If there’s one thing that is readily apparent about Queenstown, New Zealand, pretty much the moment you roll your bike out the door, it’s this: here is a place that doesn’t fuck around.

Photo: Sean Leader

When it comes to riding mountain bikes in Queenstown, there are two options. Option A encompasses the flowy, smooth park trails. You know, the wide ones with berms and jumps that make you go “Wheeeeeeeee” all the way down. We’ll call that one “Option Whee.” Option B encompasses everything else and it also makes you go wee, only it’s the kind without the “h” and it happens in your pants. This option is just really fucking scary. Queenstown doesn’t have much middle ground between Whee and Wee, which was a major problem for me when we were here last year because I literally could not make it down most of the Wee trails without falling over and generally losing my shit. This year I could ride almost all of the trails at the park (hurray for improving!), but I still spent most of my runs dragging my rear brake, pointing vaguely in the correct direction, hoping for the best and generally feeling like I didn’t know how to ride a bike. While this was frustrating at times, I think I learned a lot by riding outside my limits on pretty much every ride for a month. Here are a few key lessons:

1. I can do the things that scare me. Sometimes. Other times I just can’t, and that’s okay, too. If you’re pushing your limits on the bike (or really in any other aspect of your life), you probably understand this delicate balancing act. It’s good to face your fears head on, I truly believe that — that’s how you find out what you’re capable of. That said, I also believe that you can overdo it. Being scared 90% of the time is not really conducive to much of anything other than emotional and physical exhaustion. About halfway through our stay in Queenstown, I realized that I was feeling guilty when I took the easier trails down the mountain, that I had developed a sort of complex about pushing myself constantly, on every run. But at the same time I was also dreading taking the harder trails. I wasn’t looking forward to the challenges and I could too easily visualize hurting myself. So I dialed it back for a few days and tried to stop thinking of the easier trails as a “cop-out.” Afterall, there are plenty of things I can work on on flowier trails. I thought that when I returned to the black diamond trails that it would take me awhile to get back to where I was before — instead, I immediately felt more confident. I was riding faster and having more fun. Apparently, my brain just needed a break.

2. My epic-meter may need to be re-calibrated, a.k.a perspective is everything. Here’s a funny story for you: one day, we were doing a little mock race run (i.e. as fast as possible) down a trail I had never ridden before. Macky said the trail was “nothing special.” Halfway down I took a wrong turn and ended up on the steepest piece of singletrack I have ever ridden. Now, a normal person would probably think “oh hey, I must have taken a wrong turn because this is bloody insane.” But me? You can probably see this coming, but I assumed that this was Macky’s idea of “nothing special” and proceeded to throw a total shitfit on the side of the trail, and in the process convince myself that I was the worst bike rider in the history of the universe. Later we hiked back up and examined where I went wrong, re-rode the trail and determined that A) whoever built this trail was on crack, B) I am probably not the worst bike rider in the history of the universe (although I may be the worst navigator and follower-of-directions) and C) oh hey, this trail is actually pretty fun once you remove all the unrealistic expectations and mental baggage.

3. I can start thinking about my riding with a long-term perspective. Last year, when I started racing enduro I was filled with a frantic need to get faster IMMEDIATELY. I was desperately terrified of being last in the pro class, of people laughing at me, of it being painfully obvious that I had no idea WTF I was doing. I didn’t really know if I would continue racing. I half-suspected that racing as a pro would chew me up and spit me out, a dribbling mass of insecurities. But that didn’t happen. I hardly had a stellar first season, I often WAS last in the pro field and I really did have no idea what I was doing — but no one laughed at me and no one but me seemed to think I was wildly out of place.

And now I’m coming back for more, and if I’ve learned anything in the past year, it’s this: 90% of racing is showing the fuck up. (The other 10% is finishing.) This year, I have relaxed [somewhat] — I no longer feel the need to see measurable improvement every single day. And I am [at least most of the time] able to see how much I’ve improved since this time last year, and be proud of that. This has dramatically changed the way I ride. I’ve become [a little bit] better at at knowing when my brain/body needs a break (see point #1), and I’ve started to [generally] consider my riding/racing with a “five-year-plan” mentality. As in, I want to improve, and I will, but I also want to make riding and racing a sustainable part of my life. [As you can see from the bracketed commentary, this attitude is a work in progress.]

Although we only spent five weeks in Queenstown, the place pushed me to consider the role I want riding and racing bikes to play in my life. And despite the bruises and scars I collected in that time, I feel like I emerged more confident and more excited about the year.