I’m not crying, so that’s progress, I guess.

That was what was running through my head as I dumped out the contents of my pack on the side of the trail and searched for more tire plugs. The last time I flatted at Downieville (2014) I lost valuable time sitting on the side of the trail bawling my eyes out. But not this time. This time I was composed enough to even remember to put all the things BACK in my pack after fixing the flat and not leave anything behind on the side of the trail, which is a personal first. But while I was outwardly calm, inside I felt like I had been hung upside down and drained of any life force.

Not this again. Downieville, once again unraveling me like a cheap spool of yarn.

For the 363 days of the year that I am not racing in Downieville, I tell everyone this is my favorite race of the year. But on those two days…oh man, those two days… ‘scuse my French, but f*ck this race. It has one of the worst climbs of any XC race I done — an hour of exposed, hot, sweaty, AWFUL grinding — and the downhill course eats bikes for breakfast. Or, at least, it eats my bike for breakfast. Again and again and again.

This year’s sob story is a familiar one. A stupid but time consuming crash led to some frantic riding, poor line choice and a flat tire. My poor tire plugging skills led to yet another flat tire (or rather, the same flat tire, again), and there I was, digging around and hoping I had more plugs, knowing my race was over, but also knowing that I would still pick up my bike and pedal like hell for the remaining half hour, because, I guess, that’s just all I know.

I think any one who mountain bikes has had *that* race — that “oh shit this is what this is really about and I am completely unprepared” race. For me, that was Downieville in 2012. It was my first real mountain bike race and I thought I was hot shit because I had won a handful of collegiate races and I was moderately good at going downhill. And so, I showed up to Downieville with barely any training, a 100mm XC bike and literally no bike skills to speak of.

Let’s be real — I needed knocking down a peg or two and I got it. In fact, I got knocked all the way off the wall.

I was dead last in the expert category by an embarrassingly large margin, and I was devastated. I walked away from Downieville that year crushed and dejected, thinking I was awful at riding bikes and that I had no business racing ever again. Essentially, I quit before I even started.

And yet, I raced Downieville again in 2013. It was the only race I did all year (except for that Cat 2 XC race in Wisconsin where I ended up in the ER with severe dehydration, but that’s a story for another day – obviously 2013 was lit, bike racing wise). I wasn’t very motivated to race in 2013, but even then I had some inclination of the fact that Downieville had scared the shit out of me, and because of that, I needed to do it again. This intense need to confront the things that had broken me would become my driving force for the next five years. It would become the reason I raced pro, the reason I raced EWS, the reason I did every hard and ugly thing I have ever done.

My point is, I didn’t become a pro racer because I was talented, but rather because I thought I couldn’t. I didn’t come back to Downieville because I had done well, but rather because it threatened to crush my spirit.

And so, this past weekend, seven years after that first Downieville DH run, I got two flat tires and still beat my 2012 downhill time by 15 minutes. Fifteen. Minutes.

After this race, I had a moment of feeling bummed about this result and how it would look like I was “just slow.” And then I remembered I now have three shockingly poor Downieville results, two of which are due to mechanicals, and the third — that first attempt in 2012 — due to really just being that slow. Only, if you look at the results sheet from that race, I couldn’t blame you for thinking that I had I broken my bike in half and perhaps also been mauled by a bear.

You have to celebrate the progress you get, not the progress you think you deserve. If I deserved a clean, fast run down the Downieville DH, I would have gotten one. Instead I got a lesson in line choice and how not to fix a flat, and a reminder of how far I have come.

7 mini essays adapted from my BC Bike Race instagram posts and formatted for this blog

1. A week of contrasts

After 7 days of racing, each day has bled together in memory — deep forests, rock slabs, soul-crushing climbs, pain coupled with a deep sense of wonder, the sense of blindness going from bright light into the darkest woods — leaving a stark sense of great contrast.

THE GOOD – I did it. We did it. Macky and I finished on the podium of the mixed duo category every day and finished third overall. We couldn’t possibly have expected any more of ourselves and that is incredibly gratifying. We worked together well as a team and had so much fun rallying descents and digging deep.

THE BAD – two mechanicals, both inconveniently at the beginning of stages, left us hemorrhaging time and getting passed by 200+ people. You can’t possibly expect to get through a seven day race without some bad luck, but the timing on these was frustrating, as it left us fighting upstream past hundreds of racers on two of seven days. The first time we rallied. The second time I broke mentally and cried into my already fogged up glasses for the next 20k.

THE UGLY – I expected this is to hurt but I did not expect both my knees to flare up (after over a year pain free). I also did not expect to get sick on day four and race over half of this race with a nasty cold. The hardest part was neither the pain nor the sickness but rather the striking contrast of expectations to reality.

Photo: Dave Silver

2. The ice cream is free and so is the pain

Can you talk about a seven day mountain bike race without taking about pain? I mean, that is kind of the point, right? Right? As athletes there are certain kinds of pain we seek out by, say, signing up for a race like this. And then there are other kinds of pain that we flee from, that petrify us, not perhaps because of how much it hurts but rather because of what we fear it says. About us. About the future. My knee pain is the second kind of pain. I didn’t sign up for it, and the problem isn’t the pain but what it screams at me when I let it speak.

*You aren’t enough. You weren’t ready for this. You thought you had made progress but you were wrong. You are so far from being the athlete you want to be.*

This week, I ignored that voice. I held myself together with @rocktape and ice packs and a whispered mantra “IT’S ONLY PAIN, IT’S ONLY PAIN.” Because, while I am afraid of failure and being kept away from doing what I love, of not making progress, of not meeting my goals – I am not afraid of pain.

And it was only pain. I didn’t blow up my knees. Three days of rest and they are fine again. I have made progress, just perhaps, not quite enough progress to climb 4000+ feet a day for seven days in a row pain-free. (Which now that you mention, sounds like an insane thing to expect).

3. Turn your liabilities into assets (and vice versa)

Wet roots. My nemesis. Or not? Trying XC racing this year has turned my skillset on its head. In enduro racing, I excelled at physical stages and long days. I was “fit.” On the flipside, I struggled with more technical sections, jumps, and, of course, Anything Wet. This gets capital letters because I have always thought of myself as a terrible wet rider. And not without justification. I live in New Mexico. It is almost never wet. The last time I raced in BC (before this past week), was the 2015 Crankworx EWS in Whistler, where it rained two inches between practice and race and I tore my hamstring in the first corner of the first stage. That was not a good day.

But it’s funny how our identities — those things we cling to and say we are GOOD and BAD at — are so determined by the lanes we are in. In enduro racing, I was fit. In XC racing, I get passed by an endless stream of riders on the climbs. In enduro racing, wet roots made me come unglued. At BCBR, the days with the most slimy, nasty wet sections were my best. Because, by god, while these may be technical XC trails, they are not EWS whistler (or Rotorua or Tasmania or any of the other awful wet EWS races I subjected myself to over the past 5 years). Perspective allows you to redefine your weakenesses.

One of the guys we passed on a nasty, rooty downhill caught up to us on the next road climb. “Where are you from?” he asked. “You were hauling on those wet roots.”

“New Mexico,” I said. Perplexed, he shrugged and then sped past, leaving me to wonder if he was on an e-bike.

Look carefully… Photo: Dave Silver

4. You can do anything for seven days (or, the hardest day)

Day 4 was the day I wanted to quit, and this is the paragraph I didn’t want to write. I always knew I would finish this race (because finishing is, perhaps, my only real stand-out strength as an athlete), but when I woke up sick on the morning of Day 4 — four more days, the biggest days, yet to come — that was the hardest moment. Not because I didn’t think I could race sick, but because it just wasn’t how I wanted this week to go. It just wasn’t how I had imagined it. It just wasn’t *fair*. But life is not fair, and germs do not care that this is your biggest week of the year.

I have always been good at gutting things out. I didn’t learn that from being a professional athlete. In fact, if anything, my career as an athlete has taught me how to quit. Or rather, how to make calculated decisions for future gain. How to pull out of a workout when I can’t make my power numbers. How to pull out of a race when I’ve hurt myself and there is nothing to be gained. These were difficult lessons to learn, and this past week I ignored them all and returned to my instincts. Gut. Grit. Grind.

Because here’s a truth: you can do anything for seven days. It’s only a week. And you can race sick, and maybe even race well. Should you? Probably not. But you can. Oh yes, you can.

Photo: Lorenz Jimenez

5. Love and team

The previous essay is a bit of a downer, so let’s talk about a big positive. Now that I think about it, these snippets are a lot like stage racing, wildly careening from high to low, day to day. Someone told me this week that everyone seems to alternate from good day to bad day at a race like this and that proved true for me.

One thing that did remain constant was Macky’s support. When people asked me what our team strategy was — was one of us faster on the climbs? Did we split up? — the answer was basically “Macky is better than me at everything so he just hands me food.” It is a remarkably selfless thing to do, what Macky did this week.

Not many people would be willing or able to race for seven days at 75% their normal race pace (we’ve calculated this). I’m not sure I could. I think I would be resentful and antsy, but not Macky. Macky made sure I ate every 20 minutes. Macky pulled on every flat road (much to the joy and mild confusion of everyone around us). Macky stopped at aid stations and filled up my bottle and then sprinted to catch up. And on day 7, he started literally pushing me up some of the hills because all dignity is lost in love and war, and this was a bit of both.

People asked if we were going to need marriage counseling after this race, but the truth is we didn’t fight once, probably because I was too buried and he too kind. This week taught me to embrace a level of dependence I would usually refuse to accept, because if I didn’t, well, I was just wasting his time, and the sacrifice he had made. Perhaps dependence was the whole point of this team-racing thing.

So should you do a seven day race with your partner? Probably not, but I’m so glad I did.

6. Stop and smell the roses… or race?

Can you truly appreciate the natural beauty of a place like British Columbia during a race? Can you really enjoy an amazing singletrack descent at hour three of an XC race?

The prevailing wisdom is that you can’t and there is some truth to that. I don’t have very clear memories of most of the trails we rode this past week. I also have, over the years, developed an impressive race tunnel vision that allows me to tune out spectators, (even the ones wearing giant inflatable dinosaur suits, even the Mounties in full regalia), as well as other racers and regrettably, course markings. This was a survival mechanism at EWS races, but seems a bit of a shame at a race like BCBR.

“Did you notice the Canadian Mounties?” Macky asked me after stage one.

Me: there were HORSES?!

Macky: no, just, nevermind…

But while I may not remember every trail, or even which day we raced what, and I may have missed the mariachi band and the hula dancers and very nearly missed the giant black bear hanging out of a tree right above my head on Day 7, I do feel like I experienced every trail I rode in the moment that I rode it. What I sacrificed in memories, I gained in full engagement in the present.

Perhaps this is my racer bias, but I can’t help but feel that this is how these trails want to be ridden. Full focus, full commitment. These trails don’t want you to stop for photos. They don’t want you to session. They want you to suffer for them, bleed for them, cramp for them, give up every last drop of energy to ride them the way they were meant to be ridden.

When you’re racing you don’t see every tree, you don’t have time to revel in the sweet, damp moss that covers the forest floor (I only know it was there thanks to photos like these), and yes, you miss a lot of views. But you don’t need to see, because you are feeling, and you don’t need another mountain view, because you are getting a deeper view into your soul.

Photo: Todd Weselake

7. Hard work pays off

I signed up for BC Bike Race one year ago. 365 days before I would race it. Possibly the earliest I’ve ever committed to any sort of athletic endeavor. When I signed up, I had done one XC race in the past five years. I don’t remember my coach’s exact reaction, but I suspect it was something along the lines of “…..*long pause* …. you do realize we’re going to have to change some things?”

I will fully admit that when I signed up I had very little concept of just how hard BC Bike Race really is. I don’t think I understood that there are people who have raced XC for years who still think “hmm BCBR, I don’t know if I’m ready for that.” Let’s just say this: it was really f*cking hard.

But because it was so hard, it was good test of the work I have put in over those 365 days to transform myself into, if not an xc racer, at least a mountain biker capable of surviving 7 days of xc racing in British Columbia. And yes, we did have to make some changes to the training plan — longer rides, 40 min hill climb “intervals” (oof but I am so thankful we did these!), bigger training blocks — but those changes worked. In fact, they worked even better than I would have anticipated. I gained a huge amount of fitness this year without making any huge sacrifices to the kind of riding I like to do, and best yet, I feel like this is just the beginning.

The moral: if you want to tackle something big like BCBR, don’t be afraid to “change some things.” Start with small changes for big results. And get a smart coach like Mike who goes “so you wanna do one of the hardest xc races on the planet as your first xc race? Let’s see what we can do.”

Here’s a revelation I had recently: it’s time to get over the expectation of thinking I “should” be able to ride everything at an enduro race without being scared or intimidated.

When I first started racing enduro, I had this vision of a future where I would be able to show up at any race and just race. You know, focus on going fast instead of bugging out about one feature or another. Back then I did a lot — and I mean A CAPITAL LOT – of bugging out over things, partially because my skills weren’t that great, and partially because I was just prone to bugging the eff out.

here are a few rocks that stressed me out once

Over the past five years, I have improved exponentially both skills-wise and mentally, but an annoying thing has happened — as I’ve gotten better, so has everyone else, and the courses have gotten more and more challenging. Enduro was a bit of a baby sport in the US back in 2014 and that’s the problem with being a baby racer in a baby sport: it grows with you.

As I got better, enduro courses got harder, and yet still, my expectation of being able to ride everything confidently grew and grew. After all, I had been doing this for so long, why was I still bothered by this rock or that jump or what have you? Shouldn’t I be over all that? I am realizing now that judging myself by this moving bar was probably a huge factor in the burnout that nearly drove me away from racing in 2017.

Last year, as you know if you’ve been following this blog for awhile, I changed my approach to racing. While this was a good thing in nearly every way, I didn’t push myself much skills-wise in 2018. This was okay — necessary even — and despite (or perhaps BECAUSE OF) not “pushing myself” I still made some huge strides with my technical riding. But the reality is that most enduro races I did in 2018 did not push me too far out of my comfort zone technically. I actually could race everything and I had very few moments of freaking out over a certain feature. Until, of course, I went to a few Enduro World Series races at the end of the year and managed to absolutely LOSE MY MIND over one particular rock section in Finale Ligure. A sign that perhaps, despite a much better year, this particular mental pattern was not completely behind me.

Fast forward to this past weekend, pre-riding for the Grand Junction Grand Enduro, when I found myself on the very cusp of a meltdown. There was a rock A-Line I didn’t want to ride. But more than not wanting to ride it (because I was fairly certain I could ride it, I just didn’t like it), I didn’t want it to be on the course. I didn’t want to have to face it and the fact that, after all this time, all these years, all this skills work, I still am showing up to regional races and balking at technical features. I didn’t want to face the fact that I still have not arrived at that point where I can show up at a race and just race and not be so damn intimidated by a pile of rocks.

I rode the line and it was fine, but I was unhappy about it, an unhappiness that I have to admit had nothing to do with my skills or that line, and everything to do with my expectations and what I think riding certain features says about me. Later I got to thinking, and I realized something: what if I was actually able to let go of that expectation of being able to riding everything easily and without being intimidated? What if that wasn’t the goal? What if I showed up to enduro races not just accepting but seeking that challenge? What if I saw that challenge as the WHOLE DAMN POINT, instead of seeing it as this ugly part of the experience that shows how unprepared and unworthy I am of being a pro racer? What if I completely let go of of the idea that I will ever be able to show up to an enduro race and not be scared of at least something?

I say I am in this bike racing thing for the challenge of it. What if I lived that?

This weekend I raced my first ever XC stage race, the TransRockies Moab Rocks. Since Macky and I will be racing BC Bike Race as a duo team later in the summer, our coach Mike suggested we do Moab Rocks as a trial run, and we were like, yeah that makes a lot of sense. After all, doing an 8-day race as your first ever XC endurance race is probably a bad idea. (We were also like, wait what, you ride all the way up the ROAD to Porcupine Rim? Send help).

I came into this race with zero expectations (or at least very low ones) for a few reasons. One, I was going to be racing a trail bike not an XC bike. You know, run what ya brung, etc. Two, this was very much a training race and we did several big rides in the week leading up to the race. Three, I’ve never done a race like this before and had literally no idea what to expect from my body much less the results sheet.

Photo: John Gibson

In the past, I probably *still* would have had some high expectations, but I have become a lot more realistic over the past two years. When I made the decision to move away from enduro and try some endurance races, I fully anticipated that my xc debut would be as ugly as my enduro debut — hello 2014, when I was DFL in almost every pro enduro race I did! Only this time, unlike in 2014, I was going to do myself a favor and not expect myself to be immediately successful at something I had never done. (Imagine that!)

So, for Moab Rocks? No expectations, just an opportunity to go hard and, if everything else failed, make myself a little fitter.

And so, here we are, once again arriving at the conclusion that expectations are the devil. I’m starting to think this is why I have been so drawn to trying new things as an MTB racer — because I’m so damn tired of not meeting my own (highly unrealistic, wildly high) expectations. If I keep putting myself into new situations, maybe *just maybe* I can get through a race without my brain ruining it for me.

That’s what happened this weekend. I just rode my bike. Macky and I rode together to practice our strategy for BCBR. He learned not to sprint off the start line and I learned not to ask questions I don’t want to hear the answer to — like “how many miles left until the top of this mother-effing hill?” We had fun. We went super fast on the descents (in spandex none the less). We rode through a blizzard on a trail called Alaska. I absolutely buried myself on the flat technical riding that used to be my absolute nemesis but now, maybe, after a winter of gym work and Riprow, is more of a strength than a weakness.

Photo: John Gibson

Whatever my expectations or lack thereof, I definitely surprised myself. My enduro fitness transferred WAY better than I would have anticipated to this type of XC race (there were lots of rocks), and my 130mm trail bike ended up being the perfect weapon. I even found myself on the podium for the second day (completely accidentally, mind you, because I had no idea there were only two women ahead of me) and 5th overall at the end of three days. I’m really pleased with this, but mainly I’m pleased that I had fun racing my bike for three days in a row.

If you want a blow-by-blow of each day, check out my instagram, and/or stay tuned for the first vlog, which will drop on the Syd and Macky Youtube on Friday.

Photo: Jean McAllister

I published these as daily posts on my Instagram account, but I decided to repost them here for those who aren’t on social media (or those who want to read them all in one go). Enjoy!

Andes Pacifico Day 0 – This was the view that greeted us when we arrived at the first race camp outside of Santiago, Chile. The excitement was palpable as 110 racers searched for their tents, assembled their bikes and got to know one another in a mishmash of languages, primarily English, Spanish and Portuguese. 18 nationalities, but only one universal language needed — love of MTB. The evening was a blur of meeting new friends and feasting on a Chilean parrillada (BBQ) at 9:30pm ( this is early for Chile, btw), while also trying to puzzle out the logistics for the first race stage of the season the next morning. Where do we fill up water? When do we get timing chips? How do we possibly sleep on these cots? Is this snoring going to go on all night? Etc. Etc. I didn’t feel like I was nervous, but maybe I was, because I barely slept at all, tossing and turning and stressing about the next day’s stages, which I knew would be some of the most challenging of the week. I think you could say I was just a *little* intimidated by the infamous anti-grip.

Photo: Dave Trumpore / Pinkbike

Andes Pacífico Day 1 – La Parva Ski Resort above Santiago. 12,000 feet above sea level. Epic moonscape and axel-deep anti-grip dust and sand. Some of the world’s sketchiest trails (according to me). This was the only day where I would have any familiarity with the trails, because two of the three stages were ones we raced in 2016. Did this help me? Nope, instead it turned me into a nervous wreck as I recalled helpful tidbits like “oh this is the stage where I was terrified the entire time and I went OTB into the bushes at least three times!” But a lot has happened since 2016, and I found myself far more capable both mentally/emotionally and skills/fitness wise to tackle the Chilean anti-grip. I still had to get off and walk a section on the second stage, and I still had to stop and rest my hands during the third stage — the relentless Festival de Curvas — but I avoided any major crashes or issues. Both of these stages dropped around 3000 feet (yes, EACH) over 3-4 miles and took me close to twenty minutes per stage. And yes, I spent the entire time on my brakes and burned out both my front and rear brake rotors IN ONE DAY, and yes, I definitely felt a little rusty on these descents after a winter spent on the road bike. But, I also felt good. I also had fun. And I finished the day with a smile on my face and sitting in 5th place. I knew I had ridden conservatively, and that I probably could have gone faster in many places, but I also knew that I needed that positive, safe experience to set myself up for the rest of the week.

We finished the day at 4pm — plenty of time to enjoy a Chilean Completo (hot dog with avocado, tomatoes and other toppings!) and sit in the creek. Little did we know that this would be the last time we would have any time whatsoever to relax after the race day. The rest of the week would be full on, full time.

Day two, where fashion concerns go to die.

Andes Pacífico Day 2 — Nido de los Condores (Condor’s Nest). This day began with a steep hike-a-bike and yet another twenty minute stage. Usually I love long enduro stages, but I will admit that I began to yearn for short stages, or at least some pedaling or flat sections where I could let go of my brakes for 30 freaking seconds without dying. My arms and hands were in so much pain by the end of this stage that I was simply hanging on for dear life. I played cat and mouse with Vale, catching her on the climbs, only to have her come flying past me while I extracted myself from yet another prickly bush. This was definitely my hardest day, and my hardest stage of the race. I simply could not get my act together and I finished feeling pretty discouraged. Luckily (sort of?) we had a long break after this first stage while we were shuttled up the next stage. Two and a half hours of steep, cliffside, jeep track made this the most epic shuttle of my life (only to be topped later in the week). Luckily our driver, Jose, was up to the task, so I was only terrified when I unwisely peered over the edge. One of the trucks ahead of us exploded a tire and since the road was too narrow to pass, we all had to wait while they fixed the flat. We didn’t end up starting the last four stages of the day until past 3pm. However, by this point, I had forgotten my decimation on the first stage, and I really enjoyed these stages. They were moto trails, so lots of whoops, bumps and high speed sections. The flatter, fast sections allowed me to get off the brakes and rest my hands, which made them much more enjoyable. We finished the day at 8:30 pm and the race organizers greeted us at the bottom of the final stage with empanadas. Then we all piled into the trucks to drive to the next campsite. We arrived at 9:45pm, just in time to grab a quick shower before dinner at 10:30 (still early for Chile). By this point, both Macky and I had given up on the cots, and started sleeping on the ground with a deconstructed bike box as a mattress. We slept great, thanks for asking.

I was too tired to check the results, which was probably good, because my first stage drama had caused me to slip back into 6th place.

Andes Pacífico Day 3 – Valle el Arpa. Another epic day in the mountains. First, we jumped in the trucks and drove for 2 hours on rough roads to a high alpine refugio. Only then did we begin the 3.5 hour transition. The first 45 minutes required carrying bikes on shoulders and scrambling over rocks to a distant saddle, that naturally turned out to be a false summit. So did the one after that. Aaaand the one after that.

A group of Chilean huasos (cowboys) drove a herd of free-range horses through our midst, a bizarre clash of modern and ancient forms of transportation. And at this point it was pretty clear whose method was better suited to the terrain (hint: it wasn’t us). After three hours of pushing our bikes, we arrived to what felt like the top of the world. Although, to be fair, it didn’t really feel like this world at all. More like Mars or some other galaxy entirely.

We started the first race stage at 4pm. Yes, 4pm. These were my favorite stages and my best day of racing, which is, I think, a testament to the resiliency that I have developed over the past 5 years of enduro racing. There was a time when starting at race day at this hour and knowing we wouldn’t finish until practically my bedtime and that we would have to get up the next day to do it all over again would have thrown me for a serious loop. And yet, these stages — fast, rocky, lots of punchy climbs — ended up being my best finishes of the race. I was 2nd on the first stage, 3rd on the second and although I encountered some traffic and minor crashes on the final stage of the day (6th), it was enough to move me into 4th overall. I finished the day stoked, exhausted and ready to pass out on my cardboard mattress. (We slept great, thanks for asking).

One of the many, long, dusty shuttle rides.

Andes Pacífico Day 4 – Valle Hermoso. Out of the Andes and into the coastal range. Smaller mountains, spikier plants and much hotter temperatures. This day was a mixed bag — it had my favorite stage of the entire race (the rocky, fast second stage), but it also had what felt like a totally inane amount of time spent in the trucks, lumbering up terrifying jeep roads with death-defying cliffside switchbacks. At one point our truck got stuck and we all had to rock back and forth to help the wheels gain traction. I started to wonder if maybe I was in the wrong sport when I realized I would have rather ride up some of these hills TWICE than ever go up them in a truck again. Thank goodness I’m racing BCBR later in the year, a race that is sure to knock that silly notion out of my head.

Despite feeling antsy with the shuttling and the waiting, I have to admit that these were some of the best stages of the race, and that at the end of the day it was worth it. And it was also some of the best racing I have ever done. I’m not sure why, but I felt calm, collected, and fast. The aches and pains I felt in the beginning of the week began to resolve themselves. This magical feeling of adaptation mid-race — that moment when you turn the corner and you feel like you could do this indefinitely (eat sleep ride repeat repeat repeat) — that is the appeal of stage racing. That is why I do this.

Considering AP 2020? Bring a sleeping pad and a long sleeve jersey.

Andes Pacífico Day 5 — Zapallar/Cachagua. The final day. Both Macky and I woke up grumpy and out of sorts. Even though we had developed a good routine over the past few days, everything seemed to take longer and we struggled to get to the shuttles on time. Yesterday I had felt like I could keep racing forever — but now, not so much. I realized that, while the result for this kind of race is truly irrelevant, I really did want to hold on to my fourth place finish. I had a 3 min gap to 5th place, but I also knew that anything could happen.

And I was right to be concerned, because things went haywire on the very first stage. A minor crash in the first few minutes of the first stage pulled out my dropped post cable, leaving me with a post that went down when I sat on it and up when up I stood up (i.e. exact opposite of what you want). I panicked for a moment, and then decided to just go for it. Full XC on a steep, sketchy loose stage. And you know what happened? Nothing. I mean. It was terrifying. But, thanks to Lee McCormack’s voice in my head going “HIGH HINGE HIGH HINGE,” I barely lost any time at all. The final stage was a straightforward sprint to the beach and then it was all over, and yes, for what it’s worth, I kept that 4th place.

We jumped in the Pacific ocean, compared tan lines (sunburn lines, let’s be real), gave out so many hugs, drank a piscola (#onepiscostillnodisco?), ate what felt like an entire cow and fell asleep to the thumping of the speakers. It was glorious. It was just a race, and yet… You live a lifetime in five days at a race like this, and forge the kind of new friendships that usually take years. Could it really be the end, just like that?