This Is What Progression Looks Like

Posted on November 15, 2017 by Syd Schulz

A few weeks ago, I stood at the top of the infamous Graveyard section at Angel Fire Bike Park for what felt like the 100th time.

Ol’ Graveyard and I go way back. The first time I rode it was in 2013, in my first ever enduro race, when I took a wrong turn in my race run, failed to notice all the “extreme,” “experts only” and “FREERIDE” signs and bumbled halfway down it on my 120 mm xc bike. Then I walked/down-climbed the rest of the way in tears because for f&cks sake, if this was enduro, COUNT ME OUT.

Fast forward to 2015. My second attempt had several things going for it — 1) it was on purpose, 2) I had just gotten a downhill bike and 3) I was wayyyyy better at riding bikes than I had been in 2013. But still, no dice. While it was not nearly as traumatic as the first attempt I did manage to tip over at 0mph and scratch the stantions on my brand-new, sparkly DH bike so soooo much for that.

2016. I didn’t attempt Graveyard until the end of the season. Looking back, I can see that I was mentally fried. I needed the mental boost of riding a new section, of accomplishing something – ANYTHING – so I went to Graveyard, and well, maybe you can see where this is going, I failed. Over and over again. I didn’t crash but I would get to the same spot and I just wouldn’t be able to do the last committing move. I was going too slow. My brain was just refusing to let me commit. Graveyard was my barometer, my measuring stick, how I judged my progression — and by that gauge, I had failed. And because it meant so much, it was more than a failure, it was a mandate on my lack of my progress and my hopes and my dreams and kind of everything. It was a harbinger of how my off-season was going to go — a lot of standing at the top of features and crying and saying “I can’t.”

A lot happened between that failed attempt in 2016 and a few weeks ago. A rough season filled with crashes and illness and other disappointments drove all thoughts of Graveyard from my mind. It came up a few times — a friend telling me he would never ride it on a trailbike. Another friend (and a good rider) telling me he thought it was a stupid and dangerous trail. Slowly, it started to occur to me that not riding the hardest trail on the mountain, the trail that almost nobody bothers to ride, was maybe not as big of a deal as I had thought. I finished 2017 even more mentally destroyed than I had finished 2016, but then I did something different — instead of turning to the bike, and Graveyard, for confirmation that I had progressed, that I was good at riding bikes, that I wasn’t a failure, I stopped looking for that confirmation at all. I took a month away from the bike and any sort of training. I radically altered my coaching program and my plans for the off-season. I started seeing a sports psychologist. I slept a lot and I read mystery novels and I worked on our new van and I went for hikes and, basically, I stopped giving any f&cks about little 100 meter long trail called Graveyard.

In fact, I forgot it even existed until our second to last lap on closing day when I thought, hey, maybe I should go look at that trail again, because hey, why not.

And so, there I was, standing at the top of Graveyard for the 100th time, except this time I was thinking “why on earth was this ever difficult? It’s just a little pile of rocks.” And then I rode it perfectly a few times because hey, why not and then I went on with my day.

I am not a dramatically better rider now than I was a year ago. I wasn’t able to ride this trail because I acquired some new skill or did 100 push ups in the gym. I just stopped trying to force myself to progress. I stopped thinking that riding Graveyard meant anything more than riding just another run-of-the-mill rock garden.

We’ve been thinking about progression all wrong. Progression is not overcoming fear. Progression is not forcing yourself to do things that scare you. Progression is not standing at the top of a trail feature and banging your head on the ground trying to get yourself to do it. Progression is the opposite of all that. It is the total absence of fear. It is looking at a section that used to scare you and wondering “what was the problem?” It is someone asking you “what did you do on that steep, gnarly section?” and you thinking “what section?”

You can’t force this kind of progression. The harder you try to tear it out, the more elusive it will become. It’s like the creative muse in this quote from Stephan King’s On Writing:

[The muse is] a hardheaded guy who’s not susceptible to a lot of creative fluttering…Your job is to make sure the muse knows where you’re going to be every day from nine ’til noon,` or seven ’til three. If he does know, I assure you that sooner or later he’ll start showing up.

Progression is the muse. You have to put in the work. You have to show up. And then, you have to be patient.

You can’t force progression. You can’t order the muse to show up and make it easy for you. You just have to be there, and be open — without judgement, without expectation, just OPEN. And if you can’t do that, you have to give yourself the space until you can.

Ask Syd: What Should I Expect at an EWS Race?

Posted on February 17, 2017 by Syd Schulz

Hi Syd :)

Thanks for keeping your wonderful blog. I am a rider from Egypt who has been dreaming big for years despite that I have been riding for only 4 yrs. I started racing local enduros only two years ago and tried an EWS [Enduro World Series] qualifing event last year which was not successful. The racing conditions were terrible with a thunderstorm and I think mentally I wasn’t ready for it. This year, it’s different. I have an amazing mtb coach and I’m working on skills and fitness. Doing at least 1 local race a month to get better. I live in Israel by the way which makes it easier! So the plan is to try more EWS qualifiers this year! To make things more exciting I won the EWS lottery for Madeira, Portugal in May :))

Here’s my question: I am focusing on skills, fitness, mental preparation and nutrition… but I need to believe from the bottom of my heart that I can make it in EWS Madeira? Any advice?

After blatantly disobeying Rule #2 on this list and going dust bowl swimming at 2016 EWS Round #1. Don’t be like me.

I decided to post my response to Yasmine, because I think there are a lot of people out there who are interested in trying an Enduro World Series race, or maybe just got into their first one via the lottery this year and are curious what to expect. While I don’t really consider myself to be an EWS racer, I have a raced a handful of the events and I certainly know what it feels like to be unprepared for the challenges of these races. (See here and here for tales of woe from my EWS exploits in 2015.)

Here’s my advice for taking on your first EWS race —

1. Don’t set expectations/goals for finishing in a certain position. The competition is incredibly fast and there’s really no way to know how you stack up until you try. So try to release yourself from any pressure on that front — once you’ve done at least one EWS you can set a goal of improving your position at the next one. Thinking about it any other way is just going to add extra stress. So wherever you finish, just think of it as a learning experience. Even though I’ve done 6 EWS races at this point, I still never set any goal position-wise — I just shoot to finish and stay calm, competent and upright for the entire race. I’ve been last, and I’ve been top-20. Shit happens at these races, and sometimes it’s out of your control.

2. If you are unable to ride something in practice, don’t ride it in the race. Running/sliding-on-your-butt is almost always faster than crashing. I have learned this lesson the hard way a few times. The trails change a LOT between practice and the race at an EWS, especially for the women as we race after all but the top 30 men. This means that some 400 racers shred up the trails before us. This makes everything harder, and it’s really important to remember that and not get discouraged if you are having more trouble during the race than you did in practice.

3. Accept that the pre-ride schedule might be very physically challenging and you might be tired before you even start the race. This is a hard one for me because when a race is important to me I want to show up refreshed and at my best. Unfortunately long practice days are part of EWS racing and everyone is in the same boat. Every race is different but for Chile last year we rode 30 miles both Thursday and Friday for practice, and then again Saturday and Sunday for the race. So, 60 miles and 10,000 feet of climbing before the race even started. I was EXHAUSTED. This can be demoralizing but remember, everyone is in the same situation and they’re all tired, too, even if they pretend they aren’t ;)

4. Try to keep in perspective that these races are hard AF. EWS races have been some of the hardest mountain bike events I have ever done. Actually, come to that, hardest sporting events of any sort I have ever done. Part of this is physical, with very long days out on the bike. Part of this is skills based, as sometimes the stages are as hard as world cup DH stages, but four times as long. Part of this is mental, as the whole scene is very amped up and can be stressful. So, it’s important to keep all that perspective. You will be racing against women/men who have done 7-8 of these races every year for the past three years, and some of them raced world cup DH for 10 years before that — these people will make things that are hard for you look easy. But they didn’t get to where they are overnight. Just by showing up and giving it a go, you are doing awesome. We all have to start somewhere.

Ultimately, what I tried to tell Yasmine is a lesson I wish I had learned way earlier than I did: these races are a very different experience to pretty much any other bike race, and your first attempt is not a measure of what you are capable of — it is simply a starting point. And an incredible experience racing your bike on some of the world’s best trails. So enjoy it. And remember that you’re lucky to be there.

How I Finally Stopped Saying Sorry

Posted on February 21, 2016 by Syd Schulz

“Sorry, I’m slow.”

I used to say this a lot — or variations of it.

Sorry, I’m feeling slow today. Sorry, I’m so bad at this. Sorry, I’m so much slower than everyone else. Sorry, this trail is really hard for me. Sorry I’m so slow, I had a crash and got my chain stuck and then you wouldn’t believe it, but I got chased by a rabid badger, but really, just, sorry for being slow. Blah blah blah.

It wasn’t really because I thought I was slow (although, sometimes I did), but because I was so often riding in situations where I was slower than everything else, or at least towards the back of the group. This is the reality of being a new racer and dating a male professional mountain biker who has lots of male pro biker friends. I knew this, on some level, but I still felt shitty every time people were waiting for me. Hence, the apologizing.

Sorry, I’m slow. Sorry you had to wait for me. Blah, blah, blah.

The problem with saying “I’m slow” all the time, whether you believe it or not, is that it’s pretty much the opposite of what you should be telling yourself if you want to race fast. Our friends in Santiago did an experiment where they put two kiwifruits in different jars and labeled one “beso” (kiss) and the other “poto cara” (butt-face). They kept the jars in the same conditions and three weeks later the butt-face kiwi is covered in mold and the beso kiwi is fine. Now, don’t ask me how that works, but apparently it does, and the point is — what you say, matters, and it matters a lot.

I’ve tried to stop saying stuff like this in the past, but it’s never really stuck, because when I get to the bottom of the trail and see a bunch of people sitting around tapping their feet, I feel obligated to say something. This is because I’m a woman and have been indoctrinated by society to think that the only thing worse than drowning puppies in a swimming pool is inconveniencing people. (To be fair, I’ve heard guys say “sorry, I’m slow” but not NEARLY as often.) But, in all seriousness, when you’re the last person to roll up, saying nothing feels like ignoring the big, purple elephant sitting on the side of the trail. You can’t just pretend nothing is going on. If you do, people will probably assume you’re pissed off and they’ll be all “are you okay? did you crash?” and then you will be pissed off, and probably say something testy like “no, I’m just actually this slow, believe it or not” and then everyone will feel awkward and you will feel bad about yourself, all over again. Not that I’m speaking from personal experience or anything.

So, anyway, I was at an impasse — and then someone in my Facebook feed posted a link to this comic from Bored panda, called “Stop Saying “Sorry” And Say “Thank You” Instead,” and it was a massive lightbulb moment. It’s so good that I’m going to steal the first bit and post it below, and hopefully not get sued for copyright infringement. Seriously, though, you should go read the whole thing.

Via yaoxiaoart.com

And so, over the past few months I’ve made a concerted effort to replace “sorry I’m slow” with “thanks so much for waiting for me,” and the results are pretty astounding. (Obviously I should have titled this “She changes 3 words in her vocabulary and what happens next will amaze you.” I would have gotten a lot more clicks, missed opportunity.)

I first tried out this strategy on a moto ride, and the end result was having two motocross bros bending over backwards to help me dig my bike out of trenches and make it up hills, all the while constantly assuring me that this was the most difficult trail in the area (which does beg the question why they brought me on it on my 7th ever moto ride, but hey, we all had fun). The second test run was on a XC ride where I was seriously imploding and crawling up the hills. To be honest, I was going slow, but instead of saying that, I just thanked everyone for waiting for me and being so patient. It worked. Someone even said “it’s nice to ride with someone who just goes their own pace and has fun,” which was a nice affirmation.

Here’s why I think this works. When you thank someone for waiting for you, they feel good about themselves. They feel like they’re helping you out (which they are, of course), and doing a a good thing. They feel appreciated. And, to be honest, they probably had a fairly good idea of what your ability level was before they rode with you, so they probably knew they would be doing some waiting, and now they’re just happy that you’re appreciative of their time. When you say “sorry, I’m slow” it’s awkward for everyone involved. Whether you mean it or not, it comes off like you’re fishing to be told that you’re not slow, kind of like when you tell your boyfriend “my stomach looks fat in this shirt” and you really just want him to say “but you’re so skinny!” (Hint: don’t do that either.) The truth is, if they’re that much faster than you, they probably do think you’re slow. And they probably don’t care. And even if they do care? You shouldn’t care, because you know what — you’re out there, doing your best and it doesn’t make one iota of difference whether someone thinks you’re fast or slow or average or whatever. It changes NOTHING.

But when you thank people for waiting for you, or compliment them on how fast THEY were going, it turns the whole dynamic of the ride into something more positive. Not only do you stop sending yourself the wrong message, you make other people feel better about themselves and encourage them to help you with your riding, instead of just waiting and feeling awkward. In other words, everyone wins.

Andes Pacífico: Five Days of Racing in Chile

Posted on February 15, 2016 by Syd Schulz

One of my goals for 2016 is to write race recaps in a vaguely timely fashion. Those of you who have followed this blog for awhile probably remember that all of my race reports from last year started with some excuse about “waiting to gain perspective on the event.” And before last year, I refused to do race recaps at all, because I thought they were the scourge of the devil, but I also swore I would never use Snapchat or have long hair, and well, here we are.

Of course, the problem with writing a race report the day after a five day race is that the overwhelming emotion is TIRED. In order to not dwell on that over the course of this entire post, let’s get this out of the way right off the bat — I’M TIRED. I’m wrecked. I’m exhausted. I actually slept through the post race disco party (like, in a tent that was literally in the middle of a disco party) that’s how tired. But it’s been a good tired, not a miserable tired, and overall, this week was one of the most awesome bike racing experiences of my life to date.

So here’s a day-by-day highlight reel. Plus some photos.

The start of the first stage of the first day looked like this. Whoa.

Day 1: La Parva Ski Resort outside of Santiago, Chile. Epicly beautiful Andean mountain vistas, epicly sketchy Andean trails. They call the terrain here “antigrip” for a reason. It’s basically like riding through a combination of deep gravel and super fine sandy dust stuff, and when you use your brakes, you speed up. The fourth and final stage of this day was definitely the trickiest. The locals called it a “festival de la curva” which was a bit of an understatement, as “curve” implies something a tad softer than what was actually going on, which was steep switchbacks with no catch berms and infinite potential of pitching yourself off a cliff. About 5,000 of them. So, yeah, festival, my ass. Pleased to say I rode every turn and only got stuck in a bush once, although I was doing a bit more foot out, strider bike, seat-bouncing than I care to admit.

Macky and some horses on one of the transitions on Day 2.

Day 2: Farellones. Another day of wicked, sketchball Andean terrain. One of these trails I had raced in a local Enduro race here in 2014 and I am pleased to say that this time I made it down without crying. In fact, I didn’t even fall off once, which basically makes it a 10 fold improvement. On this day we traded the festival de la curva for the festival of the off-camber-clinging-to-the-side-of-mountain-and-hoping-you-don’t-die, which was equally festive, let me tell you. I enjoyed it thoroughly, even though I came unglued on the third, newly cut and disgustingly off-camber stage about a bajillion times.

Getting rowdy at the start of day 3 with some new and old friends.

Getting rowdy at the start of stage 3 with some new and old friends.

Day 3: Cajón del Maipo. The last day in the Andes. Things started to be a *little* tamer today, although the third stage had more sniper baby heads than I’ve ever seen in one place in my life. It took all my energy to remember to look ahead and not at every little rock that was getting in my way. The Defcon handled this terrain marvelously, especially when I relaxed and was able to let go of the brakes a little bit. I started to feel more comfortable on this day, and started racing a bit more aggressively. I even caught some dudes on a pedally section, so that’s always fun. Also, the race promoters met us at the end of the last day with baskets and baskets of empanadas, which is pretty much the best way to end a rough day of riding. (As a aside, if you want to lose weight, pick a different race. I could write an entire post about how delicious and ample the food was, but this is not that kind of blog, so back to bikes.)

Celebrating the views on Day 3

Grapes and sweat — Day 4 in a nutshell.

Day 4: Santa Cruz. Chile’s beautiful (but hot) wine country. Two long stages with even longer hike-a-bike sections and 90 degree weather. I’m not the hugest fan of hiking or hot weather, so this wasn’t the easiest day for me, but I managed to stay in a pretty good mood by going slow, taking breaks and eating a lot of food. (By the way, those three things may actually be the key to happiness in life. Bike racing is full of insights.) The stages were awesome, fast and finally the dirt had some grip. I had two cleans run, minus a little detour off the trail on the first stage and a plunge into a rut on the second. There was a jump over the rut in question, but not being a huge fan of hitting jumps that I’ve never seen the other side of, I opted for indecision and slammed on the brakes at the last minute, which was a bad plan. Indecision kills, kids. Turns out it didn’t matter that much, because the second stage ended up being cancelled after one rider crashed into the course tape and half the field behind him got lost. That’s one thing I love about races like this — you just really never know what will happen next.

Feeling tired? A popsicle and some kitten cuddles will cheer you up!

Day 5: Matanzas. Finally, to the coast. This day took us up, down and around the rolling coastal hills until we finally descended straight to the beach on the 7th and final stage of the day. Getting that first glimpse of the ocean was an incredible feeling of relief and accomplishment. These stages were calmer than what we had had in days past, but still challenging in their own way. You had to focus to make sure you didn’t miss any corners and go veering off course, and the odd rut or off camber ledge kept things super interesting all the way to the very end. We didn’t end up finishing the day until 8:30 pm, but luckily the race crew had choripan on the grill waiting for us. The chori was just an appetizer — a full on Chilean parilla followed. Lamb ribs, beef steaks, chicken. I ate so much meat it’s pretty amazing I didn’t turn into a cow. The parilla combined with two beers (we were getting wild), meant I struggled to stay awake for the award ceremony, which didn’t happen until midnight. And then the party started and despite my best intentions of celebrating, I found myself magnetically drawn to my tent, where I fell asleep on a deflated air mattress to the sound of 1000 decibel Chilean dance music and slept for the next 9 hours. It was great.

I made it!!!!!!

All in all, Andes Pacifico was an incredible experience and I feel that I raced well. I ended up 7th, which I’m super pleased with, although honestly I didn’t pay much attention to the results over the course of the race. This was definitely a race, but it was more about the experience, the people, the magic of being high in the mountains and riding your bike fast. I’m already hoping to come back next year!