them to catch me, tucked onto their wheels, and together we buried ourselves for several minutes until we reconnected with the leaders.

One of them smiled and asked,

"Worth it?"

I smiled back.

"Oh, absolutely."

With trails this wet, entering the first singletrack near the front was worth every watt.

Bernard Mountain immediately reminded us what kind of day this was going to be. Standing water covered the doubletrack leading to the trail, fresh mud coated the singletrack, and the lower we descended, the slicker everything became.

Near the top, though, the forest opened for just a moment.

Huge white clouds rolled through the valleys below us, drifting between endless Blue Ridge ridges.

I pointed toward the view for a rider from Florida.

"Look!"

He turned his head for a second, smiled, and said,

"Now I understand why you moved here."

Exactly.

That one view explained everything.

By the time I reached the road toward Kitsuma, I was completely covered in mud and almost out of water. Pax was supposed to meet me with a fresh bottle, but he wasn't there yet. I only had two small sips left.

The rider I'd been climbing with noticed me looking at my bottle.

"Do you need some water?"

I hesitated for just a second.

Taking a drink from someone else's bottle isn't something you normally think about during a race. But then I realized I still had the entire climb and descent of Kitsuma ahead of me, and it would probably be another forty minutes before I'd see Pax again.

I nodded.

He handed me his bottle.

It was still frozen.

The water was ice cold.

Just plain water.

I took two long sips.

Nothing has ever tasted so good.

As I handed the bottle back, I knew those would probably be the last cold drinks I'd have for quite a while, so I found myself savoring every sip.

Then it was back to racing.

Suddenly every climb became about one thing.

Water.

I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The funny thing was that whenever the trail pointed downhill, I completely forgot I was thirsty.

Kitsuma demanded absolute focus.

Every root.

Every rock.

Every muddy corner.

Every decision had to be made before entering it because once you committed, there was no changing your line halfway through.

Oddly enough...

I loved it.

It reminded me of descending Bennet during Pisgah Stage Race a few years ago in total downpour. Sometimes terrible conditions force you to become completely present.

Seeing Pax at the bottom with a fresh bottle felt like heaven.

The next major challenge was Star Gap.

As I climbed beside Heckler, I wasn't thinking about the climb.

I was studying the rock garden I'd have to descend hours later.

Every few steps I looked back, memorizing the rocks, the angles, and the possible lines.

Before the race, I'd already made up my mind.

I was about 97% sure I was going to ride Heckler.

The remaining three percent had nothing to do with fear.

It had everything to do with making the right decision.

This wasn't just another technical feature.

It was one of the biggest obstacles on the course, and I was only a few weeks away from the biggest race of my season. I wasn't willing to take unnecessary risks simply to prove I could ride it.

If the rocks became too slick...

If the line disappeared...

If something didn't feel right...

I'd walk it without a second thought.

Sometimes experience isn't about riding everything.

Sometimes it's about knowing when not to.

As I continued climbing, I kept replaying the descent in my head, trying to remember exactly where I wanted my wheels to go.

The climb itself became a battle against slick clay, packed cleats, and endless off-camber roots. At one point, a younger rider crashed above me and tumbled all the way down the switchback while his bike stayed caught in the bushes. Thankfully he was okay, but it was another reminder that these mountains demanded respect.

The middle part of the race seemed endless.

It had taken me almost three and a half hours just to get there, and I knew we were in for a very long day.

Trail after trail.

Corner after corner.

Machine-built singletrack twisting through the forest.

After a while, it all began to feel the same.

I remembered something another rider once said about Marathon Nationals—"death by a thousand cuts."

To be honest...

This felt even worse.

The sun had finally broken through the clouds, and the temperature climbed quickly. The mud dried onto my arms, my legs, my shoes, and every part of the bike until it felt like I was carrying the mountain with me.

Then, as I reached the last of those endless twisting trails, the sky suddenly turned dark again.

Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.

A cool breeze swept through the forest, bringing instant relief from the heat.

Within moments the rain came pouring down.

The water mixed with sweat and mud until I could barely see. I kept taking my glasses off, then putting them back on again, never quite sure which was the better option. At one point I slammed straight into a rock I simply hadn't seen through the muddy blur.

The rain washed away some of the clay that had dried onto my skin and bike, but it also transformed the trail beneath my feet. The clay became something else entirely.

Every switchback turned into a balancing act.

Sometimes it was difficult to ride them.

Sometimes it was almost as difficult to walk them.

My shoes packed with slick clay. Then, almost without warning, the rain stopped.

I wasn’t completely sure what trail I was on, it was some kind of connector I have never ridden. When I got out finally on the gravel it was a relieve and I knew at any time I should be reaching the Star Gap in the opposite direction. Thankfully everything was familiar again.

For just a few peaceful seconds, everything became still, while I was rolling through this soaked gravel with great speed.

Eventually, I stopped thinking about miles.

My mind became completely focused on the last major climb that still waited ahead.

Star Gap.

I knew that once I reached the top and made my way down Heckler, the race would be almost over.

As I climbed, I found myself replaying the descent over and over again.

The rocks.

The lines.

Every possible decision.

Oddly enough, having something technical to think about became a welcome distraction from how many hours I'd already spent on the bike.

Then I met another rider coming down the trail.

She looked exhausted.

"What are you doing here?" I asked with a smile.

"I flatted earlier," she replied. "Someone finally helped me fix it, and I'm just getting going again."

"How many miles are you on?" I asked.

"Seventeen."

I smiled.

"I'm already on fifty-two."

She looked at me for a second before laughing.

"Oh... I think I'm a little behind."

"Yeah," I laughed. "Just a little."

We both smiled and continued on our way.

That brief conversation stayed with me. It was a reminder that everyone out there was having a completely different race. Some riders would spend eleven or twelve hours on the course that day. Others would battle long enough only to come up short of the finish line. ORAMM has a way of humbling every single person who lines up.

When I was climbing the middle pitches of Star Gap toward Heckler, yellow-brown water rushed straight down the middle of the trail. Every root had become its own little puzzle. I found myself studying each one—the angle, the shape, where my tire would land, where it might slip.

Somehow...

I enjoyed it.

Instead of thinking about tired legs or how many hours I'd already spent on the bike, my mind became completely absorbed in solving one obstacle after another.

One root.

One line.

One decision at a time.

The approach to Heckler came almost before I realized it.

People stood on both sides of the rock garden.

The photographer waited below.

I rolled to the entrance and took one last look.

The rocks were wet, but surprisingly grippy. The line I'd been studying all morning was still there.

That missing three percent disappeared.

I rolled in.

Not aggressively.

Not recklessly.

Just completely committed.

Every move was deliberate.

Every rock received my full attention.

When I reached the final right-hand turn I'd been studying for hours, my tires gripped perfectly.

I cleaned the entire section.

The cheers from the spectators made me smile, but what stayed with me most wasn't cleaning Heckler.

It was knowing I'd made the right decision.

The hardest technical challenge of the day was behind me.

Or so I thought.

Late in the race, descending Bernard one final time, the trail had become even slicker than it had been that morning.

The lower section was one long series of muddy corners. My rear tire drifted through almost every turn, never completely out of control, but never fully planted either. Every corner demanded total commitment because once I chose my line, there was no changing my mind halfway through.

It wasn't about riding aggressively.

It was about trusting the bike.

Trusting the trail.

And trusting myself.

Then I heard a helicopter overhead.

Pax had told me he'd be waiting near the bottom of Bernard.

Instantly my mind went somewhere I wish it hadn't.

After everything we'd been through over the past year, fear arrived before logic.

"What if something happened?"

I kept telling myself to stop.

To focus.

To ride.

When I finally rolled onto the road, I saw Pax leaning out of the car window, smiling and taking pictures.

I've never been happier to see him.

The fear disappeared instantly.

The rain had stopped.

The sun had come out.

The mud that had covered me for hours was already beginning to dry, caking onto my arms, my legs, my jersey, and every inch of the bike.

Then something unexpected happened.

Instead of fading after nearly seven hours of racing...

I felt powerful.

Really powerful.

I stood up on the pedals and sprinted all the way back toward Old Fort.

I crossed the railroad tracks, weaved through the obstacle course of old railroad ties, crossed the bridge, and rolled across the finish line after 6 hours and 53 minutes.

2nd Place – Open Women

Fifth ORAMM Finisher Buckle

It was one of the longest, muddiest, ORAMM days yet

But strangely...

The finish line wasn't my favorite memory.

Somewhere during the hardest part of the race, while slogging through endless muddy trails, my mind had started wandering toward the river.

I kept imagining exactly what it would feel like to sit in that cold mountain water after the race.

When I finally finished, that's exactly what I did.

Pax and I walked back across the bridge.

I took off my shoes, my helmet, and my mud-soaked jersey before stepping into the cool river.

As I sat there, I watched nearly seven hours of mud slowly wash off my arms, my legs, and my face.

It felt cleansing not only in the physical way...

A few days before the race, someone wished me luck and said they hoped I'd finish on the podium.

It made me realize something afterward.

No podium is ever guaranteed.

Not because you've done it before.

Not because you've trained hard.

Every podium has to be earned all over again.

Every race.

Every season.

Standing on another ORAMM podium at 51 years old, racing against an incredibly strong field of younger women is something I never want to take for granted.

Every ORAMM tells a different story.

Every year this race asks different questions.

Every year it presents a different challenge.

And somehow...

It never gets any easier.

Receiving my fifth ORAMM Finisher Buckle made me stop and reflect for a moment.

It isn't just five finishes.

It's five completely different adventures through these incredible Blue Ridge Mountains.

Five years of learning.

Five years of pushing myself.

Five years of suffering, smiling, adapting, and discovering something new every single time I pin on a number.

As I watched the last streaks of mud disappear into the river, I realized I wasn't just grateful for another podium.

I was grateful for another day in the mountains.

Another adventure on my bike.

Another chance to discover what I'm still capable of.

One final thought...

When we got home, I looked at my bike and couldn't help but laugh. It was almost impossible to tell what color it actually was anymore. Layers of Pisgah clay covered every tube, every cable, every component, as if the mountains wanted me to take a little piece of ORAMM home.

Pax just smiled.

I knew he was already planning how he was going to tackle the cleanup, and I had a feeling he was going to have plenty of fun uncovering my bike from beneath all that mud.

Looking back, I realized I'd chosen the perfect Defeet race socks for the day, that simply say...

"Do Epic Shit."

I couldn't help but smile.

They seemed perfectly appropriate for the day.

After nearly seven hours of rain, slick clay, rock gardens, creek crossings, and relentless climbing, I couldn't have asked more from my equipment. My Gulo Wheels inspired confidence through every technical descent and never missed a beat in some of the toughest conditions. Squirt Chain Lube, Squirt Tire Sealant, Squirt Barrier Balm and much needed Squirt Bike Cleaner, also proved their worth on a day when mud seemed determined to find its way into absolutely everything.

Now it's time to get everything clean...

And start looking forward to the next adventure.

One Year Later – 2026 Marathon National Championships

2026-07-20T17:43:03.494-04:00

Some races are remembered because of the jersey you win.

Others stay with you because of the ride itself.

Photo credit: Snowy Mountain Photography

Returning to Roanoke this year felt different long before I rolled up to the start line. Last year, I came here only three weeks after Pax's heart attack. As I stood waiting for the race to begin, I kept glancing over at him standing beneath a small tree near the start. There wasn't much shade, and I remember wondering if he should even be there. We were both trying to act like everything was normal, but nothing about those weeks felt normal.

This year was different.

He's feeling strong again, back to playing tennis and pickleball, and we drove into Virginia simply looking forward to another mountain bike adventure together. Sometimes you don't realize how much life has changed until you find yourself back in exactly the same place a year later.

The days leading up to the race were just about perfect. We stayed in a beautiful cabin overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains with friends, spending our mornings pre-riding sections of the course and our afternoons relaxing back at the cabin. Those pre-rides are some of my favorite parts of any race weekend. We compared lines through technical sections, joked about questionable route choices, encouraged one another on climbs, and met new riders who, within minutes, felt like old friends because we all shared the same passion.

Back at the cabin, life slowed down.

My favorite place quickly became a lounge chair on the porch overlooking the mountain ridges. I'd stretch my legs out, sip my tea, and simply watch the mountains. Almost every afternoon, a tiny bunny would hop into the yard just a few feet away and happily nibble on clover while I sat there. Deer wandered through the property almost every evening. Those quiet moments reminded me that race weekends are about so much more than what happens between the start and finish lines.

Race morning arrived with something I was hoping for all week.

Clouds.

The forecast had changed almost daily, ranging from another brutally hot National Championship to afternoon thunderstorms. Instead, we woke up to overcast skies and temperatures in the mid-70s. Compared to last year's scorching heat, it felt almost ideal.

When the whistle blew, I didn't get into the first singletrack where I wanted to be. With four women's age groups starting together, I found myself somewhere around ninth or tenth wheel. It wasn't ideal. I knew the riders at the very front would immediately begin opening a gap while I was stuck behind slower traffic.

But I also wasn't worried.

Years of marathon racing have taught me that the race is rarely won in the opening minutes. In fact, I almost welcomed the slower start. It gave my body time to warm up, let the adrenaline settle, and ease into my rhythm before asking for bigger efforts.

Only a couple of minutes into the race I started feeling stronger.

Every short climb, every small opening, every safe passing opportunity became another chance to move forward. One by one I worked through the riders ahead of me. By the time we reached the first gravel road, I had already passed six women from my start group and finally felt like I was racing my own race.

The passing never really stopped.

Because my age group started toward the back of the overall field, most of the other categories were already out on the course ahead of us. On a course made up mostly of narrow singletrack, that meant spending nearly four hours constantly catching and passing riders. Every pass required patience, communication, good timing, and often a hard acceleration before the trail narrowed again. By the end of the day, it felt like I had passed fifty riders. It wasn't the easiest way to race, but it was simply part of the challenge.

A little later when I was all alone on the gravel and in my own rhythm, I glanced over my shoulder.

Way behind me was what looked like an entire freight train of riders charging down the gravel road.

For a split second my heart dropped.

"Did all the women get together?"

"Are they working together?"

"Are they about to catch me?"

Then I looked again.

I couldn't help holding my smile.

They weren't women from my race at all.

The younger age groups had simply caught up to us.

It's amazing how quickly your mind can invent a problem when you're deep into a race.

The cooler weather meant I was moving much faster than expected, which created another little surprise.

As I approached the first feed zone, I started doing the math in my head.

"Pax isn't going to make it."

He had gone out for breakfast that morning before heading to the course, and with the pace we were riding I honestly thought he'd still be sitting in a restaurant while I rolled through the feed zone. It was nearly a 30-minute drive from the start to the feed zone, and that didn't even include breakfast. I started wondering whether I should finish my bottle before the feed. What if he wasn't there?

As I exited the singletrack and rolled onto the gravel, spectators lined both sides of the road. I scanned the crowd.

I kept looking.

No Pax.

Still no Pax.

Then, almost at the very end of the feed zone, I spotted his bright green shirt waiting exactly where I needed him.

Perfect timing.

After the race he admitted he had arrived only about a minute before I did. Apparently, breakfast was worth the gamble.

The long climb after the feed zone was where the race really started to unfold.

As I caught my friend Jen, she looked over and said,

"Beata! There are still at least two women from your category ahead!"

That was exactly the information I needed.

I settled into a steady rhythm and kept climbing.

Eventually I reached the long gravel road leading toward Gauntlet.

At first I caught one rider.

Then another.

Then I looked farther ahead and saw a large group stretched across the road—at least fifteen riders.

For a moment I thought there was no way I'd get around all of them before the entrance to Gauntlet.

But little by little the gap disappeared.

One rider.

Then another.

The entrance to the single track was getting closer every second.

Seconds later I did learn that one of the women from my category had been sitting in that group the entire time. I had passed her without even realizing it.

Just as I was about to enter Gauntlet, I heard someone sprinting behind me.

She had realized exactly what I had.

Whoever entered the descent first would control it.

I stood up, sprinted as hard as I could, and reached the singletrack first.

Dropping into Gauntlet, I felt good on the inside.

Now the real fun could begin.

Gauntlet didn't disappoint.

As soon as my front wheel dropped into the descent, everything else disappeared. The sprint into the trail, the riders behind me, the calculations of where I stood in the race—it all faded away. It was just me, my bike, and one of my favorite descents on the course.

The rocks were relentless, the corners lose, and the trail demanded complete focus. Every turn flowed into the next. The bike felt incredible underneath me, floating over rocks and roots and carving through corners exactly where I wanted it to go. Those are the moments I love most about mountain biking—the moments when you stop thinking and simply ride.

Near the bottom, something suddenly felt off.

My rear tire felt a little soft.

Not completely flat.

Just... different. Maybe I had hit a root or two a little too hard.

I pulled over for a few seconds, wondering if I had burped some air out of the tire. As luck would have it, my friend Abby was there too.

As I pushed on the tire and hopped back on the bike she said,

"It looks fine."

That was good enough for me.

I got moving again. During those few seconds another rider from my category slipped past, but I wasn't concerned. There was still a long race ahead. I settled back into my rhythm, caught her on the next climb and made the pass.

One of the biggest lessons marathon racing has taught me over the years is that staying calm usually saves more time than rushing.

The miles passed quickly.

With riders from the earlier categories scattered throughout the course, I was constantly calling out, thanking people for moving over, and looking for safe places to pass. Sometimes there was room immediately. Other times I had to sit patiently behind someone until the trail finally opened. It became part of the rhythm of the day.

I couldn't help being grateful and so positive. This time, I was the one doing the passing. A year earlier, I had been the rider standing on the side of these same trails, crippled by cramps while rider after rider passed me.

Eventually I felt the first hint of a cramp in my left inner thigh.

Immediately my mind flashed back to last year's race when cramps completely changed the final two hours.

This time I refused to panic.

I shifted into an easier gear, relaxed my pedal stroke, took a deep breath, and reminded myself not to force anything.

Within a minute, the cramp faded away.

Experience doesn't always make you stronger;

sometimes it simply teaches you how to stay calm.

The second feed zone came and went perfectly. I smiled at everyone volunteering there, grabbed my final bottle from Pax, and rolled away feeling surprisingly strong. With only the final miles remaining, I rode with nothing but pure joy.

Then the rain arrived.

First it was this gentle mountain rain, one drop here one drop there.

With time the dust disappeared and the rocks turned dark.

By the time the gravel section was over and I cleared the lake area, and went into the last steeper singletrack, the rain went down hard.

Within minutes the trail transformed.

The leaves seemed to glow. It was dark, roots were dark brown and slick. The air filled with rain…

I took off my glasses and tucked them onto my helmet, letting the cool rain wash away the sweat and dirt that had built up over the previous three hours.

For a little while I almost forgot I was racing.

I was simply riding through the most beautiful forest. The rain felt cool and cleansing, listening to it patter against the leaves while carefully picking my way across the now-slick roots, reminding myself to hit them straight so I wouldn't slide out.

There are moments in mountain biking that are difficult to explain to people who have never experienced them.

You stop thinking about watts, placings, and finish times.

You're simply moving through the forest, completely present, feeling connected to the trail beneath your tires.

Those moments are one of the reasons I keep coming back.

As I rolled into the final miles, I knew I had ridden a smart race.

The tactics had worked.

I had stayed patient when I needed to, attacked when the opportunities came, and never let the little setbacks throw me off.

When I crossed the finish line, I did so in the pouring rain with a big smile on my face. The result simply confirmed what I already felt.

Second place.

Twenty-five minutes faster than my winning ride on the same course just one year earlier.

That statistic gave me probably more joy than the silver medal.

After the race, Trish who won, walked over with a huge smile.

She thanked me for pushing her to become a better rider and making her train harder.

I couldn't help but smile because I feel exactly the same way about her.

One of the greatest gifts in racing is having competitors who continually inspire you to become better.

A little later I found Kristen celebrating another National Championship. Before the race we'd laughed together, mostly me relieved that we still had a couple more years before we'd be lining up in the same age category. She gave me a huge hug after the finish.

Moments like that remind me what makes this community so special.

We race each other as hard as we possibly can.

Then we celebrate each other's successes just as sincerely.

As we packed up and headed home, I realized the race itself had only been one part of the weekend.

The memories that stayed with me weren't just from those four hours on the bike.

They were the days spent pre-riding the course with friends.

Meeting new people who immediately felt like old friends because of our shared love for mountain biking.

Relaxing back at the cabin after long rides.

Sitting on the porch with my feet stretched out, looking across the Blue Ridge Mountains while a tiny bunny quietly nibbled clover just a few feet away.

Laughing about Pax almost missing the first feed because breakfast seemed like a good idea before a National Championship.

Those are the moments I'll remember just as much as the race itself.

Mountain bike racing has given me so much more than podiums over the years.

It has taken me to incredible places, introduced me to lifelong friends, and given me experiences that extend far beyond a finish line.

Yes, I'm proud of the silver medal.

Yes, I'm proud that I rode the course twenty-five minutes faster than a year ago.

But when I look back on Nationals, those aren't the first things that come to mind.

I'll remember the people.

The trails.

The laughter.

The mountains.

The quiet moments in between.

Because in the end, that's what keeps bringing me back.

Not just the racing.

Everything that surrounds it.

The memories that stayed with me weren't just from those four hours on the bike.

They were the days spent pre-riding the course with friends. Meeting new people who, within minutes, felt like old friends because of our shared love for mountain biking. Relaxing back at the cabin after long rides. Sitting on the porch with my feet stretched out, looking across the Blue Ridge Mountains while a tiny bunny quietly nibbled clover just a few feet away. Laughing about Pax almost missing the first feed because breakfast seemed like a good idea before a National Championship.

Those are the moments I'll remember just as much as the race itself.

Yes, I'm proud of the silver medal. I'm proud that I rode the course twenty-five minutes faster than a year ago. But when I think back on this weekend, those aren't the first memories that come to mind.

I'll remember the people.

The trails.

The laughter.

The mountains.

The quiet moments in between.

Because those are the reasons I keep coming back.

Pisgah All Mountain Challenge — Pushing This Little Pony to Its Limit

2026-05-20T15:03:01.466-04:00

30.17 mi | 4:03:31 | 5,308 ft

Pisgah Mountain Challenge was one of those days that reminded me how much I truly love riding in these mountains.

The event itself was something special, organized by Pisgah Area SORBA as part of the Bike Fest weekend, with proceeds going back toward trail maintenance in Pisgah National Forest. It never really felt like a serious race to me, even though people jokingly call it “Pisgah Worlds.” The whole weekend had such a fun community atmosphere around it. My sponsor, Gulo Composites, the local wheel builder here in Brevard, was part of the expo and led a couple of group rides during the festival weekend, so it was really nice seeing them there and being part of the whole event atmosphere beyond just racing. It honestly made me even more excited to line up for this crazy day rolling on my beautiful Gulo wheels out in Pisgah.

I signed up last minute, barely expecting to even get in off the waiting list, and honestly went into it with very little preparation and almost no expectations.

What made the day so meaningful was that it pushed me completely outside my comfort zone.

This wasn’t really a cross-country race at all. It was a big enduro day with only timed enduro stages, all rough, technical descents like Buckwheat, Bennett Gap, Avery Creek, and Black Mountain. I took out my “big bike” Sindel, for the first time in a very long time, and even that bike is tiny compared to what most people ride for this kind of terrain. Around me were full enduro bikes, full-face helmets, and riders much more experienced on this style of trails. Meanwhile I showed up with my little 130mm bike, knowing fully that I was not the strongest descender out there and probably had zero chance of placing high in the actual enduro standings.

And somehow, that made the whole day more enjoyable.

There was no pressure. I was there for the forest, for the trails, for the people who work so hard to maintain them, and simply for the experience of spending another long day deep in Pisgah.

The morning was cool and beautiful, the forest bright green after spring finally arrived, and even with the drought leaving trails loose and dusty, everything felt alive. Right from the start I felt unexpectedly strong. Even climbing on heavier tires and carrying extra bike weight, I found myself riding away from groups and slowly climbing through the field. Before long I was alone on the climbs, completely surrounded by quiet forest, cool air, and that feeling of having the mountains almost to myself.

And the descents were just pure fun.

Exciting. Challenging. A little intimidating at times. But fun.

When I approached the start of stage two, another rider caught up to me right before dropping in. I knew immediately he was going to be much faster than me on the descent, so I laughed and told him he was more than welcome to go first. He looked exhausted, wiping his face, and said, “I need thirty seconds.” I could tell he probably needed a little more than that, so I smiled and told him, “Sure, you can have forty-five seconds… maybe even a minute if you want.” The volunteer standing there started laughing too. Then the countdown started, he absolutely ripped down the trail, and I followed for a little while until he completely disappeared into the forest ahead of me. And honestly, I didn’t care. I had such a fantastic descent myself. Fast, focused, exciting, and smooth. Somewhere in the middle of Bennett, while I was holding on through endless water bars, holes, and drops coming one after another after another, there were people laying in hammocks next to the trail cheering riders on. Once you committed to those sections, there was no stopping, you were pretty much just holding on for dear life. I yelled to them laughing that I was pushing this little pony to its absolute limit, and they completely smiled and agreed. I was probably on one of the smallest bikes out there with the least amount of travel descending that terrain, but somehow that made the whole experience even more edgy.

Somewhere throughout the day I realized how much I’ve changed as a rider since moving to the mountains. Years ago, trails like these would have completely overwhelmed me. And these are not just ordinary trails. This is some of the roughest, most technical riding you can find anywhere, the kind of terrain that demands full focus and respect the entire time. Back then I would have doubted myself constantly. Now, years later, it all feels different. It feels familiar. It feels like home.

I may not be the fastest descender out there, and honestly I don’t need to be, but I know now that I can ride these trails with confidence. I can get myself through all of it safely, smoothly, and still climb hard for hours before dropping into another massive descent. To be able to say that after everything, after moving here, learning these mountains little by little, and changing so much as a rider, feels incredibly rewarding.

Somewhere in the middle of the day, next to the horse stables, there was a feed zone where volunteers were so kind helping fill bottles while I dumped drink mix into my water. There were smiles everywhere, people chatting, racers catching their breath for a minute before heading back out into the forest. What I really liked about this event was that even though everyone was racing hard, there was still space to slow down for a moment longer than you normally would in a traditional race. It felt competitive, but also relaxed and welcoming at the same time, and I really appreciated that different atmosphere.

By the time I reached Avery Creek, all the short-course racers were gathering at the top waiting for their stage start. I was the only long-course rider arriving there at that moment, and people looked around almost confused when they realized I had already made it there from the full route. One of the women looked at me and said, “You are crazy.” I just smiled, rolled in, took my turn, and dropped into Avery Creek.

That last descent of the day felt incredible. Fast, flowing, thrilling, and full of joy. One of those moments where riding a bike feels almost impossible to explain unless you’ve experienced it yourself.

My personal goal for the day became simple somewhere along the way: finish first overall from start to finish as a cross-country race, not just the timed descents. And I accomplished exactly that. I rode hard all day, climbed strong, descended safely, and crossed the line after over four hours in Pisgah feeling genuinely happy. In the actual enduro standings I ended up eighth in the long course, which honestly was perfectly fine with me. This was never really about competing for the descents. It was about showing up outside my comfort zone, riding trails that once intimidated me, and enjoying every minute of the experience.

Another huge day in the mountains. Another beautiful training day bringing me closer to the biggest goal of my year.

PMBAR - Where the Arrows Disappear

2026-05-10T22:52:00.000-04:00

I didn’t plan to race PMBAR. It wasn’t even on my radar. During Pisgah Stage Race, somewhere in between stages and everything that week carries with it, Boris messaged me saying maybe we could ride PMBAR together. He had done the race the year before with his friends, what he called “party pace,” and that was his plan again this year, just to go out and enjoy the day. But his friends bailed, so he reached out to me. He knew right away what that meant and said, “I know if we ride together, it’s not going to be party pace.” I laughed and told him, “No, no party pace.” At that moment it was still just a thought.

The day after Pisgah, I was out hiking with Pax, just moving and recovering, and my phone buzzed again. Boris asked me if I had recovered yet and if I wanted to race PMBAR with him. I laughed because no, I had definitely not recovered, but I said yes anyway. And just like that, I signed up for something I hadn’t planned, hadn’t prepared for, and didn’t fully understand.

The weather leading into the race added another layer to it. Early forecasts were calling for rain in the morning and later in the afternoon, and on top of that we got an unexpected cold snap just for that day and night. We started in the low 40s, and I remember thinking this day is not going to warm up at all. In the end we got lucky and the rain held off, but it never really got warm. Throughout the race it barely reached 57 degrees, the sky stayed overcast, and there was a constant cool wind that made everything feel colder.

We lined up at 8 a.m. in that cold air, and this is where things immediately felt off. Boris grabbed the passports, flipped through them, and we both looked at the booklet and at each other and said the same thing: there are no checkpoints, it’s missing pages. He ran back to the table and started going through other booklets one by one, checking if any of them had more pages, but they were all the same. Meanwhile, riders were already heading up the mountain, and we just made a call. “Boris, let’s go.”

That’s when we started climbing. Lower Black, then Middle Black, a little behind, but already passing riders, and at the same time riding into something we didn’t yet understand. It was a strange feeling, racing hard without even knowing what the race really was yet, but we knew one thing, we had to get to Mills River to actually begin.

On that first climb I also realized I made a mistake with my clothing. I wore my mandatory rain jacket because I forgot to grab my light wind vest from the car, and it didn’t take long to regret it. Not even halfway up Lower Black I was already overheating, but I knew if I took it off too early I would be freezing. We were making so many passes that I didn’t want to stop and lose positions, so I just kept climbing, uncomfortable, holding it together all the way to the top of Middle Black where everyone regrouped and started figuring out what to do. That’s where I finally took it off, wrapped it around my top tube, and knew that decision meant I would be cold for the rest of the day.

After that regroup, we hammered down Maxwell gravel, climbed Clawhammer, and then we were flying down Buckhorn, where I even got my PR. It felt fast, smooth, and strong, honestly a great beginning to what was already turning into a big day.

From there we continued, taking the full Yellow Gap gravel road, about ten miles of it, just to reach the real start. By the time we got to Mills River, we were already two and a half to three hours into the day. That’s when the race actually began. We received our passports there, learned the checkpoint locations, and suddenly everything made sense. Five checkpoints, one mandatory at Turkey Pen, and everything else up to us.

At that moment we had some really strong coed teams right there with us, all standing around, pulling out maps, laying them on the ground, studying routes and options, but the moment you start making decisions, you realize you have no idea where anyone is actually going to go. Everyone is looking at the same map, but everyone is building a completely different race.

We climbed a bit higher and dropped into Spencer, fast and flowing and always fun, reached our first checkpoint at Fletcher Creek, which was small and uneventful and really quick, but I still said out loud, “yey, my first ever checkpoint!” and we kept moving.

Before reaching our first checkpoint, we even stopped briefly by a small waterfall and filtered water, standing there in the middle of the forest, taking a quick moment before getting back on the bike and continuing on.

From there we headed toward Turkey Pen, but first came a big decision on Yellow Gap. Do we go up to Pilot first or drop down to Turkey Pen and get the mandatory checkpoint done? Teams were splitting both ways, and for a while it felt completely fifty-fifty. At the same time Boris started running low on energy, and soon after that came his first cramps. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was enough to know we had to be smart. We decided to go to Turkey Pen first, get the mandatory checkpoint out of the way, and then figure out the rest.

Getting to Turkey Pen felt like a reward. It was one of the best stops of the day.

It was stocked with food and water, and this is where we got the hot pizza. Someone handed it to me and said, “Careful, it’s hot,” and I grabbed it anyway, took a bite too fast, burned my mouth instantly, and didn’t care at all. It was warm, real, and exactly what I needed.

We sat for a moment, drank Coke, filled bottles, looked at the map, and around us people were smiling, chatting, talking about where they were going next. It didn’t feel like a race in that moment, it felt like a shared experience.

From the moment we left Mills River, the day became a series of decisions, and this is what I loved the most. Boris was constantly giving me options as we moved. He would say this trail might have a hike-a-bike, this one has a lot of river crossings, this one will probably have more elevation, and we would take all of that and slice it in our heads, section by section, deciding which direction to go next. Nothing was ever obvious, and that made it so engaging.

One of the trails we chose on the way through those early sections turned into something completely different than expected. It was full of boulders in spots, stacked on top of each other, and Boris called them “land mines.” You would ride into one section and then another and another, sometimes for fifty feet at a time, trying to pick a line through rocks that didn’t really want to give you one, all while this beautiful river was flowing just to the left of us the entire time. And then other sections, where we thought we would have to get off and hike, turned out to be smooth, rideable climbing. You just never knew. At times we were climbing these overgrown trails with other riders, including the first female team, and we saw a few teams miss turns and have to backtrack. It was actually really nice to see so many people out there in the middle of nowhere, all trying to figure it out the same way. We were riding trails and sections we would probably never choose on a normal day, and I remember us saying to each other how special that was, that you really can’t go wrong when you’re simply out there in a beautiful forest, no matter which trail you pick. It felt like a real adventure, full of unexpected moments, challenges, and so many beautiful sights along the way.

From there the day became a series of decisions. Every direction had trade-offs, nothing obvious, nothing easy. This is where the river crossings really started, one after another. At first you try to stay dry, you look for rocks, you try to pick a line, and then you realize it doesn’t matter. The water is too deep, too wide, too constant. You step in, and cold water fills your shoes instantly, sometimes over your knees. The rocks are rounded and slick with moss, your shoes sliding, and you just move through it. Then you get back on the bike with cold socks and cold feet and keep riding until the next river, where you do it all over again. After a while you stop thinking about it. It becomes part of the rhythm.

Time didn’t make sense. I kept looking at my watch thinking how are we already five hours in, and later, seven hours, no way. I said it so many times, and Boris would just laugh and say, “No, it does feel like seven,” but it didn’t. It felt like the whole day was slipping by quickly.

We reached our third checkpoint Cantrell Creek, deep in the forest and it was one of those peaceful moments. Boris was filling bottles from the stream, I was eating pretzels and chocolate-covered blueberries, and there were other riders around us doing the same. People were smiling, talking, sharing the day, and the forest felt rich and alive, deep green, that sweet smell in the air, crickets in the background, water always nearby.

Climbing out of that checkpoint, we had the biggest decision of the day. Do we go for the last two checkpoints or just one? We were already well over seven hours in, and every checkpoint could cost another couple of hours. Boris had cramped earlier, recovered, but the pace was now more controlled. We made the call together to skip the fifth and go for Club Gap, and it felt right immediately.

The final part of the day was about holding steady and getting back strong. We had to climb Buckhorn now to Upper Upper Black, which we knew was a lot to ask when you are almost nine hours into the race. But we rode this technical climb still strong and in good spirit. The last checkpoint brought us closer to familiar trails, Club Gap, then Avery, then the connector to Clawhammer and Maxwell. I remember one of those climbs, we were both smiling, not because it was easy, but because we knew we were close and because the whole day had come together so well.

The forest stayed cool and mysterious the whole day, lush and deep green, mountain laurels in full bloom, light pink and white, appearing out of nowhere. Everything felt alive. It was so awesome to reach the top of the final climb of the day and finally descend Middle Black and then Lower Black back to the finish.

We crossed the line after about ten hours with around ten thousand feet of climbing and four checkpoints, sitting in second place at that moment. And then came the most nerve-wracking part of the entire day, sitting at the finish line and waiting for two hours, watching the trail, wondering if another team would come in with five checkpoints and push us off the podium. One strong team rolled in with four, same as us. Then another team came in with five and pushed us from second to third, and that’s when I looked at Boris and Pax and said, “I’m getting nervous now.”

It was funny because the whole day felt like bliss, relaxed, happy, completely in the moment, and now after it was all over we were sitting on edge. The last hour felt longer than the entire race. The last minutes were the worst, just staring at the finish, wondering if anyone else was still out there.

And then no one else came.

We kept our third.

And almost immediately we were already saying it, next time we are going for all five.

What stays is the feeling of the day, the cold water in your shoes, the slippery mossy rocks, the smell of the forest, the sound of water, the mountain laurels in bloom, sitting in the middle of nowhere eating hot pizza, and riding all day with a friend, making decisions, staying strong, and having an amazing time doing it.

Pisgah Stage Race 2026 – Camp Pisgah: Where Doubt Meets Strength

2026-04-21T13:04:00.007-04:00

Pisgah never gets easier, no matter how many times you line up. This year, I almost didn’t race. I waited until the last few hours before registration closed. I didn’t feel prepared, didn’t feel like I had enough time on the trails, and I wasn’t even sure if I should be racing Open. But something in me didn’t want to sit this one out, so I signed up anyway. And this year I called it, Camp Pisgah!

Stage 1 started on a cold morning, and I could feel it right away. Climbing that first long gravel road, the air was sharp, and I could feel it deep in my lungs with every breath. This was a new version of the stage compared to previous years. We first rode into a really fun and flowy trail system Cove Creek, before the course turned serious.

Soon after, the climbing steepened into those classic Pisgah pitches. New connector trail was no joke. That’s where one of the riders next to me started making exaggerated cry-baby sounds on the steepest sections—half joking, half completely real—and it was honestly the perfect expression of what we were all feeling. It was so painful and so funny at the same time. That’s Pisgah. You’re suffering, but somehow still laughing.

The course kept building—more steep climbing followed by a rugged, technical Daniel's Ridge descent that demanded full focus. Later on, I made a mistake on the trail I never ride, Long Branch. I missed a turn and went straight instead of turning, losing about five minutes before realizing it. When I got back on course, I saw a group of riders ahead, and in between them was Jackie, who I didn't know at the time but she was the rider who eventually finished third overall. That was actually the only time we rode together until Stage 5.

300 Miles of Roots, Rocks, Repeat Buckle Presentation

I worked to close the gap, rode with her briefly through a fun section on Lower Butter, and then was able to move ahead again and create nice time buffer. This descend was fun! Toward the end of the stage, on the final gravel climb before the last gravel descent, I found myself riding next to another racer and pointing out crested irises growing along the side of the road. They looked so beautiful, whole colonies of gorgeous purple little flowers, moving in the wind. I joked that we could race and still have a full flower tour at the same time. Just before dropping into the final trail, we were still talking about them. At the finish, he came over and told me how much he enjoyed that moment. Even in the middle of effort, you can still see something beautiful.

Stage 2 started very differently—with a long road section that felt more like a highway effort than a mountain bike race. It was very cold, and I was honestly shivering, wondering if I needed more layers. But the pace was strong, and I was able to stay with the front group and position myself well going into the first climb of the Turkey Pen. Maddie, who was leading in GC, went by me strongly and dropped into the trail just ahead of me.

The Mills River trail was incredibly fun—updated, flowy, and just a joy to ride. We have massive river crossing though right from the start, so cold feet all day. After that came Squirrel Gap, which is not my favorite, and I was happy to get through it as clean as I could and move on. Then Buckhorn, a steady climb that always suits me well. I felt strong there and carried that momentum into the hike-a-bike, which was steep, never ending, and draining as always.

Then came Black Mountain. That descent felt endless in the best way possible—fast, technical, flowy, and incredibly rewarding. It was one of those moments where everything just clicked and I forgot I was racing. Somewhere along that stage, I also noticed the forest beginning to change. Bright green Lady Slipper orchids were popping up against the still-brown forest floor, like small signals that spring was arriving.

Stage 3, the Queen Stage, is always my favorite. It’s the hardest, longest, and most technical day, with Front Range trails, Sycamore, Upper Black, Avery, Bennett, and finishing with Middle and Lower Black. It’s a stage that demands everything, and I was really looking forward to it.

But only about 15 minutes in, climbing Sycamore on the ridge, I struck my left pedal on something—likely a root—and went straight over the handlebars. I remember flying toward a tree and thinking, just don’t hit it with your head. I landed just inches away. I got up, checked the bike—it was okay, just a bit twisted—and stood there for a moment feeling slightly dizzy, wondering if I had a concussion. Then I got back on and kept going.

Later, climbing toward Middle Black, I reached for a gel and realized my pocket was empty. All my nutrition for the day was gone. At that point, there’s nothing to do but adapt. Stay calm, stay efficient, and keep moving forward.

And somehow, despite all of that, the day came together. The climbs felt strong, the descents were exactly what I love about Pisgah—rough, technical, and fully engaging. Bennett was a highlight, and I ended up taking first on the Enduro segment there. It turned into an incredible day.

By Stage 4, everything shifted. I woke up with a severely sore throat—dry, swollen, painful—and I didn’t want to get out of bed. But I knew what was coming: Squirrel Gap in reverse, technical off-cambers, and the long climb up Laurel Mountain.

Riding along Squirrel Gap, I found myself on the edge of the trail, almost dangling off the side, with deep purple trillium flowers blooming right next to me. For a moment, everything went quiet. I forgot I was racing. I was just there, completely present, taking it in.

Right away however, I felt how little I had. No ability to push, just one steady pace. The climb after river crossing built from gravel into steep, technical singletrack, and then the hike-a-bike near the top. That section is brutal even on a good day. This time, it felt relentless—pushing the bike up rocks and roots, feet sliding backwards, every step heavy. I didn't know where to find strength to continue, it felt as there was none left, but yet I kept on going.

And yet—even in that state—there were moments that made me smile.

There was a volunteer, John, who showed up throughout the week in completely different costumes. One day he was Superman, another a “hot nurse,” then a sailor wearing the smallest, tightest outfit imaginable. On this day, he was dressed as a lifeguard. I looked at him and yelled, “That’s exactly what I need right now—a lifeguard!” We both just started laughing.

The descent off Laurel, Pilot Rocks was rugged and unforgiving, and coming out of it in one piece felt like a small victory. The rocky switchbacks have no mercy and there are so many of them. The trail has no order, it's a boulders and a holes and a giant roots all tangled together in the most chaotic way. I felt I rode relatively strong the final push—turning the pedals and getting to the finish, knowing it was so near, was exhilarating.

Stage 5 was rough. I woke up feeling completely drained. Even more sick than the day before, I didn't know how I will get through this stage I normally adore. From the start, I knew I couldn’t push or attack. I found myself getting caught by Jackie half way through Cathy's Creek gravel climb, and we ended up staying together for most of the stage.

It turned into something really special. We rode wheel to wheel, quietly, both of us tired, just moving forward together. We climbed steep Long Branch, passed Daniel’s Ridge waterfall, grabbed bacon, and rolled into the final long 50 minute gravel climb. That climb was one of the hardest moments of the week.

Right before that at the last feed zone, Pax handed me my bottle, and I looked at him and said, “Pray for us.” I didn’t know how I was going to make that climb.

We started the climb together—no talking, just grinding. One pedal stroke at a time. It was hard in a very honest way. No extra energy, just effort. I counted us down, 10 minutes, 20, 30, by the 40 minutes mark something changed.

Near the top, the terrain started to undulate slightly, and I found just enough momentum to begin moving ahead. Just enough to build a gap to get into single track first. Finally came Bracken. Fast, flowy, smooth—everything you want at the end of a stage race. I rode it with everything I had left, enjoying every second and every descent, all the way to the finish. It was a bliss, however the smallest upward pitch would almost reduce me into the slow slog. It was amazing to cross the finish line, whole five days later, after experiencing so much doubt, sickness, effort, but also beauty and I would say transformation, of the forest and of me... I needed that...

Through all of it, I truly loved my bike on this course, Orbea Oiz. It climbed aggressively, descended with confidence and traction, and handled the rugged terrain beautifully. The freshly tuned Gulo wheels rolled smoothly over everything with trustful traction, giving me confidence throughout the week. I really enjoyed riding my bike every single day out there.

At the end of the week, I finished second Open Women overall and second overall in Enduro—my best result at Pisgah so far.

But more than the result, what stays with me is everything around it. The forest changing from winter to spring. The flowers. The quiet moments. The laughter. The shared experience.

Pisgah is relentless—but it also gives you something unexpected.

Camp Pisgah, amazing 5 day training ride was the best thing I could have done to jump start my season!

And I’m really glad I showed up.

Huge thank you to all my supporters.

And thank you to Pax—for being there every day, handing bottles at the perfect moments, and somehow enjoying amazing breakfasts while I was out there eating gels and suffering!

Chosen Over Ready

2026-04-02T15:48:00.006-04:00

Pisgah Stage Race. Few days to go time...

With the Pisgah Stage Race just days away, I found myself sitting with a decision longer than I expected.

Not about whether I love this race—I do. But about what it asks of you… and whether you’re willing to meet it where you are.

The question stayed with me.

Should I race? Should I sit this one out? And if I race—what version of it do I choose?

The one where I stay safe, controlled, maybe even win… or the one where I step into something uncertain—something that will demand everything, physically and mentally, and give no guarantees in return?

Because let’s be honest… there is no such thing as an easy win in Pisgah.

So I went inward. Ran every scenario, every possible outcome. Not to predict the result—but to understand which choice I could stand behind when the week is over.

I’m sitting at my desk. Midday. I just dropped off my Gulo Wheels for a tune-up. I still need to go ride—just a few small intervals, something to wake the legs.

The sliding door is open. It’s warm outside. My flowers sit beside me, soft air moving through the room, an overcast sky holding the light low and calm. Birds are singing. The wind chime plays in the background. Daffodils are fading now… while tiny buds are just beginning to appear on the trees.

And in all of this calm—there’s a knot in my stomach.

If you race, you know this feeling. No matter how many years you’ve been doing it, there is always that question mark.

Did I do enough? Did I train enough? Am I ready?

And strangely… sometimes the more prepared you are, the more you question everything.

But what happens when you don’t feel prepared at all? When you know you had the time… but didn’t take every step early enough to build that confidence?

That’s a different kind of weight.

I rode a lot of Pisgah only in the last week and a half—that’s when I truly started considering the race. I signed up with four hours left before registration closed.

Now I wait. And I don’t fully know what my body—or my mind—will do when the gun goes off.

On paper, the preparation isn’t where I would want it to be. The intervals didn’t fully happen.

So maybe this is it. Maybe this race becomes the training. Maybe this is Camp Pisgah.

Because here’s the truth: you are never fully ready for anything that matters.

If you wait for perfect preparation, you risk missing the very moments that define you. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Strength isn’t guaranteed. Opportunity isn’t guaranteed.

So you choose.

And this is where doubt and preparation meet.

I don’t know how I will feel. I don’t know how I will perform. I don’t know how each day will unfold.

I can picture it all—

I can see myself already scaling Laurel Mountain,
that endless, painful climb,
legs grinding, breath tightening with every switchback.

And then the drop—

Pilot Rock.

A rocky, unforgiving descent—
a river of boulders, sharp edges, tight lines that demand precision.
Line choice matters. Commitment matters.
There’s no halfway riding it.

I’ve ridden it in my mind a hundred times. But imagination doesn’t carry you up the climb—or down the descent.

Reality does.

That moment—when you are on the pedals, lungs burning, legs on edge, and you find out exactly who you are that day.

Pisgah is not just a race. It’s what I call Camp Pisgah—an honest, brutal training camp disguised as a race.

Every day is tough. Rough. Relentless.

These trails don’t give anything away. This is not a smooth cross-country course. This is enduro—every day, all day—with endless climbing, constant movement, hike a bike sections, and precise control over rock, roots, and gnarly bits.

It is, without question, the most technical race I know.

And I’m not stepping into it halfway.

I’m going all in.

Not because everything is perfectly lined up—but because I want to see what’s there.

What my body can still do. How my mind responds when things get hard. Whether it resists… or locks in.

The unknown isn’t something to avoid. It’s something to step into.

The unknown is part of every start line. That’s what makes it exciting. And that’s what makes your stomach turn.

Because you truly don’t know.

And maybe the hardest part isn’t the race itself. It’s the waiting. The days leading in. The quiet tension building in the background.

Like my friend Jen said—it only feels this intense because you care. If you didn’t care, it would just be a ride.

But when you care… you choose to put yourself in a position where it will hurt.

Eighteen years of racing… and this feeling never goes away.

As race day approaches, life narrows. Everything becomes intentional. Controlled. Training fades. Energy is conserved. Every decision points toward one moment—the start line.

And then…

the gun goes off.

Everything sharpens.

No more doubt. No more overthinking. Only movement. Only breath. Only execution.

You are calm. Focused. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.

I didn’t choose this race because I feel perfectly ready. I chose it because it’s hard. Because it demands something real. Because it will show me exactly where I stand.

Not perfectly prepared—but fully committed.

And that is enough.

By the way, in just over a week, this still half asleep forest will turn lush green!

Not Every Start Line Is a Peak

2026-03-03T13:44:00.001-05:00

I wasn’t supposed to still be in Florida.

We were meant to be home already — back in the mountains — but an ice storm hit one weekend, followed by snow the next. The kind of winter weather I actually love. The kind I wanted to see, photograph, feel.

Instead, we stayed a little longer.

And when you stay a little longer in Florida, Florida does what Florida does:

another race appears.

Alligator: The Race landed on the calendar. I hadn’t planned for it. I hadn’t trained specifically for it. But I was there — so I lined up.

Race morning was cold.
Low thirties.
Strong wind.
Bright blue sky.

Cold fingers under palm trees.

At the last moment, the race was shortened from four laps to three — cutting it from roughly 32 miles to 24. I had been mentally prepared for something longer, something I could settle into.

Instead, it became sharp.

Fast.

Florida vs. Mountains

Let me be honest.

Florida racing has never truly suited me.

I thrive where races stretch out and strip you down — long climbs that burn steadily for hours. Endless gravel. Sustained ascents. Terrain where patience matters and strength unfolds slowly.

In the mountains, I don’t rush.
I endure.
I build.
I rise.

Florida asks for constant accelerations, tight turns, quick decisions.

It isn’t where my strengths sing.

And knowing that isn’t weakness.

It’s clarity.

Inside the Race

The course was fun and demanding — concrete climbs, wooden features, log-overs, tight transitions. Gun Range was fast and alive. Collarbone carried history.

Mid-race, a bright green iguana lay on the trail, stunned from the cold. Florida always adds something surreal.

Jen almost didn’t race after crashing in preride. She lined up anyway — and absolutely crushed it.

As for me, the race unfolded quietly.

I rode well.

I committed to the features.
I stayed steady.
I didn’t panic.

But when I tried to accelerate, there was nothing there.

No spark.
No surge.
No extra gear.

And that wasn’t surprising.

I had been riding steady gravel miles. Building base. Not training for repeated XC surges.

This wasn’t a season goal race. It wasn’t something I had circled for months.

It was a start line I chose to stand on.

And the result reflected exactly where I was.

On paper, it wasn’t impressive.

But it wasn’t catastrophic either.

It was accurate.

The Part We Don’t Always Share

I wanted to write about this race.

And at the same time, I wanted to forget it.

Even though I wrote notes the day after, it took longer to actually process it.

Not because it was dramatic.

But because I’m hard on myself.

When you’re known for big events and strong results, it can feel uncomfortable to finish near the back of the field at a smaller race.

But here’s the truth:

This race didn’t define anything. It just reflected where I am right now.

Performance reflects preparation.

And I simply wasn’t in a phase built for sharp XC results.

That doesn’t make the ride bad.

It just makes it honest.

When I was nine years old at my first table tennis tournament, I was unrated and matched against the number one seed in the first round. I could have walked away.

I didn’t.

Just a little over three years later, at thirteen, I won two national titles.

Because it’s never the loss that defines you.

It’s whether you learn from it.
Whether you understand what happened.
Whether you keep loving what you do enough to continue.

Funny thing is, when I think back on that Florida day now, I don’t remember the placement first.

I remember the cold air.
The trails.
The feeling of riding through Florida woods under a bright winter sky.

Yes, my legs were empty when I asked them for more.

But I genuinely enjoyed being out there.

You can ride well and still have a result that looks small.

Results depend on timing, preparation, the field, and countless variables outside your control.

You only control your ride.

That’s it.

And I’m proud of how I rode.

What Stayed With Me

Even though I’m no longer a local, I heard people cheering my name.

Friends.
Familiar faces.
Encouragement that had nothing to do with placement.

That mattered.

More than the result.

Some races aren’t about proving fitness.

Some races remind you where you truly thrive.

I’m at my best in the mountains.

That hasn’t changed.

But this race reminded me of something equally important:

Results are information.

They are not identity.

There will be sharper days ahead. There will be stronger performances. That’s how seasons work.

I’m exactly where I need to be.

Six Weeks on the Levee

2026-03-02T18:02:00.001-05:00

Florida felt different this time.

Not louder. Not harder. Just different.

Most of my rides happened on the levee — long stretches of gravel cutting through the Everglades, flat and exposed. No climbs to interrupt the rhythm. No technical sections demanding sharp focus. Just steady pedaling and open sky.

You can’t really hide on the levee. If you stop pushing, you slow. If the wind turns against you, you feel it immediately. So I focused on constant movement. On the gravel under my tires. On the endless Everglades stretching beside me. On the wind moving the tall grasses.

Some days were good.

Most days were simply steady.

And that was enough.

One evening, I rode past the bench I used to quietly call “my bench.” It sits along the levee where the sunset hits just right. I’ve stopped there before. Sat there. Thought there.

This time, a couple was sitting on it.

I looked at them, smiled, and waved as I rode by. There was something peaceful about seeing someone else enjoying that place. It wasn’t my bench anymore.

And surprisingly, I wasn’t upset.

It felt like a quiet reminder that nothing is ever really ours. We just pass through.

Another afternoon, just as I was starting my ride, I saw a young man sitting on the edge of the levee playing guitar. I had never seen anyone out there doing that.

It made me smile.

What a beautiful way to enjoy this place.

There was something reassuring about it — someone else finding peace in the same wide horizon. Sitting still. Listening. Playing.

And I realized that riding there is my version of that.

Different movement.
Different rhythm.
Same kind of presence.

Not all of those miles were alone.

A few evenings, after laps at Markham, Jen and I sneaked out onto the levee for extra gravel miles. We rode side by side, mostly chatting away, sometimes quiet, occasionally looking at each other and smiling.

She told me she would never be out there if it weren’t for me. And I felt genuinely happy that she got to experience something I’ve always loved.

The openness.
The wind.
The simplicity.

One evening we misjudged the light. I had no lights and still miles to go. At one point she lost hers and had to sprint back the opposite direction, maneuvering in near darkness.

It was a little chaotic.
A little dramatic.
A little thrilling.

And somehow, very us.

But most of the time, it was just me.

The sun would start high and harsh when I rolled out. By the time I turned back, it would be sinking toward the horizon, wrapping the swamps in gold, orange, and deep pink. The air would cool. The wind would pick up. Birds would begin flying toward their spots for the night before dark.

Those were the moments I felt most alive.

Cool breeze.
Strong wind.
Color shifting across the sky.
Solitude stretching in every direction.

We’ve had a lot of shifts in our lives recently. Big ones. The kind that unsettle everything.

But every time I rolled onto that levee and saw the same horizon, the same grasses moving, the same birds settling in before nightfall, I felt reassured.

The world was still there.

I was still there.

Sometimes I would stop and watch the sun drop fully past the horizon and disappear. Watching that slow fade makes you realize how quickly every second is passing by — whether you’re ready for it or not.

Soon I will be back in my mountains — the place I love deeply. Back to climbing and forest-covered trails.

But I will always miss these steady miles.

The flat horizon.
The endless sky.
The simple act of pedaling forward with nothing in front of me but wind.

Florida didn’t give me epic rides this time.

It gave me perspective.

And that was exactly what I needed.

Bad Habit — Racing Together, One Lap at a Time

2026-01-29T20:03:00.006-05:00

Bad Habit wasn’t a race we planned weeks in advance. It wasn’t about chasing results or proving anything. It was about not missing the chance to have fun together, support the trails that shaped so many years of our riding lives, and spend a full race day surrounded by friends, family, and bikes.

Bad Habit is a four-hour race, but instead of racing solo, Jen and I decided to race it as a two-person team—purely because it sounded more fun. We swapped laps the entire day, one lap at a time, with each lap just under 30 minutes. By the end, it added up to about two hours of racing each.

Simple. Perfect. Exactly what we wanted.

Jen went first.

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

She’s amazing at starts—especially mass starts. Fearless, powerful, and completely comfortable in chaos. She surged ahead right from the gun and rode a very strong opening lap, making space for us early and setting the tone for the day.

When she came through the exchange, I rolled out knowing my job was to settle us into rhythm.

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

Florida made itself known immediately.

That first lap hit hard. The heat and humidity wrapped around me instantly—heavy and relentless. My head started pounding, my face flushed, and my body felt like it was cooking from the inside. On top of that, I had a few fast guys coming through early, which added to the intensity. My toes began crossing inside my shoes—always my warning sign—and I thought, this is exactly why I live in the cool mountains now.

Still, I stayed calm and present. I didn’t miss any of it.

The second lap was my favorite. The most peaceful. Traffic thinned out, the pace felt right, and I finally settled into a groove where everything made sense. I was exactly where I needed to be, riding smoothly, managing the heat, enjoying the trail for what it was.

We kept trading laps like clockwork. Roll in, quick drink, tiny snack, no time to even take the helmet off, and line up again. There was barely time to sit before it was time to go. The rhythm became familiar, steady, almost comforting.

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

Toward the end of my third lap, the skies opened up.

Rain started falling just enough to change everything. The trails went slick fast—sand turning greasy, roots and corners demanding more care. It was refreshing and brutal at the same time. The humidity stayed, but the rain cooled things just enough to make it feel manageable again.

By the final laps, traffic picked up. More riders on course, more navigating around slower lines, more patience required. But the course was set up well, flowing nicely even with the congestion, and overall it stayed fun—challenging, but fair. Of course, minus the humidity.

In between laps, the tent felt like its own little world. Friends everywhere. Familiar faces. Marsha holding things down while Robert L was out racing. Kids playing and cheering near the finish line, watched over by dad Robert S in that relaxed race-day way. Pax was everywhere—timing laps, calling out exchanges, keeping us in sync.

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

It was beautifully synchronized chaos.

At the end, Candance, our old friend, and I exchanged a high five and laughed about our very first race together—total newbies, more than fifteen years ago, with no idea what we were doing. Just excited to be there. It felt good to walk down that memory lane and realize how far we’ve come—and that we’re still here, still racing, still having fun.

Jen and I, we weren’t riding side by side, but we were racing together all day long. Sharing effort, heat, rain, laughter, and that quiet understanding that comes from years of friendship.

That’s why we raced Bad Habit.

Not for results.
Not for validation.
Just for a really good day on bikes, with people we love.

And yes we snagged the win, but again, that was just a bonus of the day...

And days like that stay with you.

FSC Endurance Florida Series – Lakeland, FL

2026-01-16T14:45:00.000-05:00

Sunday, January 5, 2025

55.69 miles | 4:43:04 | 1,135 ft elevation gain

Since I’m back in Florida again, it feels like the right time to finally write about a race I did here last January—one I never really planned to do, but one that ended up reminding me a lot about who I am as a racer.

When I moved to North Carolina, I told myself I was done racing in Florida. I’d done it all so many times—over and over—for years. It had been great, but that chapter felt closed. I was chasing new things now, bigger mountains, longer climbs, a different kind of challenge.

But life has its way of stretching plans.

Our trip extended unexpectedly, and suddenly there was this empty weekend ahead of me. No races on the calendar. No friends around to ride with. Jen wasn’t in town. And honestly, I had zero desire to ride the same Florida trails by myself again.

Saturday morning came—the day of the time trial and preride—and I still hadn’t decided what I was doing. I stayed in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, feeling that strange mix of restlessness and boredom. I texted Erick to see what he was up to. His reply came fast:

“I’m already on my way to Carter Road in Lakeland.”

I looked at Pax. He looked at me.
“Let’s go,” he said.

That was it.

I threw a few random things into a bag—no breakfast, no real race nutrition, nothing planned—because I genuinely had not intended to race at all. And off we went. The drive across Florida felt oddly peaceful. Flat sugar cane fields stretched forever, familiar and unchanged, like so many drives we’d done over the years.

When we arrived, it felt like stepping back in time. It was a Goneriding event, and seeing race director Dave and his wife Terry felt like no time had passed at all. Erick was already there and kindly handed me some sport bars, which, at that point, were absolutely necessary.

We did a short preride, and despite my strong dislike for time trials, I signed up. If I wanted a shot at the leader’s jersey—today and tomorrow—it was the only way.

The time trial itself is mostly a blur. Wide sandy dirt roads, a group ahead of me I couldn’t quite catch, and one unfamiliar female rider who ended up winning. I took second. Without real food in my system, I felt woozy and off. I’m small, and I know my body—I need to eat when I need to eat. That day was chaotic from the start.

At least we managed a good dinner later and tried to reset for race day.

Carter Road has always been one of my favorite places to ride in Florida, along with Santos, Hales, and Alafia. So I was curious—after all these years—how it would feel now. Especially since this was an endurance race.

Back in the early days of the Florida Endurance Series, when races were six hours long, I’d won the series overall. But times had changed. Not many riders wanted to race in circles for six hours anymore, so the format shifted to 60 miles—six laps on a ten-mile course.

Race morning came with a mass start: 60-mile and 30-mile racers all together. We hit the narrow singletrack almost immediately, and chaos followed. A standstill formed between trees so tight it barely allowed bikes through. I could’ve squeezed into the lead, but the same woman from the time trial went first and set the pace. I grabbed her wheel and decided to study her riding.

Within minutes, I had my first moment of regret.

The trails were flat, narrow, and very sandy. Someone joked about me racing in Florida again, and honestly, I felt sad about what I’d signed myself up for. Six laps of this? Mentally, that felt like a tall order.

There were beautiful sections—the fern trail, though stunning, was incredibly twisty and relentless. The last trail was tough too. Some areas with elevation and riding along the water’s edge were fun and added just enough tension to keep things interesting. I love those big oak trees draped in moss, the narrow lines hugging the swamp. I just wished there were more of those sections. Unfortunately, the most technical and scenic trails weren’t included in the course this time.

When we crossed the dirt road into an even deeper sandy climb, reality set in. This was going to be a very mental day.

But once I start something, I finish it.

I refocused. I stayed calm. I watched the rider ahead—she had excellent handling skills and rode the technical bits clean and confidently. I knew I was racing someone strong. This wasn’t going to be a runaway.

After a full lap sitting in second, I decided lap two was the time to make a move. I attacked—but the moment I reached for my bottle, everything changed. The bottle slid too far. Way too far.

My bottle cage had snapped.

Second time in my racing life this had happened—and in the middle of a race. An old carbon cage finally gave up at the worst possible moment.

Attack aborted.

I couldn’t race 50 miles without reliable water access. I settled back into her pace, we chatted briefly, and at one point she even offered for me to go first. I declined. At the feed zone, I pulled over and tried taping the cage together.

I watched her ride away.

It wasn’t a huge gap—maybe 40 seconds—but once I got going again, I couldn’t see her anymore. I knew the chase was on. I rode steady, composed, not panicking. Near the end of lap three, on a doubletrack section before the final trail, I finally spotted her again.

That’s when I knew I was okay.

I caught up quickly, followed, and made my pass heading into lap four. Full gas now. Everything clicking—until suddenly my bike refused to shift.

I looked back and couldn’t believe what I saw: a squirrel-nest-sized wad of moss from those beautiful oak trees had wrapped itself into my entire drivetrain. Cassette. Chain. Jockey wheels. Everywhere.

I stopped, peeled it out strand by strand, laughed out loud, and reminded myself to stay calm. Somehow, no one passed me during that mess.

Then lap five delivered one more surprise.

Out of nowhere, my pedals locked solid. Wouldn’t move an inch. I pulled over immediately and found a small rock wedged perfectly into the drivetrain. I just stared at it in disbelief. How many strange things could happen in one race?

I fixed it and rolled on.

Lap six—the final lap—was about survival and gratitude. I soaked in what I could: the light reflecting off the water, the lush greens, the narrow trails, the tiny climbs and descents that did bring flashes of joy. I crossed the line first—60 miles done—first female pro/expert and first overall in the Florida Endurance Series.

The finish was filled with familiar faces, laughter, and relief. Talking with Dave and Terry reminded me how much they’ve done for mountain biking in Florida—and how much their work helped shape the path that eventually led me to where I am now.

It was a strange, imperfect, chaotic day.

But it was also a beautiful reminder of the past—of friendships, resilience, and the kind of racing that shaped me long before the mountains did.

Sometimes it’s good to look back.

Swiss Epic 2024 – Dream Race in the Heart of the Alps

2025-11-26T13:11:00.045-05:00

Some dreams linger quietly in your heart, years before you even know if they can come true. For me, one of those dreams was the Swiss Epic. Ten years ago, my best friend Jennifer, casually said, “We should race Swiss Epic together one day…” I let the idea float somewhere in the back of my mind, imagining those trails, the adventure, the mountains. Little did I know that one day, this vague vision would become reality.

Fast forward to 2024—we were finally here. Standing at the start line, breathing in the alpine air, gazing at the Morteratsch Glacier, it felt surreal. The dream I had carried for so long had taken shape. My best friend by my side, our bikes ready, and five days of racing through some of the most beautiful, challenging, and unforgettable trails on the planet ahead of us.

Stage 1 – Flowing Trails and First Magic

46 miles | 4:45 hrs | 7.1K ft climbing

Just minutes before the start of Stage 1, it finally hit me. The noise, the colors, the energy, the mountains towering above us—I looked at Jen, then around at the sea of riders, and the emotion washed over me.

I was actually here. We were about to race the Swiss Epic.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as that truth sank in. Jen kept giving me those grounding, comforting hugs—the kind that say I’m right here with you. And just like that, our journey began.

The morning air was crisp, only 52°F, and we rolled off two minutes behind the UCI Women’s start. Straight into the first climb, the Master Women leaders surged away, riding incredibly strong and opening a gap almost immediately. We knew they would be fast—this was their terrain—and we didn’t try to chase, just focused on finding our pace.

Then came the first slick descent.

Wet roots. Tight switchbacks. Steep pitches that demanded total trust in your bike. It was classic Swiss singletrack: challenging, technical, alive. As we navigated those slippery corners, we began catching riders from the UCI Pro Women’s field—a small but encouraging sign that our rhythm was settling in exactly where it needed to be.

The climb to Corviglia felt endless, a slow-motion battle against gravity. In some sections, whole groups of riders were off their bikes, all pushing together beneath the gondolas overhead. The trail twisted and turned with no mercy, but slowly—step by step—we gained altitude.

Then, the sound.
The distant call of Alphorns drifting down from the peak.
A fairytale welcome to the top.

From Corviglia, the world opened up into pure joy: flowing trails through sun-dappled forests, smooth lines, fast corners, and that mix of exhilaration and relief you only feel after a massive climb. Jen and I kept cheering each other along, sharing every laugh, every moment of magic that made the effort worth it.

We crossed the line smiling, finishing 2nd in Master Women and 6th in Pro UCI Women—a strong, happy start to the adventure of a lifetime.

Stage 2 – Queen Stage, Glacier Dreams

46 miles | 5:56 hrs | 8K ft climbing

Stage 2 was the Queen Stage—a true test of endurance, skill, and heart, and for me, the most demanding day of the entire Swiss Epic—but also my absolute favorite. It had everything: long grinding climbs, raw alpine terrain, surreal beauty, technical singletrack, and moments that stay etched into your memory forever.

We climbed from Pontresina to Davos, starting on slippery, root-filled trails that reminded me of home in Pisgah. One section was a super steep and exposed descent that few dared to ride. KTM medics traversed the mountains alongside us to ensure safety, which was comforting as we tackled the tricky lines.

Early in the climb, we truly made friends on the trail. The day before, we had leapfrogged a duo men’s team from Italy on singletrack—passing them, then being passed again, almost as if they couldn’t quite decide how to feel about two women riding that strong in front. After several exchanges, when we caught them at the base of the first long mountain we needed to conquer, they shouted with huge smiles:

“Hey Beata! Great to see you! How is your day going?”

That small gesture marked the moment we were accepted as belonging—a tiny but meaningful piece of camaraderie in a race where everyone is hurting but everyone is together. From then on, we often rode near them, using each other as quiet benchmarks through the day.

To our left, cascading off the mountains, flowed the clearest, bluest, most otherworldly glacier-fed river I’ve ever seen. As we pushed up the gravel road—getting steeper and steeper toward the last feed zone before the main climb—I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I imagined myself sitting at the edge, with a sandwich and my camera, spending a perfect, quiet day absorbing the scene. Higher up, the river briefly split into two braided channels, glowing like liquid turquoise against a backdrop of jagged rock and distant ice—the mountain we were about to climb.

Then came the legendary Scarletta Pass, over 8,000 feet. The climb was relentless—first gravel, then bouldery, narrow trails where every corner demanded careful attention. Some of the pro women were off their bikes, pushing up a brutally steep, punchy section. Somehow, we were still pedaling—barely, but pedaling. When the trail funneled into tight switchbacks and loose, sharp rocks, we found ourselves hopping on and off the bike again, navigating each twist and slippery corner.

Reaching the top was pure joy. Pure relief. Pure life. We had no shame stopping there for a moment—soaking in the sweeping views, breathing the thin, cold air, and wearing smiles so huge you’d think we’d just won the race.

Descending Scarletta Pass was technical, rough, and rocky. Hands screamed from gripping so hard; the rocks seemed to jump out at every turn. But the reward—the views, the sense of accomplishment, and the camaraderie with Jennifer—was beyond words.

Stage 2 asked for everything—and gave back even more. We finished 2nd in Amateur and 8th in Pro, exhausted but exhilarated, carrying memories of turquoise rivers, jagged peaks, and the magical camaraderie that only an epic like this can create.

Stage 3 – Rewarding Valleys, Bent Rotor Drama

39 miles | 4:29 hrs | 6.3K ft climbing

Stage 3, we had seen a little bit of everything—slick roots, cold alpine air, endless climbs, wildflowers dancing on steep ridgelines. This was supposed to be the “breather” stage, but it didn’t quite feel that way. Still, something clicked for me around the two-hour mark, and I remember thriving on the slippery, rooty singletrack, feeling strong and more settled into the rhythm of the race.

But this stage brought its own chaos.

At one point, the trail dropped us into one of the wettest, most technical rock gardens of the entire week. It was a wild mix of slick boulders, deep mud pockets, and wooden bridges shining with water. It was survival by commitment—carry speed with confidence, or get swallowed by the mud. We felt great here, dancing over the rocks.

A team of guys caught up to us, and I didn’t realize until much later that Jen had pulled off the narrow trail—leaning her bike toward a wall of rocks—to let them by.

We kept going and eventually spilled out onto a washed-out river crossing. As we started walking our bikes across, Jen said something was very wrong with her front wheel. She tried spinning it.

It barely moved—maybe a quarter of a rotation.
And the tech zone was still 8–10 miles away.

Jen was suffering—truly suffering—and she never complains. She’s the strongest person I know, and even she said, “B… I don’t know if I can make it.”

I just looked at her and said, “Yes, you can. Whatever it takes—we’ll get there together and can slow down a little if necessary.”

But Jen being Jen… she didn’t slow down.
She went harder.

She went in front of me, pushing these massive watts into a wheel that barely wanted to move. Watching her fight like that was unreal—pure heart, pure grit.

When we finally rolled into the tech zone, the mechanics immediately spotted the problem. The rotor was bent badly—almost certainly from when she leaned her bike into the rocks to let those guys pass. It’s crazy how one tiny moment in a race like this can turn into a massive obstacle miles later.

The tech crew was incredible—they swapped her rotor out in record time, fast and calm and absolutely clutch. While they worked, I sprinted back and forth between Jen, the bikes, and the feed table, stuffing my pockets and enjoying whatever snacks I could grab. It was frantic, but also such a welcome, funny little reset in the middle of a wild day.

Once Jen’s wheel was spinning freely again, we were off—and back in the fight.

The rest of the stage delivered more unforgettable moments: tight, root-strewn passages, exposed traverses, and ridge views that felt like we were walking inside the clouds. And that one insane, eroded, steep descent—the one so few dared to ride—where KTM medics shadowed us from the side of the mountain like guardian angels. It was ridiculous, beautiful, and unforgettable.

Stage 4 – An Unconquered Finish Line

39 miles | 5:36 hrs | 8.3K ft climbing

Stage 4 was the roughest day yet. We were riding from Davos to Chur—our remote finish line about 1.5 hours away by bus—so the day felt even more epic. Early on, we went off course down someone’s steep, bouldery driveway. We hiked our bikes back onto track, laughed at the misadventure, and pressed on.

The trails were relentless: paved climbs under the hot sun, bumpy grassy chatter, rocky paths, off-camber cow walks, and roots screaming under every touch. My hands, with countless painful blisters, protested every descent. Massive Swiss cows even blocked a gate and the entry to the next singletrack; all we could do was stop, laugh, and take a few pictures of them.

Finally, we descended the technical trails to Chur along the glacier-blue river. It was bumpy, rooty, and challenging, but offered a beautiful, refreshing reward—a moment to breathe in the Alpine splendor and reflect on the epic journey we had just ridden.

Stage 5 – Davos, Singletrack Paradise

38 miles | 5:06 hrs | 7.9K ft climbing

The final stage of Swiss Epic felt like stepping into a dream one last time.

We rolled out from the heart of Davos, weaving through quiet morning streets before the route funneled us onto gravel roads and into a long, determined line of riders. The climb began almost immediately—steady at first, then steeper, then steeper still—an hour-long ascent that pushed every muscle already worn from four brutal days.

My legs were on fire.
Jen’s too.
We exchanged a look that said everything:

I’m hurting.
You’re hurting.
But we’re doing this.

We spun our smallest chainrings, wishing we had one more gear—just one more—to ease the burn. But the Alps don’t deal in mercy; they deal in beauty and grit. And up we went.

Eventually, the city shrank into a tiny dot below us, swallowed by distance and cloud. We climbed above the mist, onto a ridge where the world turned surreal—a landscape shifting between moon-like black and red rock, stitched with narrow ribbons of trail perched high above the valley. The air was thin and crisp. The exposure was real. And the riding… the riding was everything.

The trail demanded precision, balance, full trust.
I felt light.
I felt alive.
My bike had wings.
I was flying.

And then came the masterpiece: the Panorama Trail.

A high-alpine ribbon of perfection, it flowed along the mountainside with big, smooth berms, perfectly carved into the hillside. Each turn slingshotted us into the next, feeding into steep, flowy features that felt like a rollercoaster built for mountain bikers. You could see the lake shimmering below, the jagged peaks on the horizon, and the city of Davos slowly appearing far in the distance. It was impossible not to smile—pure joy in trail form.

Every corner, every feature, every view felt like a reward for the work of the entire week.

Descending into Davos brought us closer and closer to the sounds of cheering, cowbells, and the heartbeat of the final finish line. And then, as the last stretch opened in front of us, everything inside me lifted.

We were about to finish our dream race.

Pax was right there at the finish—camera out, eyes bright, so proud.
Jen’s parents and her kiddos were cheering their hearts out.
Robert was there too, smiling, relieved, happy, taking it all in.

It wasn’t just our finish.
It was everyone’s finish.
A journey we had all shared in one way or another.

There was so much joy, so much accomplishment, and so much gratitude wrapped into that final moment. Jennifer and I rolled across the line side by side, hearts full, knowing we had lived something extraordinary—something we would carry with us for the rest of our lives.

Swiss Epic 2024… what a journey. What a gift. What a dream come true.

Reflections – A Dream Realized

Swiss Epic was not just a race. It was a dream fulfilled, a celebration of friendship, a journey through some of the most stunning mountains on Earth, and an adventure I will carry in my heart forever. Every technical trail, every breathtaking view, every root and rock, every laugh and cheer— all of it made this race extraordinary.

And to top it all off, we were thrilled to place 2nd in the Master Women category, finishing just behind a local team of incredibly strong women who consistently dominate this race. Sharing this accomplishment with Jennifer, in a race we had dreamed about for years, made it even more special. We are proud, accomplished, and endlessly grateful for this experience.

A piece of my heart stayed at Morteratsch Glacier, where Jen and I took our very first spin and stumbled into raw, untouched beauty. The turquoise rivers, the jagged white peaks, the whisper of glacier air, and the endless ribbons of singletrack left a mark that still pulls me back. Swiss Epic 2024—five days, countless memories, and a piece of my soul forever tucked into the Alps. Every breathtaking view, every technical trail, every root and rock, every laugh and cheer made this race more than just a challenge—it made it unforgettable.

We were so lucky to share this adventure with our families too. My Pax was there, and so were Robert, Jen’s kids, and her parents. It took some serious coordination to make it all happen, but it was worth every bit of effort. Between stages we shared delicious meals, splashed around in the pool, played mini golf at the little hotel course, wandered playgrounds with the kiddos, and took gondolas up to alpine gardens where we hiked magical trails that felt straight out of a storybook. And of course, we soaked in the experience of the famous red Swiss trains—carving through steep valleys and breathtaking peaks like the mountains themselves were putting on a show just for us.

Those moments in between—soft, joyful, ordinary in the best way—are memories we’ll hold onto forever.

Gratitude to the Sponsors Who Made This Dream Possible

Racing the Swiss Epic was a dream come true, and we couldn’t have done it without the incredible support of the brands who stood behind us.

Squirt Cycling Products played a huge part in making this adventure possible. As an official race sponsor, they took care of every racer’s bike each night—washing them with their biodegradable Squirt Bike Cleaner and storing them safely for the next day. Jen and I relied on Squirt Chain Lube, Squirt Sealant, and Barrier Balm, all of which worked flawlessly through mud, rain, dust, and long Alpine days. Their support kept our bikes—and our bodies—running strong through every stage.

Swiss Epic Squirt

My Zerounobikes Mag SL Queen Li Mei was flawless—smooth like butter over changing terrain, climbing with ease, descending confidently.

We were also thrilled to race on our Gulo Wheels, handmade right at home in Western North Carolina. Their precision, responsiveness, and durability were incredible on the mixed, technical Swiss terrain—from fast alpine descents to rocky climbs and wild, rooty forest trails.

Our Absolute Black chainrings were truly lifesavers. You don’t show up to race in the Swiss Alps without a small arsenal of gearing options, and every stage demanded something different. With those oval rings, we were ready for it all.

We loved racing in our favorite, ultra-comfortable DeFeet socks, baselayers and arm warmers, which kept us and our feet happy through endless hours of pedaling and post race. And of course, our setup wouldn’t be complete without ESI Grips, Xpedo USA pedals, and Selle SMP saddles and Gaerne shoes from Albabici—all products that performed perfectly day after day.

For hydration, we used USWE packs along with bottles on our bikes, which kept us fueled and hydrated through the long climbs, high heat, and long days in the saddle.

TrainerRoad deserves a special thank-you. I’ve used it for years to build the foundation that carries me through seasons like this one—but it played an even bigger role for Jen. While most of my preparation happens outdoors, Jen trained almost entirely indoors for this race, relying purely on TrainerRoad to build the fitness she needed for five brutal stages. It was incredible to watch her transform through that structured work and show up ready for everything the mountains threw at us.

We are deeply grateful for every sponsor who came along on this journey with us. Your support helped turn a lifelong dream into one of the most unforgettable experiences of our lives.

Pisgah Chaos and Joy: My Swank 65 Adventure

2025-11-12T22:34:00.001-05:00

Swank 65 – 2nd Open Women | 2nd Overall Triple Crown Series

29.83 miles | 3:21:05 hrs | 4,925 ft elevation gain

The last race of the season—Swank 65—and with it, that familiar mix of anticipation and disbelief: Am I really race-ready for these raw, technical Pisgah trails?

Turns out, I was.

I finished 2nd in Open Women, matching my best time on this demanding course, and wrapped up 2nd overall in the Triple Crown Series. It was the perfect finale—sunny, crisp, and full of everything I love about racing here: challenge, camaraderie, and connection.

After days of cold rain, we were gifted a warm, golden day. It was 52°F at the start, but I decided to skip the layers—a great call. By the first big climb, I was already toasty and feeling strong. Cool conditions always bring out the best in me.

From the start, we jetted up Upper Sycamore. Madison surged ahead early and disappeared up the climb, while Stacey tucked right behind me. We’d raced here before, years ago—a tough, memorable battle—and I knew this would be another good one.

She passed me on the first climb, and I followed closely through the rooty sections, calm and steady. When she slipped on a slick root and I managed to clean it, I slipped by, and we found ourselves riding together—laughing, cheering each other on, and still pushing hard. It’s rare to have that kind of friendly rivalry; it made the day even more special.

At the top, the off-camber roots and damp leaves were waiting. My tires gave out twice—small slips but enough for Stacey to reclaim the lead. I knew she’d crush the descent, so I braced for it. She flew down Sycamore, and by the time I hit the road, she was a good dot ahead of me.

The next climb was relentlessly long—over thirty minutes of steady gravel that just kept going. I could see Stacey ahead, maybe 40 seconds up the road, but I made the conscious choice not to chase hard. There’s a fine line in Pisgah between riding strong and burning too many matches too soon—and I knew what was waiting at the top.

Because once the gravel ends, you hit the Upper Upper Black Mountain climb: steep, rooty, and technical in every sense. It’s one of those climbs where brute force isn’t enough—you need finesse, balance, and a clear head. The roots are slick, the switchbacks are steep, and every wrong line costs you both time and energy.

I reminded myself that it’s smarter to stay composed and save my focus for the hard parts ahead. I stayed seated, spinning smooth and trying not to stress too much about my position. When the gravel finally pitched up into the singletrack, the real work began.

That climb feels endless—logs to step over, rocky sections, and the kind of roots that require you to dance on the bike, fight for tractions, all while totally in red zone. But it’s also beautiful: the sunlight filtering through the trees, the wind picking up near the ridge, and that deep Pisgah silence between breaths.

I passed a few riders on my way up, inching closer to the top, and by the time I crested the final section, I saw Stacey just before the last pitch. I was patient, focused, and proud of how I rode that section—steady, technical, and super close to clean.

By the top, I had reeled her back in. I let a few guys go ahead for the descent and offered Stacey to go first too—“Go ahead and enjoy it,” I said. I knew her descending skills and trusted that if I was meant to catch her, I would.

That descent was wild—boulders, roots, moving rocks, and deep leaves—but I stayed smooth and in control. Twice I had to stop to stretch my arms from the arm pump, it was that intense. Still, I hit the gravel smiling, knowing Bennett Gap was up next. I wasn't sure how I felt about it at the time, as I knew it was the most difficult part of the race.

At the feed, Pax was there with perfect timing, handing me a fresh bottle after nearly 40 minutes without water. He’d been chasing me all day on his e-bike on those gravel roads, cheering and getting his own adventure in. Seeing him out there again, after years off the bike, made me so happy.

I caught my friend Ben on the climb—he laughed, “I’ll catch you on the descent!” and I said, “We’ll see about that!” A few minutes later, I worked my way back to Stacey, passing her just minute or so before Bennett.

She smiled and said, “Go get it, Beata!”

“Great work, Stacey, you killed it on Avery” I replied.

Then the final Pisgah chaos began—roots, drops, off-camber madness, and a brutal wind whipping through the treetops. The overlooks were stunning; I caught just a flash of the mountains and said “Wow,” before diving back into the leaves.

I didn’t know how I was going to handle Bennett, but I was doing so much better than expected. At one point, my tires washed out completely and I landed in a soft pile of leaves, laughing—“Yeeehaw!” It was perfect. I picked myself up, still grinning, and carried on through the toughest lower sections.

The trail was slick and unpredictable, but I rode it with confidence and flow, even though I hadn’t pre-ridden it on my race bike. It was tricky, but I felt strong—calm and focused in the middle of all that Pisgah mayhem.

At the bottom, I saw Pax and Madison’s parents cheering. “F—yeah, that was fun!” I yelled, and everyone laughed. To my surprise, there was no sign of Stacey behind me. That meant I’d ridden Bennett really well. My worst-case scenario had been to exit just behind her and have to claw back time on the next climb, but I was already ahead—and that felt great.

Still, I kept pushing. I wanted to finish this race knowing I’d ridden strong from start to finish. The final climb came, and I dug in—steady, powerful, focused. The last descent was fast and furious but controlled, and I was ecstatic to cross the line in second, feeling good and proud.

Later, I learned Madison had crashed on Upper Upper, and Stacey had gone down twice near the end on Black. It was that kind of day—Pisgah rawness in full force.

After some baked potatoes from The Ktchn, chatting with other riders, and the podium celebrations, it was time to roll home. The air was cooling fast—just in time for the coming freeze and first snow of the season.

It was the perfect ending to an adventurous year—a day of gratitude, fierce competition, and happiness on two wheels.

It felt especially meaningful to finish the season racing on these wild, rugged trails that make Pisgah so unique — the same trails that shaped my riding and remind me why I love this sport so much. I was proud to ride and race here representing Gulo Composites, our incredible local wheel brand built right here in Brevard. Their wheels handled everything Pisgah threw at them — from roots to rock gardens — smooth, strong, and true all the way to the finish.

Racing Through Rainforests and Reefs: My Australian Masters World Championship Adventure

2025-11-10T13:22:00.002-05:00

After 21 hours of flying, 32 hours with hardly any sleep, and a breathtaking stopover in Fiji, we finally touched down in Cairns, Australia—the land where just about anything can harm or eat you!

The air here is alive with energy—it’s almost go time. But there’s something more than excitement in this place. There’s a spirit, a deep connection people share with the land. You can feel it in the air, in the forests, and even in the coral-streaked seas. “We are all visitors to this time, this place. Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love, and then we return home,” an Aboriginal saying reminds me.

No matter how I place in the race, being here, pursuing dreams surrounded by amazing people, is a privilege I will never take for granted.

Two days before race day, we plunged into the wild beauty of Cairns. Riding a gondola over the world’s oldest tropical rainforest—150 million years of tangled, vibrant history below us—I was in awe. Crocodile-filled rivers, the vast Barron Gorge, and towering 400-year-old Kauri trees stretched as far as the eye could see. Along the boardwalks, waterfalls thundered, brilliant blue Ulysses butterflies flitted by, and even a cassowary—arguably the world’s most dangerous bird—kept me on my toes. We ended the day in Kuranda with a cold glass of ginger blue beer, the perfect reward for an unforgettable pre-race adventure.

I also had the chance to meet up with another Australian female rider Sharon I had known for many years as we met in Andorra—she had just won yet another world title right here in Australia! It was wonderful to catch up, reminisce, and discuss lines before the race.

I also met a rider from Spain, who would later become a rival right here at Worlds, and had great time practicing on the course with one of her friends.

On the last day of the prep I was excited to share practice laps with Tinker Juarez himself, we tried few different lines but simply were having a great ride and time on this spectacular race course.

The days leading up to our departure were anything but calm. Just before leaving home, I started feeling sharp chest pains that I couldn’t quite explain. I tried to brush them off, convincing myself it was just stress or nerves — but deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. By the time we arrived in Cairns, the tension had followed me halfway across the world.

The medics’ tent confirmed my chest pains were unexplained and told me to go to the ER if it worsened — just one day before the World Championships. Madness!

Race Day

Race day arrived, and nerves were high. I started mid-pack, knowing that my endurance-based start wouldn’t put me at the front immediately. The double track and initial climbs came fast, and I began carefully navigating through riders, watching every line, every slick patch of Australian red clay.

Early in the race, I encountered my first major challenge: a massive, nearly vertical rock mound. The rider ahead of me slowed unexpectedly, forcing me to brake hard and take a completely new line—a line I was not intending to ride. In the heat of the moment, she shouted, “Stop being a b*tch!”—something no one had ever said to me in all my years of racing.

I was not furious though, I actually quietly amused and smiled to myself, I found it funny, and I focused on what I could control. I pushed hard, found a fast line after she blocked just another of my lines, and passed her.

Step by step, I clawed my way up, passing other competitors and chasing the front group. I was seriously flying here. Finally, I caught up to the leaders, and a surge of confidence hit me. “I got this,” I thought. I felt happy, focused, and ready. This was my moment, and I knew I could pull it off.

But then the problems began. My pedals started unclipping repeatedly on slick, rocky climbs—seven times on one ascent, four on the next, three on another. Each pop cost precious seconds, erasing the advantage I had worked so hard to gain. It was all my fault, as I lubed the pedals night before and forgot to wipe the excess, now I was paying the price. Every step of the main climb was agony: my muscles burned, my lungs screamed, and the heat and humidity felt like an oven baking me alive.

Despite the setbacks, I chased the remaining riders, pushing through the jungle descents and technical rock gardens as fast as I could. The laps were going by in the mad speed. I made some additional passes but the gap was too big to catch top three. The final climb loomed—a short 30-foot push that looked easy but, after an hour of racing in extreme conditions, felt insurmountable. I really didn't know how I was going to get to the top. But step by step, I made it, every muscle trembling, every breath searing. It was rough. The final section all I had left was to cruise to the finish line, knowing that I did my best and gave all I got here.

Crossing the line in 4th place, just over a minute from the podium, I felt pride, exhaustion, and relief all at once. Later while back at home, I learned that the chest pains I had experienced during the trip were caused by pleuritis, inflammation of the lung lining—a terrible coincidence—but it didn’t take away from the grit and focus I poured into this race.

Every second of the 1 hour and 10 minutes pushed me to the edge. The heat and humidity were brutal, mistakes were costly, and the competition was fierce—but I rode my heart out.

Post-Race Adventure

After the race, we had just one day to spare, and I was determined to see the Great Barrier Reef—a dream I’d carried since stepping off the plane. My husband, Pax, decided to have a little fun. I woke up at 5 a.m., thinking we were going on a “stupid speed boat” he booked to tease me—and I was not happy! But secretly, he had arranged the perfect plan: a catamaran sail on the Ocean Free.

The 30-knot winds tossed the boat sideways, waves sent us nose-diving, and yet every moment felt electric. The crew was so amazing, and it was a very cameral setting, it almost felt like sailing with a family. I loved it.

We sailed past Green Island, snorkeled among vivid corals and neon fish, and celebrated with champagne toasts while the sun glinted off the wild sea. Pure magic.

Australia offered so much more than racing. From jungle humidity to sparkling reefs, from Barron Falls to the warmth of Trinity Beach sunrises, every moment was alive with color, sound, and life. As another Aboriginal saying goes, “Traveler, there are no paths. Paths are made by walking.”

Every walk and pedal stroke reminded me why we chase these dreams, even across the globe. Endless gratitude goes to our family, friends, and supporters who followed along from afar—your energy traveled with us through every climb, plunge, and wave.

I didn’t come home with a world title this time, but I brought back something even more precious: memories etched in sweat, salt, sun, and smiles—moments that will last a lifetime. The Australia's food was delicious, I saw baby kangaroos that I totally am obsessed with. So all fell in place.

From the forests to the reef, Australia gave us a wild, sun-drenched, salt-sprayed adventure I will never forget.

In Loving Memory

This post is dedicated to Terry, Pax’s mom, who lived every step of our Australia adventure with us from afar, sharing in our excitement, cheering us on, and celebrating every moment. Her love and support made this journey possible, and we will always remember the joy she brought to this trip. Thank you Terry...

From Swiss Epic to Iceland: How Gulo Wheels Carried Me Through a Wild Season

2025-10-14T13:00:00.002-04:00

From Swiss Epic to Iceland: How Gulo Wheels Carried Me Through a Wild Season

Photo credit: Danny Carp, Gulo Composites

Every race season tells a story — of places ridden, challenges met, and equipment trusted when it matters most. My 2024–2025 racing years took me from the high Alps of Switzerland to the rugged volcanic landscapes of Iceland, to the hot, punchy climbs of Australia, and across countless miles of my local Pisgah trails. Through it all, one constant carried me: my Gulo Wheels, built right here in Brevard, North Carolina.

“Ditch outdated steel spokes. Our braided carbon-spoked wheels crush vibrations, weigh 50% less, and handle more punishment with less maintenance—so you ride farther, faster, and with more control.”

That’s not marketing fluff—after two full seasons of racing across multiple continents, I can say it’s exactly what these wheels deliver.

Photo credit: Danny Carp, Gulo Composites

Swiss Epic — A True Test

My journey with Gulo began at Swiss Epic in August 2024, where my teammate Jennifer and I both rode Gulo GMX 30 wheels in the Master Women category, finishing 2nd overall. Over five grueling days, we climbed nearly 40,000 vertical feet and covered rugged, ever-changing terrain: steep grassy descents, rocky alpine passes, technical singletrack, and smooth flow trails.

Our Gulo wheels delivered flawlessly through every brutal climb and wild descent. While other wheels might have needed re-truing or lost tension over such terrain, ours stayed perfectly dialed from start to finish.

Swiss Epic Race Stats

Stage 1: 46.19 mi | 7,159 ft | 4:56:05
Stage 2: 46.24 mi | 8,045 ft | 5:54:09
Stage 3: 39.02 mi | 6,293 ft | 4:29:46
Stage 4: 39.37 mi | 8,301 ft | 5:36:33
Stage 5: 37.68 mi | 7,972 ft | 5:06:08

Nationals & Worlds — Speed Meets Precision

This season, I raced both Marathon and Cross Country (XCO) Nationals in Roanoke, Virginia.

The Marathon course came first: rocky and rooty, with loose descents and miles of flowy, root-ridden singletrack. Riding my GMX 30 wheels, I felt confident, light, and smooth, and I was thrilled to finish 1st, bringing my total to five national titles.

A few days later came the XCO Nationals, a narrow, smooth, and very off-camber course where traction was absolutely key. Once again, my GMX 30 wheels delivered incredible grip in corners and on the climbs, and I finished 2nd in XCO Nationals.

Nationals Race Stats

Marathon: 43.39 mi | 4,528 ft | 4:23:07
XCO: 11.81 mi | 1,181 ft | 1:08:26

A few weeks earlier, I had raced at the XCO Masters World Championships in Cairns, Australia, placing 4th on one of the most demanding courses I’ve ever ridden. It was hot, steep, and technical, with rocky climbs and fast, jump-filled descents — a true test of both rider and gear.

Cairns XCO Race Stats

Distance: 12.15 mi | Climbing: 1,483 ft | Time: 1:10:51

Rift MTB Iceland — A Wild Ride

One of the season highlights was the Rift MTB 5-day stage race in Iceland, where Ryan and I raced in the Elite Mixed Team category, finishing 2nd overall. Over five days, we covered 200 miles and 22,000 feet of climbing, riding through everything from proper technical trails to totally unridden mountain passes, endless stretches of loose rock, boggy wet sections, soft volcanic ash, volcanic boulders, and even snow.

Despite this relentless terrain, my GMX 30 wheels stayed perfectly true. No broken spokes. No loss of tension. Just smooth, controlled riding in some of the most extreme conditions imaginable.

Rift MTB Race Stats

Stage 1: 25.39 mi | 3,540 ft | 2:30:54
Stage 2: 27.09 mi | 4,163 ft | 2:51:57
Stage 3: 39.09 mi | 6,243 ft | 4:23:03
Stage 4: 50.33 mi | 2,438 ft | 3:42:37
Stage 5: 40.93 mi | 4,898 ft | 3:53:35

Built in Brevard — Innovation with Deep Roots

Gulo isn’t just another wheel brand—it’s the product of over 40 years of advanced composite manufacturing experience. Gulo is part of Keir Manufacturing, a company based right here in Brevard, North Carolina, with decades of expertise in high-performance composites.

Photo credit: Danny Carp, Gulo Composites

The name “Gulo” was inspired by the owner’s son, drawn from the scientific name for the wolverine, Gulo gulo—an animal known for its toughness and resilience. It was also his idea to apply Keir’s composite expertise to cycling, leading to the creation of the G-Spoke, a spoke unlike any other, blending smooth ride quality, ultra-low weight, and unmatched strength.

Photo credit: Danny Carp, Gulo Composites

Stronger Than Steel — And Built to Last

Gulo’s triaxially braided carbon spokes represent the future of wheel technology:

Half the weight of steel
~20% higher tensile strength (around 1,000 lbs per spoke)
Minimal stretch under load — holding tension consistently
Returns to original length when flexed (unlike steel)

Thanks to these properties, Gulo wheels don’t need constant truing. Even after two full seasons of racing across the toughest courses in the world, my wheels stayed true and reliable. The only issue I ever encountered was a single rare spoke defect, which Gulo’s local team identified and replaced immediately — and the wheel was perfect ever since.

Vibration Damping

Gulo’s composite spokes also absorb trail chatter, reducing vibration by 8% compared to metal spokes. Over long races, this smoother ride translates to less fatigue, more control, and the ability to push harder when it counts.

Impact Strength

Through their custom Gulo Impact Tower Test, each spoke is tested to survive 4–12 joule direct impacts at varying tensions. G-Spokes consistently outperform steel spokes — staying intact without losing tension or deforming.

Photo credit: Danny Carp, Gulo Composites

Riding Local. Racing Global.

One of my favorite parts of riding Gulo is that their factory is right here in Brevard, just a few miles from the trails I train on. I can stop in, chat with the crew, and see the wheels being made. It’s rare to find this level of local craftsmanship combined with world-class innovation.

Over the 2024 and 2025 seasons, I’ve raced two sets of GMX 30 wheels in every event — Swiss Epic, Rift MTB Iceland, Nationals, Worlds, and Pisgah. They’ve been light, strong, smooth, and completely reliable, giving me confidence on climbs, corners, and wild descents.

Photo credit: Danny Carp, Gulo Composites

I’m also incredibly excited to upgrade to GMX SL wheels next season, which promise to be even lighter, faster, and smoother, and I can’t wait to see how they elevate my riding to the next level.

Wheelsets I Use

GMX 30 — Trail | Everyday | Stage Races (2024–2025 seasons, Swiss Epic, Rift MTB, Nationals, Worlds, Pisgah)
GMX SL — Coming next season (super light, cross-country focus)
Photo credit: Danny Carp, Gulo Composites

From Brevard to the Alps and beyond — Gulo Wheels have been a game-changer. Light, strong, smooth, and local, they’ve carried me safely and confidently through every mile of two unforgettable seasons.

Ride stronger. Ride smoother. Experience the future of cycling wheels — Gulo.
👉 gulocomposites.com

Through Pain to Stars: My Marathon National Championship

2025-09-29T18:56:00.011-04:00

Marathon National Championships – Roanoke, VA

43.39 mi | 4:23:07 | 4,528 ft climbing

Photo credit: Snowy Mountain Photography

The picture that captured the day wasn’t me crossing the finish line—it was Kristen, last year’s winner, stepping toward me with a huge hug. We both knew what it had taken: the years of training, the endless preparation, the hope, the laser focus, and then—on one single day—you either piece it all together through unimaginable pain… or you don’t.

That hug said: I know what you went through, because I went through it too. But it also spoke to something bigger—that it’s not just about racing. It’s about the friendships we build, the way we can be genuinely happy for each other while chasing the same dream, and the joy of doing what we love. That, to me, is the most incredible part of all.

This could have been the hardest race of my life. Not just because of the course, or the heat, or the competition—but because of everything that happened in the weeks leading up to it.

Three weeks before Nationals, life took the most devastating turn. My husband Pax suffered a massive heart attack—air lifted straight to emergency surgery, and days in the ICU that felt like an eternity. I stayed by his side in that hospital room, barely moving, sleeping on a pull-out chair, terrified every second.

I didn’t ride for a while nor I cared to. I was burned out from fear, uncertainty and exhaustion. When we finally came home, it felt like a gift—but also a shadow. Nothing was the same. We had change so much. I rushed through short rides, unable to stay away from the house for long, constantly worried. So when Nationals came, I said I’d be fine skipping it. I’d raced so many before, and nothing mattered more than being with Pax. But he insisted: Go race. I want you to race. So I did.

Roanoke greeted us with a wall of humidity. Just stepping outside was overwhelming. The course itself was excellent - flowy, fast, rocky, and technical—but in this heat it felt punishing. I rode a couple of the big sections beforehand but couldn’t summon the energy to see it all. Just standing in the sun felt like it drained me. And not just me, I could see it was a struggle for Pax too.

On race morning, I stood at the start line and looked over at Pax. He had lost 17 pounds, looked pale, fragile. Tears stung behind my glasses. I thought: this is too soon, for him, for me. But I was here. I was as ready as I can be in this position.

The race exploded off the line and for the first hour, everything clicked. I was riding up front, shoulder-to-shoulder with strong women from other categories. Through the first singletrack, I felt sharp and fast, even as the heat pressed down like fire. At one point I rode next to Libby—such a powerhouse—and I asked if she felt as hot as I did. My face felt like it was burning. But my energy was good, maybe a reserve I had built weeks and months before.

On a gravel stretch I told her to stick with me. Normally she drops me, but I was flying. I yelled out excited greetings to Mayra, Kelly, and others as I surged by. The race felt alive.

Photo credit: Snowy Mountain Photography

On a rocky side loop, Libby pulled away. I told myself to ride my own pace—it was too hot to go above red. At the first feed zone, I spotted Pax and managed only a few words: “Are you ok? These next two hours are going to be very important.”

The course pitched upward into flowy, climbing trails. I was still catching riders, but then things started to unravel. My fingers cramped first, curling sideways on the bars. I thought it was odd, but kept going. Then on the gravel climb toward the mountain top, I felt my earlier speed and energy was no longer there.. By the bottom of the descent, disaster struck—both legs locked completely. I couldn’t pedal. Pain ripped through me. I screamed. I had never cramped before, not like this. I always had been grateful not to experience cramps, beside very short two occasions in all my years of racing. And suddenly, just like that, I couldn’t turn the pedals without agony.

I was only halfway through the race, and my body had betrayed me. Every time I tried to put power down, cramps shot through my legs. Still, I managed to catch riders from younger categories. Amy, a good friend, tucked in with me for a bit. But as soon as we hit a narrow uphill singletrack, my calf spasmed violently and I had to stop, screaming, while she and other rider rode away. I was shaken. This wasn’t racing anymore. It was survival.

Carla appeared—super strong, normally untouchable and she should have been in a far front, I should not be seeing her as she started earlier. I asked how her day was. She told me she was suffering too, so badly she had jumped into a lake mid-race just to cool off. Even she wasn’t herself, but she still pushed through, holding onto third in her class.

Meanwhile, my day dissolved into a cycle of cramps, spasms, and screams that echoed through the forest. At times I thought I would faint. My body shook, my head spun. I questioned how I would even get back to the feed zone. When I did, Michelle—my friend Humberto’s wife—was there and handed me a bottle. I didn't want to have Pax there in this heat for that long. So I am very grateful for this help. Her smile and encouragement were a lifeline. Around us, volunteers and spectators cheered, unaware of the agony inside me.

By then I had lost over five minutes of moving time. My body barely worked, yet I was still clinging to first. The final sections of singletrack in the small loop, were mercifully more flowy, and I nursed the pedals, trying to manage the spasms. But when I asked volunteers how far was left, their answer gutted me: “A couple miles of gravel, then maybe three of singletrack.” On a normal day, that would have sounded easy. Today, it felt impossible. I looked back often, convinced someone was closing. The thought of losing now, after all this, terrified me.

The last singletrack tilted upward. I caught a rider stopped on roots and asked to pass, but he was still in the way when I arrived. I had to put my foot down—and immediately my calf locked again. I screamed, waited seconds that felt like eternity, then willed myself forward.

Finally, the top. I recognized a sunny, sandy corner from earlier, when we rode other direction on this first section. A blast of heat hit me like someone had opened a giant oven door. It was suffocating, hellish. Then the last climb. My legs cramped with every pedal stroke. I zigzagged, gasping, forcing each turn of the cranks. Then I heard it: cheers from the tent, voices shouting “National Champion!”

I crossed the line shattered with only one minute to spare, it was that close. My body was broken, screaming from cramps. But I was whole again. Under the tent, Lisa from Mountain Goat Adventures and her family covered me in icy towels, cooling my battered body. Around me, friends and riders shared relief, exhaustion, laughter.

This title wasn’t just mine. It was Pax’s. He wanted me to race, and I raced for him. In the darkest moments, when I thought I couldn’t go on, he was the reason I kept moving. Finally, after years of chasing and countless second places - I was National Champion again.

After the awards, friend Beth came to me, shared her story, and wrapped me in huge hugs, her eyes filled with tears. She was so genuinely happy for me and proud. She knew what I went through—because she had also endured a very long and tough day out there. That moment wasn’t about results or podiums. It was about two riders who had both fought their own battles, recognizing the grit and heart it took just to finish.

Photo credit: Snowy Mountain Photography

It’s been so many years of very strong finishes, close races, against very strong women. The last time I won a National title was back in 2018. This win reminded me that sometimes it can take years of consistency, persistence, and belief to keep chasing the Stars and Stripes jersey. And when it finally comes together, the weight of all those years makes the moment even more unforgettable.

Rift MTB – Iceland 2025: First-Ever Edition

2025-09-16T18:27:00.006-04:00

Rift MTB – Iceland 2025: First-Ever Edition

First of all — what an honor. To take part in the very first edition of Rift MTB Iceland feels surreal, and I am beyond grateful to have been here. Riding my bike across such raw and untouched landscapes, meeting amazing people, and bringing home unforgettable memories — this is the kind of adventure I live for.

“Adventure is worthwhile in itself.” – Amelia Earhart

I love cool weather conditions for bike racing, and Iceland delivered just that: 50-degree days, some with sun, some with drizzle, fog, or light rain—and always that relentless wind.

This was also my first time racing in the Mixed Team category, and the same for my teammate Ryan. We knew each day would bring learning opportunities—how to race together, how to be as fast and efficient as possible, but also how to absorb the moment, the scenery, and the journey.

From the moment we landed until our planes took off, the Rift crew gave us true white-glove service: arranging domestic flights, picking us up at airports, transporting bikes, and storing our bags so we could enjoy Reykjavik before our flight north. Without this race, I never would have seen so many remote and spectacular places—it often felt too good to be real.

We settled into a beautiful hotel in Akureyri, right on the fjord. Each morning and evening, we were spoiled with delicious meals and surrounded by incredible people.

The atmosphere quickly became like family: racers, crew, mechanics. By the end of the week, we weren’t just participants in a race — we were part of a shared adventure.

Stage 1 – Fjord Sprint

25 miles, 2:20 hrs, 3.5k climbing

The opening stage included trails from the local bike park, tucked right behind our hotel.

We rolled out with a long road start that quickly pitched upward onto gravel, climbing higher and higher until we were above the gondolas. From there, the first descent was a playground: flowy berms into open, exposed rock slabs where you could pick any line and let it fly.

Then came one of the trickiest sections: a narrow, off-camber singletrack along the river’s edge, where one slip could send you swimming. A short metal bridge carried us safely across the water before the course pitched brutally upward — too steep to ride, forcing a grueling hike-a-bike straight into our legs.

Cresting that challenge, the reward was a ripping descent into the lower bike park — a magical Icelandic forest of mossy singletrack, lush greenery, roots, tight turns, and just enough slickness to keep every rider humble.

Ryan and I quickly learned during the gondola climb that the first Elite Mixed team was out of reach. Our real battle would be with the strong third-place team, who excelled on gravel climbs. Luckily for us, every time we hit technical descents we clawed back time, often passing them on technical bits.

The stage ended with an all-out push along the walking path skirting the fjord—wheel to wheel, grinding hard alongside our Brevard friends, Nick and Nell. Just a minute back, another mixed team was chasing fiercely. A short but savage opener, it was clear from the start that this race would be tight all week.

Stage 2 – Above the Clouds

28 miles, 2:50 hrs, 4k climbing

This time we left the hotel in the opposite direction, climbing straight out of town on a steep road. A small singletrack cut through led us onto doubletrack that climbed relentlessly. We pushed hard to stay with the front, finding ourselves alongside the leading women’s team. At one point, a huge group of schoolchildren lined the trail, reaching out their hands to clap as we rode by—it was a special moment.

The climb continued, gravel giving way to higher alpine terrain. We pushed above the gondola station, higher than the day before, until we were riding through clouds. It was the bluest, warmest day of the week, with endless panoramic views when the fog cleared.

The descent was wild: a narrow rollercoaster trail through thick brush, steep in places, dropping us back to the exposed rocks and then into the now-familiar green bike park trails.

Other teams were close, and we could hear them breathing down our necks. Once again it came down to a furious sprint to the line—this time with just a slim gap of maybe a minute. Stage two complete, and still locked in battle.

Stage 3 – The Queen Stage

39 miles, 4:23 hrs, 6.2k climbing

Our first remote start meant an early breakfast already in kit, then an hour’s bus ride through tunnels and rolling green hills toward the coast. Even the transfer was breathtaking: streams tumbling into the sea, tiny fishing villages clinging to the cliffs.

This was the Queen Stage: the longest day in both time and elevation.

Thank you Mucha!

The trails weren’t bike trails at all—hiking routes and sheep tracks, raw and wild.

We rolled out from the harbor in thick fog, cold wind, mid-40s. The road tilted skyward and within minutes we were climbing into a wall of mist. Sheep darted across the trail. Groups splintered. Soon it was just us and our Brevard friends, grinding toward the top. The fog was so dense I had to take off my glasses. The descent was chaos—loose, round rocks everywhere, impossible to avoid, arm pump screaming, feet dabbing to stay upright.

After a road stretch where Ryan pulled us back to two strong mixed teams, we climbed again—this time into true wilderness. A feed zone, then the infamous sheep trail: deep ruts, boggy turf, blueberry bushes, pushing bikes into a wall of rocks and moss. Fog swirled, voices disappeared. It was just me, the rocks, and the wind. I cursed out loud at one point —“Are there enough f***ing rocks here?!”— smiled and kept pushing.

Then, magic. We broke through the clouds into dazzling sun. Glaciers glistened between jagged peaks, blue sky above, clouds below. Out of water, exhausted, I stopped to take a video just to remember it. And then—an arrow pointing straight onto a glacier. Yes, we had to ride across it. Sliding, laughing, dodging crevasses, it was pure Icelandic madness.

The descent that followed took us through foggy ridges with twin waterfalls, fairy-tale meadows with tiny flowers, bogs, and rivers. At one point I crashed hard, pedal striking a rock and flipping, but even that felt soft, as if Iceland cradled me.

By the time we reached the fishing village finish, I was overwhelmed. I hugged Dana, the race director, and burst into tears. “It was so beautiful out there. Thank you.” Then we warmed up with bowls of hot chowder—the best of my life. This was a day I will never forget.

Stage 4 – Lava Fields of Fire

50 miles, 3:42 hrs, 2.4k climbing

Another remote start took us east through the longest tunnel I’ve ever seen, past a massive beautiful waterfall, until the world turned black.

We started in volcanic ash fields, surrounded by dark mountains. The atmosphere on the line was electric—music pumping, crews and racers dancing before the suffering began.

We called it the “Icelandic Fox Pack”: three teams, including us, pushing together into the ash and lava.

The terrain was otherworldly—fields of jagged lava, soft black sand, cracks in the earth. I clipped a pedal on a fence, almost tumbled into the lava, that small mistake caused us to fall back.

At one point, I launched a solo attack into the wind, hammering nearly 20 minutes to catch and pass Brevard and another mixed team. There was a a moment when we finally descended and sat for a brief moment 3rd overall for the day. But we made a wrong turn on a split of a very windy and never ending looking road, and that caused us to lose a spot. But also when Ryan rejoined after stopping at feed zone, the gravel powerhouse team surged past us like rockets. We clawed what we could, but their strength on road and gravel was unmatched.

The final stretch included smoking geothermal vents, endless headwind, and a long, lonely road climb that felt eternal. Fingers frozen, body fading, There was a small fun and slick singletracks that led us to the finish. We’d lost four minutes, but we were still in podium position. Onion soup by the harbor never tasted so good.

Stage 5 – The Ridge of Bogs

40 miles, 3:53 hrs, 5k climbing

Cold, windy, damp—the final day. Spirits were high though, the Rift crew blasting music and cheering as we rolled off across the fjord.

The first climb stretched the field. We stayed glued to the wheel of our rivals, fighting the wind as a group. It was completely white all around and the pace was strong.

The ridge was boggy, muddy, and relentless. On a stone bridge our rivals stalled—we slipped past and opened a gap on the rocky descent.

But the course wasn’t done. After a flowing gravel section and a dramatic bridge crossing, the final climb loomed: nearly an hour of grinding switchbacks. I felt dizzy, almost ready to lie down in the grass, I saw the 3rd team just below us, I knew they would get us if we didn't really work hard as a team. Ryan pushed us to the top and I dug deep.

At the ridge we were alone, shrouded in clouds, riding through pure white emptiness.

One more round of bogs, steep grassy climbs, then finally the descent—grassy, rocky, with wooden steps, and a stunning view of the bay and our hotel below. Road stretch, then the finish at the Forest Lagoon. Five brutal, beautiful days. Wrapped in warm blankets, with our bikes washed beside a waterfall.

We had done it: 2nd place in Elite Mixed Teams.

After Five Incredible Days

“Dare to live the life you have dreamed for yourself. Go forward and make your dreams come true.” – R. W. Emerson

Antonio and Mari

When the dust settled on five incredible days of racing, we found ourselves in the Forest Lagoon, soaking in Iceland’s famous natural hot springs…we floated, toasted with friends, and savored a delicious dinner. Later, the afterparty and award ceremony brought more joy as the winners raised bull horns full of beer on the podium — a perfect Icelandic celebration.

Matt in action!

The Rift crew designed an unforgettable adventure — white-glove service, raw Icelandic beauty, and trails few people ever touch. Race director Dana set the tone with kindness, fun, and endless energy. The photographers and videographers captured every moment beautifully — and along the way became friends. My husband Pax joined Matt, chasing racers and filming our adventure, always smiling and having fun, while Antonio was everywhere, capturing fantastic photos of us racing with a big, happy smile. The SRAM crew kept our bikes dialed and even played the best rock music at the finish lines.

Our SRAM Crew

It all came together to make this first edition not only a success, but an unforgettable experience for everyone. I leave with gratitude, awe, and the certainty that I’ll be back.

Dana. You Rock!!!

Cross Country National Championships – Roanoke, VA

2025-08-05T18:08:00.006-04:00

Three days. That’s all I had between Marathon Nationals and the Cross Country race—three days after winning a title and pushing my legs to the limit with cramping that felt like a freight train was tearing through every muscle. My recovery window was almost nonexistent. On top of that, I needed to squeeze in practice laps on the XCO course.

Photo credit: www.stevethephotographer.photos

The day after the marathon, my legs wouldn’t move. It wasn’t the usual kind of tired—this was different. I can ride all day and feel great, but this race had left me wrecked. It felt like I had just come off a week of lifting a thousand-pound barbell with my legs. Everything hurt—quads, inner thighs, calves—completely destroyed.

The heat in Virginia didn’t let up either. That entire week was just brutally hot. I didn’t even bother trying to ride the first day, even though I knew I should. The following two days, I pre-rode the course. Compared to the vast forest trails of the marathon, this course felt tiny—narrow, off-camber, packed with little roots and tight switchbacks.

My first pre-ride was on a slick track, and my tires slid sideways on the tiniest roots. Riders were struggling with the traction and line choices. A few steep climbs had that “you either make it or you don’t” feel. The one rock garden—always wet—sat just past a super slick drop into a creekbed. Traction was everything.

The trail conditions started improving the next day as things dried out. But just one day before the race, the weather forecast showed storms rolling in. Panic started creeping in across the field. This course becomes nasty with even a little rain. I kept second-guessing my tire choice until nearly the last moment. Do I stick with fast-rolling rubber or switch to something chunkier in case the rain hits mid-race?

From a mental or adventurous standpoint, I almost wanted the chaos. I love when extra elements of difficulty hit mid-race. That fight-for-survival mode is what my soul craves. It’s strange, I know. But perfect weather on a perfect course is great for a fun ride in the mountains. For racing? The worse it is, the better. That’s where real strength shows. Everyone can ride well when it’s clean and flowy. But when things get sketchy? That’s when you see who’s really willing to suffer.

I eventually swapped to chunkier tires.

And of course—it didn’t rain before or during my race. It was just hot and sunny again.

Thankfully, 99% of the course is under a dense tree canopy, which helped. The only exposed section is the paved start/finish.

I haven’t mentioned it until now—and might not get into the full story yet—but some heavy stuff happened in my life recently. It changed how I approached this race. I wasn’t thinking about who I was racing. I didn’t even care. When life smacks you in the face, even a national championship can feel small. So I wasn’t worried about results or my competitors—I was just focused on doing my best. And honestly, that’s the best mindset you can have on race day.

That said, I still felt some pre-race anxiety. Not from pressure or nerves, just because I knew what was coming. XCO racing is intense. Every second counts. Every slide, every mistake hurts more in this format. And if you’re focused on results, that stress multiplies.

We were lined up in our start waves, and I was in a sea of strong, inspiring women. I knew so many of them. But I didn’t get a call-up, so I was the last to pick a starting position. I lined up all the way on the left, and when the whistle blew, I got squeezed in the first left-hand corner. Riders ahead cleared the turn, and I had to sprint on the straight just to squeeze into the singletrack in third.

I liked my position. Now it was time to race.

Pretty quickly, I realized I’d need to pass the second rider. I did, and now I was on the leader’s wheel. She was riding really well. I studied her lines and pace. Then we had the strangest conversation mid-race:

The rider asked, “Is that Beata or Kim behind me?”

I said, “Beata.”

Then she said, “You already won.”

I replied, “No… what did I win?”

She said, “Three days ago.”

I said, “Oh, you raced?”

She goes, “Yes, I was 1.5 minutes behind you.”

Ha. That’s when I realized how unaware I had been of my competition. She was the one chasing me down during the marathon while I was battling the worst cramps of my life. Honestly, I had a lot on my mind and hadn’t even checked the results.

Then she added, "You always beat me."

I tried to steer the conversation to something positive and said, “Well, you’re riding well.”

She said, “You are too.”

That was that. We got back to racing. I followed her closely through the flowy berms, then we dropped into the steep, slick descent to the creek. You really had to stay on your line here to hit the wet rock pile just right and drop down to the bridge. Then came the longest climb of the course—steep and relentless, eventually spilling you out onto the exposed asphalt with crowds cheering.

We were just seconds apart and dropped into lap two together.

Photo credit: https://www.instagram.com/snowymountainphotography

At times, I felt like I could go faster. I tried to pass her on the climbs a few times, but she accelerated each time to block it. Maybe on the fifth try, I finally got around her at the top and dropped into the singletrack in first. I even said “I’m sorry,” feeling oddly guilty that I might have cost her a win again. I was feeling hot but steady.

But I couldn’t shake her—not on flowy parts, not on descents, not even on the climbs.

Photo credit: https://www.instagram.com/snowymountainphotography

Then came a tricky rooty section. A younger rider in front was slowing, so I asked to pass. She moved right. As I was just about to line up for the roots, something hit like a freight train—she came flying by me on the left, so close she nearly hit my bars. I got knocked off my line and couldn’t clear the roots.

That was it. She was gone.

At the beginning of the first lap, a rider had flipped over the bars and tumbled way down the mountain, it was three of us going by, but by the time i was at the spot the rider was already deep down off the hill. Unsure how it actually happened. I had been the only one to ask if she was OK. I don’t know if it was the same rider trying the pass unsafely, but now it seemed possible.

She opened a gap. By the end of that lap, she had 30 seconds on me.

As I crossed the line again, the announcer said “One lap to go”— but we had been told we were racing four laps. Now I was confused. Was that call for me, or another class?

If it was the last lap, I had to give everything. If not, I couldn’t afford to blow up. So I rode the first part steady, then went full gas later. But I never saw her again. When I hit the top of the final long climb and emerged onto the blazing asphalt, it was obvious—this was the end. No more laps.

Just like that, the race was over.

Another second place.

I’ve lost track of how many silver medals I’ve gotten over the years at Nationals. Those were all strong finishes. Almost every time, it was good enough to win in another class—but not mine. And that’s racing. No guarantees. All you can do is keep showing up and giving everything.

It’s funny how stubborn we all are. How rare victory is. And still, we keep chasing it. Not all of us—but those of us wired this way. The ones who live for the fight. I always say: for a race to become the most brutal, soul-emptying battle, all it takes is one more person like you—just as stubborn, just as driven. It’s not about numbers. It’s about quality.

XCO isn’t my strength. I live for the long, slow burn of endurance racing. But once in a while, I throw myself into these short, intense fights. And even when I don’t win, I leave proud.

This week was long, hot, and emotional. I came out of it with a National Title and a hard-fought second place. I did everything I could. I raced with heart and grit—and I’m happy with that.

And right after I finished, the skies opened up. It poured. Buckets of rain just minutes after my race ended. The timing couldn’t have been crazier.

On the small stuff? I ate and drank well, got feeds from Pax, and loved hearing friends cheering me on.

Really huge prompts for Pax for setting up my bike as usual for the race and all that he does, even when he really shouldn't...

Bike rode super well, and I loved my fast wheels...

With Chad from Gulo Composites at Nationals.
How lucky I am to have them in Brevard!

Heat, Hecklers, and Heart: My ORAMM 2025 Ride

2025-07-30T18:47:00.001-04:00

ORAMM 2025 – 66 Miles | 8,900 ft Climbing | 6:47 hrs

2nd Place – Open Women

This year’s ORAMM was a wild one — record singletrack, mid-90s heat, and my third big race in just two weeks. But what a ride! Here’s how the day unfolded:

Start to First Feed

We rolled out fast, and I was in the front group of 30–40 riders. I checked my power — it looked good, and I felt strong. The thought crossed my mind: if I bail now, I’ll skip a long day of suffering. But I felt amazing, and my mind flipped — I was all in. All guys plus Madison made up the front group. Nick joked that the real race starts when we hit the gravel climb. He was right. That's where we began to separate.

Bernard Trail came early. I’d only ridden it once, just after it opened years ago. Back then, it was smoother. Now it had rocky, exposed features but still held some of its original flow. I didn’t know one of the climb lines — Boris and another rider passed me and cheered me on. At the bottom Pax was cheering too.

The Kitsuma climb was as usual painful and descent dry, dusty, and beat-up — but fun and techy, and I loved sending it.

Camp Grier to Deep Cove

Next, we entered Camp Grier’s new flowy trails — opposite direction from how I’d ridden them before. Somewhere here I had a train of guys sitting on my wheel. I asked, “Anyone want to pass?” and they said, “Nope.” I figured I was doing something right. At the second feed, I grabbed a bottle — and that’s when the first cramps hit. Only 3 hours in, and the heat was climbing fast.

Deep Cove was brutal. It was fun in the opposite direction last time, but today it felt never-ending — all steep, punchy climbs. We were crawling. I missed one climb and a guy nearby said, “Thank goodness — I needed a break!” It was that kind of suffering.

Camp Rock to Star Gap

After a gravel section, we turned into Camp Rock. I thought we’d just head to Star Gap via Jarrett Creek gravel. I asked Boris, “What the heck is this?” and he said, “This is hell.” He wasn’t lying — more climbing. It dragged on and when I finally popped out on gravel, no one from our group was around. I was alone and focused on reaching Star Gap and the next feed.

I started climbing and was okay at first, but then I ran out of water. On one narrow switchback I lost balance and fell back — bike pinned my legs. When I stood, both calves locked up in spasms. I had to wait, then reset my chain, and a rider from our earlier group passed me. But I managed to pass him back quickly. Still, I was overheating and seriously thirsty.

Heckler Section + Creek Redemption

Finally, I reached the top and the descent began. When I hit the Heckler section, I didn’t know the new lines — hadn’t ridden it in two years. I dropped in blind. My line was gone, and I ended up doing what felt like a track stand on the rocks. I dropped an F-bomb, the hecklers laughed, and I somehow managed to recover without crashing. People were cheering — and laughing with me.

Right after the rocky mess, I crossed the creek. I couldn’t resist — I dropped my bike and flopped belly-first into the water like a tadpole. It felt like heaven. Only lasted a few seconds, but it was everything.

Pax handed me cold bottles — plain cold water never tasted so good. I thought I was saved, but then my legs locked up again. Took a minute to get going through the spasms. We were now climbing Mills River Road, repeating Bernard and Kitsuma.

Final Miles

I rode Bernard alone. The paved climb back to Kitsuma was long and lonely. Over 7,000 feet of climbing and six hours in, my mind wanted to be done — a river finish would’ve been great. But instead, I still had to climb Kitsuma.

Even though I was cooked, Kitsuma’s descent still brought fun. I rolled toward the finish on the road, through the Old Fort. It was the longest ORAMM yet — and one of the most brutal.

Crossing the finish, I was so grateful to place 2nd in a super strong Open Women’s field. I knew we all suffered equally, and many friends had dropped out.

But seeing Pax and my friends, eating from @kchn_kitchen, and finally getting that long creek soak — those moments made it all worth it.

Reflections

I passed so many racers on the side: one said, “I’m just tired,” and I thought — me too. Another was cramping — me too. Another said they ran out of water — same. We all suffered. That’s bike racing. Your body screams to stop, but your mind overrides. That’s what I love most about endurance racing — it shows you strength you didn’t know you had. And it changes you in every part of life.

Southern Cross 50-Mile Gravel Race

2025-03-13T12:54:00.015-04:00

Southern Cross 50 Miles Gravel Race 50 miles, 6K of climbing, 3:22 hrs. 5th place finish in Open Women Category. Lining up at the start, I saw so many strong riders, most on gravel bikes, as expected for a gravel race. There were lots of teams, collegiate riders, and a record number of young racers, as race director Lisa pointed out, which was amazing. Around 50 women across all classes took on the 50-mile challenge, which is incredible. I knew I wouldn’t be fighting for the win, but I was ready for an amazing effort, a full-gas race, and the push that comes from riding alongside such a strong field. I set my eyes on the top five—last time I did this race two years ago, I placed 7th. You never know who will show up; you can end up on the podium or far from it with the exact same finishing time. This year, my time equaled last year’s winning time, but two years ago, it was only enough for 7th place.

Photo credit: dashingimages.com

The start was intense as a few hundred riders jetted down the swoopy, steep descent and into the painful climb out of the Montaluce Winery. Groups quickly formed on the road stretch. I had no chance of catching the first group; at least a couple of women disappeared with them, probably more. I was stuck between groups for a while until a small second group caught me, then a few more riders joined. I fought hard to stay, but I couldn’t consistently hold the wheel, drifting back and forth. I was the last rider hanging onto this extension of the front pack, with an endless stream of riders behind. Then we hit the first real climb—no more neutral rollout. The race truly began.

Photo credit: dashingimages.com

Finally, I was in my element—on gravel, on my hardtail Zerouno with Gulo wheels rolling so fast and smooth, I love my bikes. Within the first minute of climbing, I caught two collegiate riders. My countdown began. It took another 45 minutes of brutal climbing on Winding Stair Gap before I spotted another female rider. The rolling hills had turned into a relentless ascent. I passed a strong-looking racer from the front row, someone I had expected to be far ahead. That made three. The gravel became loose and dry, the climb steeper as I neared the first feed zone. There, I passed another strong rider—number four. After a quick bottle handoff, I hit a long stretch of rolling hills and a fast descent.

Photo credit: dashingimages.com

At one point, our race came to a near halt as 57 Jeep vehicles crawled up the middle of the gravel road while we were bombing down. I’d never seen that many Jeeps at once! Eventually, we spilled onto a few miles of asphalt descent. To my surprise, the fourth rider I had passed earlier flew by me on her gravel bike. A minute later, I was able to catch up and sit on her wheel briefly before we returned to rolling hills. That’s when the attacks started—repeated surges trying to drop me. I stayed patient, ensuring I didn’t lose too much ground. Soon, I worked my way back to her side. A quick exchange of words confirmed that there were four women ahead, meaning we were battling for 5th place overall. After that, I pushed forward and didn’t look back. This time, she didn’t follow.

Photo credit: dashingimages.com

Climbing my heart out to the second feed zone, I grabbed water and braced for the insane descent ahead. The course was torn up, with loose rocks, steep drops, and a hurricane-like wind making it even crazier. I sent my bike down like there was no tomorrow. The dust, speed, and wind made it impossible to hear if anyone was near. I was in full sprint mode for the final 18 miles. It’s a long sprint, one where effort management is key. I saw a few crash victims along the way and had no riders around me. Then, suddenly, I heard someone coming up fast—no way was someone passing me here! But it was a guy on a motorbike, giving me a huge cheer and a rad-on gesture before speeding off. That was both funny and motivating!

Photo credit: dashingimages.com

The last gravel sections had some punchy climbs that stung. Then came the long, endless-feeling stretch of pavement leading back to where we started. Everything felt like slow motion. A young rider I recognized from the start caught me. Earlier, he had joked about bringing marshmallows for a chill ride. As he passed, I asked, “So where are the marshmallows?” His turnaround and look were priceless—we both laughed. One last turn led to a grassy field, a muddy creek crossing, and a climb out onto gravel toward the finish. That final climb felt like riding through molasses.

I crossed the line at 3 hours and 22 minutes, feeling great. I hit my goal—5th place in an incredibly strong field, racing against road and gravel pros. Exactly what I set out to accomplish.

I saw familiar faces, made new friends, and soaked in the experience. I always do. No matter if it’s gravel or singletrack, the challenge of bike racing is always profound. You learn so much about yourself—not just what your body can handle, but how your mind processes pain, discomfort, setbacks, and surges forward. The moments that could break you but don’t. That’s the most amazing part of racing—the psychology of pain, turning it into something beautiful and meaningful.

Mountain Goat Adventures puts on phenomenal races, always well-organized and so much fun. I can’t help but keep coming back for more.

Uwharrie MTB Race – A Muddy, Wild, and Epic Ride!

2025-02-27T18:44:00.001-05:00

This was my first time racing in Uwharrie National Forest, and wow—what an introduction! The entire week had been brutally cold, and race day was no exception, with temperatures hovering at 30°F. Lined up in a massive 180-rider start, bundled in plenty of layers, I could feel my breath turning to weird stinging coldness as my lungs filled with crisp air.

The race kicked off fast, the leaf covered gravel road immediately sending us scrambling for position. With one female rider ahead of me, I kept pushing, knowing that the real race would begin once we hit the singletrack. Only 1.5 miles of gravel later, just before we dove into the technical Keyauwee Trail, I made my move and surged ahead.

This was the kind of trail I enjoy—bumpy, rocky, and raw, with small rock gardens, slick river crossings, and two massive rock faces covered in moisture and ice. Every line choice mattered. At one point, I glanced back to see that Sarah, who I had passed, had fallen behind—but Annie was right there, just a switchback away. She was charging hard, and before I knew it, she was on my wheel, eager to push the pace even more.

Despite the intensity, we still managed to exchange a few words in between laying down some serious watts! Annie chased me around with this awesome smile on her face! I loved it! When we hit a gravel stretch, she made her move, surging past me into the next trail—Wood Run. This trail was a whole different beast. It started out loose and pebbly, but then transformed into a peanut-buttery, tire-sucking mess. I had ridden it earlier when the ground was frozen, but now? It was a completely different animal, and I had no idea just how much worse it would get on lap two.

Somewhere in the middle of Wood Run, Annie had a bottle cage issue, giving me an opportunity to pass her back. I blasted through the feed zone, pushing into another fast, unfamiliar trail that led me straight into lap two—this time, with far fewer riders around.

With less traffic, I really started to enjoy myself. The river crossings, the rock gardens, the punchy climbs—everything just flowed. I caught myself hooting, and sending “yuppies” into the air, the way I always do when I’m truly in my element. My bike, now thoroughly caked in mud, tore through the slippery terrain, spraying chunks of earth into the air.

But I wasn’t alone. I knew I was being chased, and I still had to hold my lead. When I hit Wood Run again, it had turned into a full-blown mudslide. The switchbacks were insanely slick, and holding a line was nearly impossible. I had a rider right behind me, both of us making all kinds of ridiculous noises as we desperately tried to keep our tires down. It was hilarious and chaotic—the kind of racing that makes you laugh through the suffering.

Somewhere near the top of the climb, I spotted a beautiful plateau covered in blooming daffodils—a brief, surreal moment of peace before plunging back into the slippery madness. My bike was now so coated in mud that chunks were literally flying off into my face. The rider behind me shouted, “You’re a beast!”, and we both cracked up as we fought our way out of the muck.

Still holding a solid lead, I hit the final stretch, pushing hard but also just soaking in the moment—the challenge, the speed, the camaraderie, the absolute joy of racing bikes.

The day had been a battle—not just against my competitors but against the elements, the terrain, and even my own constantly changing body temperature. Frozen at the start, sweating on the climbs, chilled in the shade—I had never raced in so many layers, but for some reason, I just wanted to feel cozy out there. And cozy I was.

In the end, I finished in 2 hours and 33 minutes and took the win! 🎉

Next week, a new challenge awaits. And I can’t wait.

Return to Words: Capturing the Ride in Writing

2025-02-12T14:30:00.001-05:00

It has been quite a few years since I last wrote on my blog. I love capturing my experiences in writing—riding, racing, and the adventures that come with it. Even when I’m in a race, I find myself mentally blogging, holding onto key moments—the thrill of making a pass, catching someone, noting the time or mile mark. After all, we can’t remember every detail of a race, but those small, special moments stick with us. Like spotting the first blooming pink Redbud tree against the gray stillness of winter or noticing a tiny purple wildflower tucked beneath a familiar root I ride over lap after lap.

I love bike riding and racing. I love being in nature. Even after all these years, I still can’t get enough. Life got busy, and I stepped away from writing, but maybe it’s time to change that. The thoughts, emotions, and experiences that unfold during a race feel too special not to share. The excitement, the energy—it all begs to be put into words. But why? To self-express, to share the moment, the passion, to inspire? Maybe to remind others how incredible it is to ride, no matter your speed or results. The pure joy of riding often surpasses the pressures of racing. Racing brings its own stress and expectations, but do we all need to succeed? Do we need to push our limits just for a medal?

After all these years, I’ve come to believe that racing isn’t just about winning. It’s about the feeling—the burn in the legs, the fire in the lungs, the heartbeat pounding in sync with the rhythm of the ride. It’s about the shared smiles with fellow racers, the small talk on the trail, the cheers from the sidelines, the rush of clearing a drop that once terrified you. Mountain biking and racing bring both mental and physical challenges, but above all, they bring joy. For many of us, this is a way of life. It defines who we are. The constant pursuit of the next adventure, the preparation, the sacrifices—it’s all part of the journey.

Is it worth it? Who can say? Is it worth going to the movies, working in the garden? We each find our own passions, our own sense of purpose. Whether it’s photographing waterfalls, writing poetry, teaching yoga, or racing bikes and blogging about it, what matters is that it brings us joy. It’s about filling life with the things that matter to us, even if they seem insignificant to others. The things that come from your heart and mind—those are the things that make you whole.

Breck-Epic - Breckenridge, CO

2019-04-03T15:43:00.005-04:00

Breck-Epic - Breckenridge, CO - August 5-10

Champion - Team Open Women - Won 4 of 6 Stages and won overall by 5 minutes across 24 hrs / 220 Miles / 42k climbing

Teammate: Jennifer Moos aka Mooser

Write-up coming soon...

THE EPIC is a 6-day mountain bike race held in and around the backcountry surrounding Breckenridge, CO. Each stage begins and ends in town, allowing racers to stay in one place for the entire event.

2018 STAGE ORDER:

    Aug 5: Stage 1 – Pennsylvania Creek (Ice Rink/Carter Park) – 35 miles, 6000′

    Aug 6: Stage 2 – Colorado Trail (Lower Washington/B&B Lot) – 43 miles, 7200′

    Aug 7: Stage 3 – Guyot (Lower Washington/B&B Lot) – 41 miles, 8100′

    Aug 8: Stage 4 – Aqueduct (Lower Washington/B&B Lot) – 44 miles, 6300′

    Aug 9: Stage 5 – Wheeler (Beaver Run Parking Lot/Peaks TH) – 32 miles, 4900′

    Aug 10: Stage 6 – Gold Dust (Ice Rink/Ice Rink) 30 miles, 4800′

USA Cycling Mountain Bike National Championships - Snowshoe, WV

2018-12-06T12:45:00.003-05:00

USA Cycling Mountain Bike National Championships - Snowshoe, WV - July 17-22

1st Place - National Title!
Top 5 Overall

Products used: 2018 ZeroUno Ambizone HT built and maintained by Riders Only in Jupiter Florida. Spaziale Diamante Handlebars, Seatpost, 25mmID Wheels and Ceramic Bearings everywhere. Castelli Custom San Remo Speedsuit. NewSchwalbe Racing Ralph and Racing Ray tires 29*2.25. Extralite 70mm Stem. Magura MT8 Raceline Brakes with Storm SL.2 160mm Rotors. SquirtLube Chain lube, Sealant and Barrier Balm. ND Tuned OVR Front Fork. SRAM 12 Speed Eagle drivetrain. Rotor Kapic 170mm Crank with 30t Q-Ring DM. Limar Helmet. Oakley Prizm Radar sunglasses. SelleSMP Carbon Saddle. XpedoM-Force 8 Ti SPD Pedals. ESI Fit CR grips. Clif Gels and Electrolyte drinks. Garden of Life supplements. Removu S1 Gimbal and a Gopro 6 to record the race course. TrainerRoad to train with on my Cycleops Hammer trainer.

We woke up early morning in Vallnord Andorra, just the next morning after the biggest race in my entire life. Hotel had to set us up with a small temp breakfast before regular breakfast hours. It was really awesome of them to do this. Last few looks around on the cold rushing river and we were off. It was going to be a very long day…

First was a drive to Spain where we were flying out from Barcelona and were having a connection in Morocco. Normally we will go direct but that was the best flight to get us on the National Championships site as quickly as possible and as close as possible to it. The “short” connecting flight was a little bit of a nightmare. When we were reaching higher altitude, we got into extreme turbulence's, probably the worst I ever experienced. The plane was being thrown left and right and up and down with great force for an endless what felt like about of time. It didn’t look good and I had no idea if we can get through it. We were literally jumping and getting air off the chairs and feeling lightness and being smashed back and to each side. All the children on the plane started screaming their lungs out and parents were just grinding the teeth as I was. I was also about to rip my husband’s shorts off I was pulling so hard on the fabric. It lasted for way too long but it stopped, it eventually stopped. We still had a long journey and had to fly over Gibraltar. Since then I could not relax even for the smallest moment and pretty much was counting every single second during the flight. We were approaching Casablanca now and the sky was just brown. It looked as a dust storm with no clouds, just dusty brown air all the way up where the clouds should be and all the way to the ground. I didn’t know if that would mean it would be a really rough landing but thankfully it was alright. Then we had the next flight on a Dreamliner all the way to DC. Most of it went smooth until the last couple hours. It still didn’t mean I was able to relax because I wasn’t. When we got to DC it was late evening and we still had a 4-hour drive to SnowShoe. It was another bag of problems considering how tired we were now. The dark, narrow, twisty mountain roads, sky full of billions of stars and our shutting down and over exhausted brains. It was really rough and we had to stop a few times just to pull ourselves together. Then we collapsed finally arriving sometime mid night at the race site.

This is exactly why I was not sure how good of the idea it was to even come here straight from Andorra instead of simply not racing at Nationals. 26 hours straight with no sleep, big time change and all this stress and travel. Not even to mention I just raced two days back in Europe the most important race in my life so far. But we went for it not knowing how my body will handle it and now we are here.

The next morning, I did my pre-ride and saw everyone out there. Track was very similar to what we had last year, minus the crazy rain at the moment, but it did rain the day before so whoever pre-rode yesterday was playing in mud. For me only those very shaded and my least favorite rooty sections were still wet, everything else was good to go.

I was different this time around, not the track but me. I actually didn’t hate it as much, I felt strong and confident on my least favorite section and made sure I can clear all those piles of slimy roots. The rock section toward the end didn’t bother me at all actually and I kind of enjoyed it. Everything in between was pretty fast, one super fun downhill section with berms that we all enjoyed so much last year and of course the climbs. For some reasons it felt like there were more of those this time around but really after what I saw and raced overseas those were really quite insignificant to me, almost like rolling hills than actual climbs, they didn’t bother me at all. Toward the end of my practice ride I started feeling them however in my still tired legs and body and though that maybe it was too much of the good thing and I should have not even ridden that much. But it was all done now and I was very confident with the course and ready to roll.

The race morning did come really soon, thankfully this time our balcony was overlooking a section of the course so I could just ride out from our room… That was neat and saved some nice time. I warmed up on and off the course with Ali who will be doing her first national event. We got really lucky this year, the weather did hold and it was beautiful and sunny the whole previous day and no rain predictions for today, so the course should be just perfect.

We got staged some 10-15 minutes before race start and lined up ready to go.

Some people in my class got race nerves and showed up really on the last minute. Glad you made it to the start line Kelly! 😊

I felt pretty good considering all the crazy hassle to get here this week and I was really looking forward to just make it happen.

Even though it was the only National Title that was still missing from my collection and it seemed to be for me the most difficult of all to obtain I was not stressed at all.

I was focused, composed, determined and just simply ready. I even smiled hard with having my husband on the side before the start cheering me on and goofing it out a little and doing little kangaroo hops with his big camera pack that was bouncing with him up and down… Loved it! But it was a go time, now or never!

And we were off. Right from the start we were going to the uphill on the dirt and some grass which become steeper toward the top and would determine who will go first to the next fast part of the course. We were all very even along the way and on the last few feet or so I felt I had to push even harder to make a move. It worked out and I fought my way through the front and next big downhills with berms and fast gravel path that lead us to really awesome, flowy and fast section with few spots where you could get some air if you really wanted to. Then there was a gradual uphill, steep tiny climb that checked everyone’s legs and bike down to the most dreaded rooty section. It had to be at least 0.5-mile-long, but I never bothered to check, it simply felt long and way longer than that. I was doing really good here and knew that this is where I lost my race last time. I was not going to let it happen again and was aware I have to stay in front and if I do, I should be good for the remainder of the lap. I did hear definitely a set of wheels behind me but I didn’t know who it was. I just kept on being as efficient, smooth and error free as possible. I started passing riders in front from other classes, that was good. Some people would fumble in front and actually mess up my lines, or they would simply slide off the root and fall, put the foot down and all the good that is associated with this crazy section. This did affect my riding slightly but not that much. I cleared it all, did come out of those mean roots on the bottom of the dirty and still muddy double truck in the lead. I put down the hammer, there was no stopping me now. I felt strong, surprisingly really strong and was not planning to slow down any time soon.

I managed the climbs so well, the fun section was just a blast and it made me forget I was actually racing, the rocks were just an awesome challenge as well as little timed down flat man-made rock garden. It was all good. I did cross the first lap with a nice lead and jumped strong into the second. It all went pretty well again, more passes, more people that I knew from classes before. Throughout whole lap I rode with confidence and set pace that was powerful but not overwhelming, I was not going to trash myself here, I was just set on a very manageable effort that possibly could be bumped up if it was really needed. I just wanted to be steady. It was all working out really well. It was good to see myself going by so many riders in the XC race, usually in the past it would not be the case.

Being called queen of endurance had a reason, and also me trying to win the XC title for some time now and always being so close but never close enough had a reason too. I am more than happy to bring it all to this change, to the moment where I don’t have to look at the weaknesses and feel like I can’t do good in something because my body just doesn’t choose this distance as a preferred one. I decided to fight it off and make it also one of my strengths. It was definitely working and I for sure proved it just two days earlier in the massive and stacked to the roof race.

So here we go, we are on the second lap and it is a swap bottle time. Too bad my Pax decided to position himself nicely to snap a cool picture on the little rock garden which was unfortunately located few hundred meters down from the official feed zone. The sun was out and I really was getting thirsty and was looking forward the bottle and it didn’t happen. Now I went to final lap three with no drink and knew that the feed zone is sadly toward the end part of the lap. It did for sure occupy my mind for a long while, since I felt that I already had enough obstacles put in place for this race that really, I didn’t need another one. Being dehydrated, overheated on top of just plain exhausted and sleep deprived was just too much. But I had no choice but just stay calm, keep on working and look at the big picture.

After all it was a last lap and I had a good lead. I saw a lot of people struggling on the climbs, they were for sure getting to everyone now. Everyone was trying to just manage the energy the best way they could. What was funny when I was going through the rock sections there was a lady in pink in front and I don’t know why I kept thinking she somehow could be in my class. I was determined now to speed up and catch and pass her as soon as I could. By the time I got to her I smiled to myself realizing she was just completely different person from some different class who started at a completely different time than me long ahead of me. Either way my class or not I had to pass and from there coast to the finish line. On the way making two more spots overall in the process before crossing the finish line.

And finally, it happened! The history had been made once again and now the way I wanted it, the way I imagined it quite a few years back when we said to each other with my husband Pax. “How cool it would be to have three National titles in three different disciplines”.

So, it was that phrase that started this all, this little quest for something that only made sense, mattered to both of us and really no one else. And because we felt it was going to be cool when it happens.

And it did!

We attended the award ceremony at night and watched some other races. We admired the mountains, the views, the fresh air, the wildflowers around. Each time I looked I wish I could ride mountains more often.

We left home the next morning but it happened to be very overcast and rainy day. It makes for cool, gloomy and reflective right but sadly once again not for the best flight home.

For those who get bored with my plane travel complaints might end here but for those who enjoy my misery please continue!

We took off in DC and it started well, but it was not long into the flight when captain said “flight attendants take your jumpsuits” or at least it was what I heard. I saw flight attendant rushing by me to the back and was thinking that pilot has a great sense of humor and imagined it as some James Bond or Mission Impossible scene when everyone, by everyone I mean the whole crew will jump out on us and leave us here. Later on, we were informed that we were going through bad storm cells. Few minutes later captain announced “flight attendants take your jump seats”, since he said it some eight more times during the flight. It was clear now that crew was here to stay! Yey. But the flight was still too stomach turning. We were supposed to land in some 15 minutes and I didn’t notice us descending at all. I knew we supposed to be on the east coast over the Atlantic and when we pulled up flight data on our GPS we realized we were in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico! Holly cow, apparently, we were zigzagging and flying for an additional 45 minutes in order to avoid all the storm below. When we finally landed and started driving home it was an end of the world downpour that we had to drive through. We were told we were last plain allowed to land in Ft. Lauderdale and my neighbor told me that at our house there was a hurricane like storm and winds and she had no clue how we were flying in this and getting home…

But we got home, safe and sound…

The trip all over the world and back was eventful, exhilarating, exhausting, soul defining and something that will stay in our history books forever.

All of it is not an easy process and takes a lot to make it happen, but we could not have it any other way around. I am so happy that Team Mucha had another fantastic adventure under the belt!

Now it’s official, 4x National Champion!

Thank you to all of you who followed my crazy journeys and cheer me on!

Until next time!

Thank you goes to:

ZeroUno Bikes, Spaziale Compositi, Riders Only Bikes, Castelli, Magura, Removu, NDTuned, Limar Helmets, Schwalbe, Rotor Bike Components, Squirt Lube, SelleSMP, Trainer Road, ESI Grips, Clif, Xpedo, Garden of Life, Kuat Racks, Oakley, KMC Chains

2018 MOUNTAIN BIKE MASTERS WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP - Vallnord, Andorra

2018-07-30T18:11:00.006-04:00

2018 MOUNTAIN BIKE MASTERS WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP

- Vallnord, Andorra

Bronze, it's a Bronze! :-)

Race start and finish in beautiful Vallnord, Andorra

What a race! What an amazing adventure once again!

My whole season revolved around this one race. Long year, long journey, long distance to travel for such a short but powerful and meaningful event.

Cross Country mountain bike racing is hard. It always comes down to the smallest details, to the tiniest decisions made in the heat of the moment. Every second, literally every single one counts and you have to be as smart, composed and prepared as it gets.

I had my doubts within no doubts if I should be flying all the way to Europe to give myself one more opportunity to fight for a good finish on this wonderful course. Doubt had a few valid bases. One of them was that our XC National Championship event was moved from what supposed to be two weeks after Andorra to the same week as Andorra. It was planned out so badly that my race in Europe was taking place on Tuesday of the same week and my USA race on Friday. And considering the crazy time change and packing and repacking the bike and somehow getting there coherent and on time, it all was a big problem. How to even find connections that will bring me there on time without leaving here (Andorra) too early, just in case my race is postponed. Besides that, my finishing time last year was a solid 6th with me and Meaghan battling hard for the top 5 but also a deep understanding that top 4 was so far off our reach that it was not even encouraging in any way. You really have to be crazy or over optimistic to put yourself in the spot thinking you have any shot at the top 3, none the less the win. The no doubt part was simple, I wanted it. Like a little stubborn child, without any other better explanation or logical reason, this is simply what I wanted. Now I just need to figure out how to get it. And if you think you have a year to prepare and you have what seems like all the time in a world, you are so wrong. Time flies by so quick, especially if you want to be everywhere and do everything if you want to do all Florida State series than some South Florida series, then endurance series, some local trail building fund events and the list just keeps on going. It simply went by so quick that it felt weird and little terrifying.

I did my calculations, the most generous, optimistic, “I got this” way of thinking I could possibly assess. I took into account what I have learned from my previous race there. I was some 9 minutes back off the winner last time, Lorena Zocca from Italy, some 7 minutes back to all top 4 women. I was 11 minutes back from the former Olympic medalist Marga Fullana who wins this race overall every single year for 8 years in a row now. So, I thought of every little single section I did last time, I ran it all in my head how much time (seconds, it is all in seconds) I possibly could have improved by. The seconds started to add up. Whichever way I tried and it was not including any flaws or mistakes. That was this illusive the best-case scenario. I concluded I have a shot to be possibly 6 minutes faster. That is actually a lot and encouraging but that would still not put me in the medal position.

On top of that list of racers that I was going to go against this year was not something to not look at with a really good perspective. The last year winner and current world champion is coming back, the top 15 Olympian finisher will be in my class and the top 3 finisher from Vale di Sole two years back. There was more of course but those were already crazy strong and undoubtedly capable contenders.

We gave it a go, and arriving in the beautiful Andorra and seeing those mountains once again was just so fantastic. We watched a lot of racing days prior to my race from XCO to Downhill and met lots of top racers in the world and had a blast. But it was time to focus on my own race.

My racing machine Zerouno Ambizione Jade was ready to go and set up in the best components that we felt were suitable for this type of terrain and the race. Just two weeks before I swapped my group set to SRAM Eagle XX1, I just put a new Kapic crank from Rotor, brand new Schwalbe tires that just came out. The lightest and most aggressive Selle SMP saddle that I own. Everything was top notch. We even upgraded my fork to a NDTuned custom fork (First in the World) and that’s why I traveled with an extra wheel to fit the boost fork in front. I had plenty amount of time to practice with the new fork and get used to this setup.

I loved riding here. The course was mostly the same as last year but the start and finish area was slightly moved and therefore somewhat modified. I really liked the change, it added a steep long climb right from the gate which was followed by awesome bermy slalom like descent with some small jumps in it. The end included some fast-single track with steep and sketchy climbs. I enjoyed it last time but I truly loved it this time around. The course is so tough, so technical, so steep, so breath taking and so wonderful at the same time.

Race Day:

I was ready, I did my little warm up and went to staging. I was called out to the start line.
While I was standing in the first-row, a rider on the left of me looked down on my bar, which had a little scrabble I put on it the night before. She read it, smiled and said “but be smart”. I smiled back and told her that it was more something that simply makes me smile since it’s our internal joke from work rather that something to be taken literary. My bar said “Go fast and take chances”, I still smile when I think about it…Little that I know it was no one else but Kiara, former Canadian Olympian who will be winning this race overall.

Right before the start when we are just nearing a minute away there is this amazing and crazy beautiful and emotional, for me at least, music is playing, which suddenly stops and it sounds like a heartbeat right before we start. It is funny now but it is so incredible and powerful to simply just stand there and it is the hardest thing to keep your tears in check. The last thing you want to do is weep on the start line.

Pom, pom, pom, pom, pom and we are off! Straight to the turn and long gravel laden climb. I was in front with some of the fastest ladies out there on our beautiful planet. I was not going to let go off the gas and kept on fighting. I got to the first slalom descent in a decent position. Soon after the trail turned upwards and we were climbing again. This time around things hurt much more and no one is simply jetting away, it’s just impossible. Climbing here is real and altitude can be felt. Toward the top everyone’s legs start feeling like noodles but you have to keep going to the tiny descent that leads to the next, but very gradual climb, which just keeps getting steeper and steeper and has more funky roots. This is definitely the spot where you want to make sure you have legs to keep turning those pedals, skills and stubborn mind to keep on fighting and making sure you don’t make mistake.

Then comes a rock garden. After we clear that there was the only a stretch that seems quite leveled. Here I noticed I was not that far away from Lorena Zocca, last year’s World Championship winner from my group. I wondered if I will be able to keep my eyes on her and hopefully stay close on the next, very long and very technical descent called Rampage. To my surprise Lorena was for most of that part the same distance ahead, well until my bike decided to start flipping me over near some infamous bed of roots which were followed by steep small drops. I managed somehow and very quickly to catch myself from completely losing it and recovered really fast and despite the steepness, just clipped in and kept on going. I did come out of this section only a little below her. With each pedal stroke on the long and quite brutal Red Zone climb I was getting the gap smaller.

Than we went to a fast, grassy, another slalom like descent, feed zone 1 and one steeper climb ending with a big and steep descend to the forest. This section is pretty awesome, at times technical but mostly very fast, with big berms that turn into the technical La Massana climb. Lots of roots resides here, different lines and it does get steep. Not making a mistake here is a key and I actually felt very confident here and didn’t mind choosing the hard lines.

This is where I caught up to Lorena. After that, we had another even steeper and pretty long and narrow descent, which did flow into a really fast and rooty single-track that I adored. I was sitting on her wheel now, thinking when I will be making my pass. We have two really tough upward turns however coming up and I knew those were going to be tricky and everything needs to be as perfect as possible to make them with no mistake. I knew my lines and options well but didn’t expect or even think that the smallest root in this steep 180-degree turn would still be slippery. My back wheel slid off the root turning my bike completely and halting my climb. Putting a foot down here was the factor of losing those valuable seconds that will be so difficult to get back for the remaining of the race. That also opened an opportunity for the rider behind me to make a pass. Simply every little small second would and will count and the weight of any mistake is huge. My pass was not going to happen now and I lost my 3rd position. Soon after we were going through the famous NASA bridge, feed zone once again and to the finish.

We were all very close and I made my attack on the first climb again making a pass back toward the top, I took the harder line on the descent while the girl in 4th took the easier, somehow miraculously she did come out on the bottom of the next climb in front of me. Here we go again, now I know she is very good in descending and will be keeping that in my mind. I attacked the next grassy climb and passed her back. Climbing through the roots to the Cadellas natural rock garden was getting more and more brutal on the following lap. I knew I had to be here mind strong and even stronger on the descents. Red zone climb was getting now to everyone, and looking up you would see only, sweat, glare, and have no pray to see the end of it. It was kind of no point looking up, just put your head down and keep on grinding. Lap by lap went by and pretty much gaps stayed the same way between all of us. But they were so small that once again every single second was going to count and count big. I knew I have to stay really focused and powerful on all the climbs and could not make any mistakes, like completely any on anything else. The smallest mishap could cause not getting on the most important podium so far in my life. The pain in my body when I approached the rooty climb for the 4th time was indescribable, I simply looked to the side for a second and thought how amazing it would be to just faint or sit down and not have to keep on climbing. But instead I had to look inside and tell myself, Beata just one more time, and I gave all the energy I had mentally and physically to push through it and stay clear on all those vicious roots.

Going to Rampage was another concern and I was very comfortable with it, but knowing how technical this descent is you just never can count on everything going smooth, but when it does happen of course it is great. I had to have good speed here however since the girl behind was a good descender, coming out of there before her would be the key. I knew I can handle the climb and remainder of the course well. And it did happen, I was in 3rd and Lorena in 2nd was just 20 seconds ahead. My Pax was somewhere toward the top and said “2nd place is just 20 seconds ahead” I knocked my head as I did know and he said “just letting you know”. And I was completely aware of it and really played a little back and forth battle on the red zone climb with myself thinking if I should try to attack harder and risk not riding clean to the rest of the lap of the race and possibly sacrificing my position for greediness. Or to listen to my body and ride hard, ride on the edge of my limits but limits and efforts that I know I can handle. It was tough and I had to decide it really quick. I stayed at my pace, went down to the forest, slalom downhill, tough climbs, technical drop and the fast section one more time that ends with those two really tough turns and climbs. This was probably the most important part at this moment and key point of the race. If I pushed just a little harder a few minutes ago I would be very vulnerable of making mistakes here, that would cost me seconds, which could cost me a podium. Because I decided to race within myself and my limits I cleared the first one and soon after the second one flawlessly. Now I just had a grass stretch to NASA bridge for one more time and fast section to the feed zone and finish. I was standing up, pedaling now like there is no tomorrow, I felt like I had wings, I forgot how much pain I was in and had to endure to get to this moment. One more climb to the Finish and the Andorra Stage. I crossed the finish line only 25 seconds from Lorena Zocca, last year’s World Champion and 3x Italian champion. I won my first medal on the world stage. That was the most amazing feeling. Lorena, a few days later went to and won another Italian National Champion title when I was flying to WV to compete in my XC Nationals. The following week she won the European Title as well. Kiara Bisaro won the race and the whole event overall, she was so fast that she beat Marga Fullana, bronze Olympic medalist. What a company to race with…

So, it happened, I was not sure if I should be going and racing here but I did and by doing so I allowed myself to be able to stand on a World Championship podium and win my first ever medal.

From the left: Lorena Zocca, Kiara Bisaro and I.

Having a bronze in such an event against such strong competition and still have such a close race for second place was more than I could dream of. I ended up not improving as I calculated by 6 minutes but by full 9! I was not any longer 10, 11 minutes back from an Olympic medalist but only 2, woman that won this race overall 8 consecutive times. I was and still am proud of myself and how I handled this race. I could not ask for being stronger, composed, focused and determined that I was on that day.

It was truly the most amazing ending to my biggest, most ambitious, buzziest, biggest season ever. What I had planned after that was also going to be very hard but the pressure was thankfully coming down drastically here. I felt complete.

The award ceremony was fantastic. The time I spent with the ladies that I was racing and sharing the podium with was really amazing too. They are both very incredible women, strong, driven, talented but so kind at the same time. We become friends very quickly and I really cannot wait to see them again and race and ride bikes together.

This event not only brings the best talent out there but also the biggest passion and it really showed.
Winning this medal was not only a culmination and reward of all my work that I did put in for so many countless years. But what more important it was a win for everyone around me. For my husband Pax who is there for me supporting and sharing my dreams, to the point that they blend in and become our dreams. So, making it happen for both of us was really amazing and I am happy I could do it with him. It also applies to all my sponsors and supporters throughout the years, some being there for me from the beginning of everything, when I was just starting the race and we would share together all those moments and journey and ever-growing desire to dream big.

I fell in love with the mountains here, rushing rivers, wildflowers, changing weather…

It was really hard to leave Andorra so soon the next early morning after the race.

We had a nice small dinner with a group of friends in a little town tavern on the river’s edge. People do come here with big dreams and tons of hard work put in and it is a chance to really become friends with really great people.

We took a small walk up to the Nature park and the moment I started climbing, I kept telling myself just a little more and little more. I didn’t want to stop, I didn’t want to turn around. There is something so mysterious, rough, beautiful in those mountains.

Andorra will stay in my heart forever.

And we were able to make a little piece of history here…

Thank you goes to:

ZeroUno Bikes, Spaziale Compositi, Riders Only Bikes, Castelli, Magura, Removu, NDTuned, Limar Helmets, Schwalbe, Rotor Bike Components, Squirt Lube, SelleSMP, Trainer Road, ESI Grips, Clif, Xpedo, Garden of Life, Kuat Racks, Oakley, KMC Chains

Nino Schurter

Emily Batty

Jolanda Neff