This blog series follows me, an extremely average cyclist, as I go all in to complete the legendary Leadville 100 race on a singlespeed mountain bike. Although I will still continue to write on this website, this is the last post in the series. Better late than never.

It was about five seconds after the shotgun went off, if not the 50 minutes before, that I was sincerely and deeply wondering why I signed up for this. The turning stomach, the consequent multiple trips to the port-o-johns, and the rock-solid knot, somewhere in the area of my solar plexus, had a full stranglehold on me. I could not relax, regardless of the deep, intentional breaths I was taking. Deep breaths in between final words of strategy between Lee and I, and last-minute wishes of good luck to fellow racers. Deep breaths as the speakers played the same canned Leanne Rhimes version of the National Anthem they play at every race. Deep breaths as we were heaving our bikes up the first unrideable pitch that is Dutch Henri Hill. Deep breaths, as we were finally on our bikes, with people pushing, elbowing, and yelling their way towards the front of the race, while some, like me, were just trying to avoid becoming roadkill within the first half mile. Deep breaths, as the dust kicked up and made breathing and seeing that much harder, and deep breaths to control the mild panic as our train of racers would finally gain some speed only to come to a screeching slow-down when the course changed direction, terrain or surface abruptly.

The rest of the Silver Rush 50 only got harder. After a relatively mellow first few miles of climbing, by Mile Eight, I was counting down to Mile 13, the first aid station. After that, a brief respite of downhill, then I resumed my arbitrary countdowns, taking the course in piecemeal, from that section I could ride, to that section that I had to walk, to that section that I had to white-knuckle and dodge oncoming racers, to the turnaround and back. There were several times during the day I was holding back tears, contemplating quitting, wallowing in my incompetence, but too embarrassed to cry in public and also trying to conserve any fluids left in my body since I was clearly not drinking enough. My food plan solely relied on the opportunity to eat while hiking my bike, only to remember that it often took both hands to push the bike over the steep, uneven terrain. On the occasion that I did have a free hand to grab a snack, I found that it was almost impossible to chew, swallow, and keep down solid food with a dry mouth and upset stomach, while gasping for air.

Somehow, in the face of it all, I finished the race…three times. In the three different years that I have ridden the 50, I have had almost identical experiences each year, with almost identical results, my overall times being within minutes of each other, regardless of the bike I was using or the fitness, skill, and knowledge under my belt. It wasn’t all bad. There were certainly some redeeming qualities to those experiences. There were moments when I would forget about my misery and just settle into the grind. There were moments when the misery was salient, but all I had to do was look around to see I that wasn’t alone in my suffering. There were moments when I saw friends out on course, and saw other friends supporting with food, drink, and kind words at the aid stations. There were moments of mustering strength I didn’t know I had for final pushes, and the sweet final few minutes of the race, where I could see, hear, and feel the energy of the finish area. The Leadville Silver Rush 50 is the epitome of Type 2 fun. The kind of fun one has when the actual event or activity is over. The fun lies in the reward of completing something perhaps previously thought incompletable. It is the fun of looking back on the experience, even if no actual enjoyment was had during the event itself. Maybe the enjoyment was there, but it went unnoticed among the circling thoughts of misery and self-flagellation.

Type 2 Fun is an incredible teacher and motivator that has shown me how to deal with physical and mental discomfort. Type 2 situations pushed me to keep moving forward, even when I thought I had nothing left, when I was at my worst. They were also not limited to long races. For the better part of my riding “career”, it was Type 2 Fun that kept me biking at all. I went through so many rides and races carrying the extra weight that no amount of carbon components could make up for, of unmet expectations, low sense of self-efficacy, and persistent, underlying anxiety, if not full on dread, but the afterglow of accomplishment and race results that were not entirely horrible kept me coming back to the bike.

It wasn’t until I started my Singlespeed Leadville mission, perhaps one of the most goal and results-oriented processes that I have ever been through in my life, that I ironically transitioned from focusing and ruminating on results, to actually enjoying the process. As I followed a consistent training program, I started doing other things to take care of my mind and body, like eating better, meditating, quitting booze, and even subjecting myself to some low-dose anti-anxiety medication. All of which made mountain biking a little bit easier and more motivating in and of itself. As I began to celebrate small victories in higher power meter numbers and lower bathroom scale numbers, I also began to experience more moments of flow on the bike. I celebrated as I began seeking out more singletrack and harder lines, even though my technical riding skills are still not that great, and I celebrated for not entirely losing my shit if I failed at riding them. I celebrated that I made myself go to the gym or get on the trainer, even on days that I didn’t want to. I even somewhat allowed myself to celebrate good race results without completely diminishing them with excuses even when I felt compelled to let the world know that I was the only one in my category. Over the course of those eight months, biking and training simply became fun! The good, old-fashioned fun that I got to enjoy as it was happening. It wasn’t all roses. My focus on nothing but the training forced me to neglect some areas of my life. The house wasn’t as clean as I wanted, I was not the ideal partner my husband wanted, only the friends that were able and willing to ride bikes when it fit in with my training schedule were able to see me, and I became an insufferable bore.

Fast forward to almost three months after the 2019 Leadville 100MTB. It took me this long to write anything about it, because it went so uneventfully well for me. The weather and conditions were perfect, I was super well-trained, very prepared, and had a wonderful support crew in my friends and family. The race was so anti-climactic and predictable; everything from when and how I would take on more fuel, to knowing exactly how I would feel going up Powerline, to remembering to actually put my inhaler in my jersey for that asthma attack I figured would happen. In the end, I blew my expected finish time out of the water. What stood out to me the most however, was how was how much fun I was having. The race was still as hard as I remembered it. I was still mentally taking the course apart by sections and miles, like I do at all my races, so that I didn’t have to take it on all at once. I still spent a lot of time feeling like I have very little left in me, and still had to look around to make sure that everyone else was in the same boat, suffering adequately. Yet, I had no questions about why I signed up for this, I had no intention of quitting, or crying, or wasting energy on willing the race to be over. I knew I would get through it and  I allowed the physical discomfort to exist without all the extra mental anguish. In fact, during those 10 hours, I rarely stopped smiling.

Since Leadville, I put in a few more race efforts, but stopped training consistently for the year. I was amazed at how quickly the excuses came for not going out riding and exercising when there is no plan and no accountability, and no goal. I’m also amazed at how much pure, actual fun I have when I get past my excuses and get on the bike. I rode with friends, I attended a skills clinic, I squeezed in some glorious leaf-looking rides this fall, as well as my very first overnight bikepacking trip. I rode new trails and conquered some obstacles I never thought I could ride. I am also still trying to catch up on parts of my life that I had ignored since last December, and some of those parts are catching up with me. I have some decisions to make that will affect my goals and race plans for the following year, some of them will likely throw me deep into Type 2 territory. I just hope that whatever I decide, I will apply what I learned this year about mindset and hard work, and manage to create some actual fun along the way.

This blog series follows me, an extremely average cyclist, as I go all in to complete the legendary Leadville 100 race on a singlespeed mountain bike.

 

Planetary retrograde is an optical illusion that occurs when a planet appears to be moving backwards in orbit due to its position relative to us, the humble earthly observers. If you subscribe to astrological ideas, a planet in retrograde often means the emergence of little burrs, annoyances, and disruptions in many aspects of daily life- whether it be in communications, or inter-personal relations, politics, or technology. I stopped believing in astrology in high school because my horoscope kept forecasting 3-star days for me at best, with low prospects for my love life. I googled the term “retrograde” because I decided to it would be a great analogy for where I am in life and how I feel about my progress. It turns out that Mercury has been in retrograde for the whole damn month of July, and won’t look normal until early August. If I still believed in that hokey stuff, it would explain a lot about the last few weeks, like why I haven’t been able to make myself write this blog, or why our TV keeps crashing, why Flowers.com delivered my Grandma’s birthday bouquet two weeks early, why I feel like I’ve been speaking a completely different language from the people I’m trying to communicate with, why these random girls I have never seen around the County before keep stealing my QOMs on Strava, and finally, why I’m actually all worked up about it.

July wasn’t all bad. It finally started to feel like summer. I took some extra time off from work, and even work has been mostly ok, as I spent a lot of time alone gardening while listening to my podcasts. Earlier in the month, I raced the Firecracker 50, and had an absolute blast. I signed up for that race the evening we got back from 12 Hours of Mesa Verde (early May), and was beside myself excited about it since. Even with the course re-route due to the obscene amount of snow left on the trails, the experience did not disappoint. I rode well (enough), crashed a couple times, and finished within my anticipated time. Naturally, I wish I had gone faster and blown my ETA out of the water, and qualified for the Singlespeed Olympics in Tokyo 2020, but daydreams aside, I was pleased. Over the following weekends, I rode sections of the Leadville course, and supported Lee and some of our friends for their Silver Rush 50 race. I enjoyed being on the support side of an event for once, relaxing, hanging out with friends, and watching the racers do all the hard work. While I tried to keep my thoughts about what my hypothetical finish time for that race would be to a minimum, the time on my hands gave me ample opportunity to realize how much of a spaz I am. Still. I also made it through a tough training block, and rewarded myself with nice long weekend in Steamboat Springs with a friend, my second one this summer. This involved bikes, camping, good food, and sitting in the river to cool off.

Life has been good to me, which is why the little black clouds of self-doubt, scientifically known as “Shoulds” that keep coming over me are so insidious. The little worries about what I should get done in any given day, snowballed into stressing about the stressing. Stressing about stressing made me feel guilty that I haven’t been meditating as much as I should. Stressing and not meditating have been somewhat detrimental to the sleep I should be getting. Failure to meet certain numbers and metrics on my bike computer makes me wonder if I am still moving in the right direction with my training. So does going down in rankings on Strava segments (I still don’t know how to stop getting emails about it). I feel like I should be faster than I am right now, my heart rate should be higher at my top efforts, as should my functional threshold power (if you don’t know, don’t ask).  Riding my old singlespeed in Steamboat this weekend should have felt much easier than it did. I shouldn’t have been breathing that hard on that pitch. Perhaps all my improvements this year are due to the new fancy bike and not me. As the Shoulds gained momentum, they situated themselves into all areas of my life, from what I should or shouldn’t have said, to whom I should have said it to, to what I should really be doing with my life, or not.

With only two weeks until Race Day, all this griping looks like I have been moving backwards, towards my old tired and anxious self, and towards my old habits, with little time left to make improvements. But just as a planet in retrograde has the appearance of backwards orbit, yet in reality is still moving in its normal direction, what I am experiencing is as normal as can be. I think those Shoulds will always be there, and though I am bothered by them enough to write about it, I’m not bothered to the same extent that I used to be. I am still following the training plan to get me to the start line. I am still taking the steps and doing the work to become a better person, stronger rider, and someone who may eventually develop a sense of direction in life. Meanwhile, everything is as it should be.

This blog series follows me, an extremely average cyclist, as I go all in to complete the legendary Leadville 100 race on a singlespeed mountain bike. 

After hours upon hours of battling dust, winds from all direction, and angry leg muscles just begging me to stop, my lower back and my backside had enough. I had enough. I was alone and dejected from my slow progress and from my iPod Shuffle announcing its low battery. Me too, little buddy, me too. Shortly after the music quit, I knew that I didn’t have the luxury of doing the same, but I was not sure how my body was going to handle even a few more miles. I tried to focus on how beautiful the green, rolling landscape was around me, and decided if I were to collapse and die, at least it would be in a pretty place, like Leonardo DiCaprio in Blood Diamond (not in Titanic). And then, two riders caught up to me and graciously allowed me to ride their draft, easing the headwind and the loneliness. I apologized numerous times for being unable to take a turn pulling, I had so little left, I would not have done them any good, and they were really kind about letting me stay on. Eventually one of them broke away to join a faster group, but before long, several more riders showed up behind us, and we ended up in a pace line that seemed to be going somewhere. By then, the dusk turned to complete dark, and the glow of our headlamps and tail lights against the warm, damp summer night was cathartic and restful. We heard a train whistle in the distance, and voiced our concern about whether or not the train will delay us, but we pushed on. As we approached the railroad crossing, the gate arms had just lifted, the red warning lights had just stopped flashing, and we blasted over the tracks, barely having to slow down. 10 miles left to go. As we approached the next major intersection with a highway, we saw another train, this time of 15 or so riders barreling down the road perpendicular to us. This is one of the groups that added mileage to their race rather than wait at the railroad crossing for up to 45 minutes. I got my 18^th and final wind, and two of us said goodbye to our little group and took off to chase the Train group. Their size and speed gave us the slingshot we needed for the final push, as we split off yet again into Emporia, up the final punchy hill, through the University, and onward down Commercial Street to the finish line.

Upon finishing the 2018 Dirty Kanza 200, I was buzzing with all the emotions that I could not express because of the overwhelming fatigue. Commercial Street was lit up with a full-blown block party; there was music blasting, the announcer was calling out the finishers, the crowd of spectators, support crew, and cyclists who already finished, were cheering wildly for those just coming in. I don’t remember how, but eventually, I found Lee, who was done a little before I was. The gap between us would have been bigger, but he got delayed by the train. I also spotted my in-laws, Meg and Lowell, along with Dex. The three of them ran amazing, diligent support for Lee and me before, during, and after the race. I couldn’t thank them enough. One of them took my bike, and led me to the truck so that I could get changed. Eventually we sat down for some food truck tacos that I could barely eat because my body did not know what to do with itself. My off-the-cuff training during the winter paid off. I wasn’t sure how I was going to prepare myself for such a long day in the saddle while living in a snowy wonderland, but I spent hours at the gym, put miles on my fatbike, and the season had been blessedly mild, so we typically didn’t have to drive that far to get on dirt. After getting beat up at the 12 Hours of Mesa Verde three weeks before, riding the whole of the White Rim trail in a day (with my ass still broken and sore from 12HOMV) two weeks before, I managed to recover and put it together to finish Kanza, two hours ahead of my own calculated ETA. I would not trade that experience for the world, but little did I know, it was the beginning of the end of my 2018 racing season.

The short story is that I never recovered. The long story is that I made some poor choices that did not really allow for me to recover and then train properly to even have a shot at getting what I wanted out of Leadville. At that point at work, we were doing four 10-hour days. I thought I would get plenty of riding in on my three days off, but I found that it took me one of those days just to rest up from the week. I was not getting home until six o’clock, and after baking in the sun and pulling weeds, and digging holes, I just wanted to drink a beer, eat some dinner and reset for the following shift. It was well over a week after Kanza that I even attempted to get back on my bike, and that attempt left me feeling weak and deflated. Another week, and I forced myself to go on two longish rides. I was still flat, and those rides set me back even further. A few days later, I was DFL at one of our local races, by a lot! And then I decided that racing the Silver Rush 50 in July was for me.

I don’t know why I thought that race owed me anything. Perhaps it’s because I was doing it on a lighter bike than previous years. Or maybe it’s because I thought my fitness from Kanza would magically carry me through to a significantly faster time. Instead, I was physically and mentally crushed before I even got to the turnaround at Stumptown, knowing that I was already behind schedule. I was damn near in tears when I was walking what should have been rideable over the other side of Ball Mountain, then full on cried about it when I finished only a minute faster than the previous year. Expectations are an entitled bitch. After some beer and self-flagellation, my mind turned towards the LT100. At this point in time, I was planning on doing the 100 on my geared bike. I had every intention of doing that race on a Singlespeed the following year, but 2018 was about solidifying my strategy and fitness. I thought maybe I could even break the 10-hour mark. Then a week or so later, after setting a personal best climbing Columbine on my lightweight hardtail, I thought I got my mojo back. At least for that day, because that was the day Lee convinced to me to do a Singlespeed attempt for 2018 instead.

Those who know my husband know that he is the ultimate instigator. He has convinced many people in our circle, and even a few outliers to that circle to drop thousands of dollars on bicycles, skis, and motorcycles. He has goaded multiple people into trying bike racing, motorcycle camping, skiing lines that they may or may not have any business skiing, and always having one more beer. I too, have fallen victim to his persuasions, and that is why I now think that ultra-endurance events are perfectly normal, and I should be able to just do them. Lee has a way getting you to think that what you are about to do is the best idea ever, the only idea. I was allowing both him and Strava to inflate my ego, as he made a few compelling points, mostly centered around the fact that I was possibly as fit as I would ever be due to the Kanza afterglow, and that the fatigue wasn’t too much of a problem. He also pointed out that we knew that I could complete the 100 on a geared bike, having done so twice before, but we did not know if I could do it on a Single, and it therefore made the challenge more interesting. In spite of all my doubts, which I maintain even under the best circumstances, I was bursting with excitement on our drive home from that ride with the prospect of completing the race on Hans, my old trusty Singlespeed steed, that very same year. In spite of this new, more ambitious plan, however, I did not turn anything around.

While Lee was out riding almost every day, my weeknights still involved post-work beer and junk-laden dinners. My weekends were full of “shoulds” and excuses for why I wasn’t doing what I should be doing, which was primarily riding my bike long distances, or at all. I was too tired, it was too hot, recovery day, and work is my workout. There were more, but it’s hard to remember them all. One weekend in mid-July, we got our Singlespeeds out on course. We parked at the Turquoise Lake trailhead, where the course first turns to dirt, and rode St. Kevins, Carter, Sugarloaf and Powerline, down to just past the Fish Hatchery and back the same way. It was a really hot, dry day, and I was just suffering. There was likely a mild hangover involved. I kept looking at my times for each section of course, and apparently, my natural talent and post-Kanza fitness were not kicking in, because they were not adding up to a successful finish. Lee reminded me that it was damn near impossible to go race pace outside of race day, and that when the time came, the energy and the crowd would pull me along. This has been true in the past, but my times were way off.

My disappointing training ride still did not convince me to change anything. At this point, I decided, it was too late, and I was supposed to be tapering, which I know now, does not mean doing nothing. At the end of July, I spent five days in Philadelphia for my grandma’s 90^th birthday and family reunion, re-acclimating to sea level, eating everything in sight, and drinking too much wine and vodka, the elixir of my people. Now just because I was doing nothing about my training, does not mean I was not spending all my mental and emotional resources worrying about the race. I wanted to finish, I told anyone who would listen all my concerns about not finishing, and more importantly I really hoped that I would finish, which is almost like training, right?

Race day started just like the last two. Dark as hell, cold as hell, my nerves were shot to hell. In the past, I was able to find a bit of calm in the moments leading up to the start gun, knowing I had done everything I can to prepare. This time was different. The gun went off, and I expected to be passed during the first few paved, downhill miles. But not like this. By the time we hit dirt, I was towards the very back of the pack. Into the first pitch of St. Kevins I was walking, but perhaps I would have been walking anyway. The climb let up a bit, but my heart wasn’t quite in it. I coasted down from Carter Summit, stopped to squat in the trees on Hagerman Pass road since everyone else in this group did so, and grunted my way up Sugarloaf. I gingerly picked my way down Powerline, and helplessly spun my pedals on the flat section to Pipeline Aid, appalled at how slow I was moving and how much time already elapsed. Our friends Gene and Fred, and my sister-in-law, Lori with her family were crewing there. I wanted to be positive, but all I could think to tell them, other than “thank you” was that I was going to miss the first cut-off at Twin Lakes, and I was tempted to give up right there. I ate some food, and puttered on. When I got back on pavement, I rode with a guy who told me he’s not usually this far back in pack, and that it wasn’t his year due to back issues. I told him it wasn’t my year due to stupidity. We stayed together for the rest of the climb, commiserating at the very real prospect of not making it to Twin Lakes on time, and since misery loves company, for the first time that day, I started to enjoy myself. When the road pointed downhill, he, and his many gears took off, while once again, I coasted.

I made it through the timing arch with just one minute to spare, with my legs furiously spinning, and the crowds cheering me on to go faster. I couldn’t go any faster. I slogged through the sandy, rolling climb to the Lost Canyon support area, where Meg and Lowell were waiting for me. They changed out my food and water, which I barely touched. Lowell checked over my bike, as a random lady parked next to them shouted some encouraging but empty platitudes about how I can do it. I set off to start the Columbine climb. I knew this climb well, but not having practiced it on my Singlespeed, I had no idea how much I would be off the bike. At this point, scores of riders were already making their way down, reminding me how far behind I was. After what felt like forever (because it was forever), I finally got to the Goat Path, the looser, steeper section of the climb that sits above tree line. This was the first time I noticed the ungodly heat that slowed so many people down that day. I was walking more than riding, as were most in the conga line going up, and saw several friends coming down, some giving me a shout, some concentrating too hard on their descent to notice me. And then I saw Lee. I had barely enough time to yell “I’m not going to make it”, and he yelled back “I know, that’s ok.” And then the pressure was off. This was the one opinion I was most concerned about, other than my own. This was the one approval I was afraid to lose. He didn’t try and push me harder, or pretend that I was still magically going to make up the needed time. The weight was lifted off my shoulders, and I trudged my way to the top, rode where I could ride again, and after a few minutes at the turnaround, headed back, knowing I could be done at any time. Back at Lost Canyon, Meg and Lowell gave me more food and water, again, I barely touched what I had, as I stood around deciding whether to quit or continue back to Twin Lakes, where I was positive I would miss the second cutoff. They pushed me to keep going, promising to rendezvous on the other side of dam, so that I wouldn’t be stranded if that were the case.

I made it through the timing arch with just one minute to spare, with my legs furiously spinning, and the crowds cheering me on to go faster. I couldn’t go any faster. I saw their red Jeep. I had one hour to make it to the Pipeline cutoff now. There was no way in hell I would make it, but with Meg and Lowell’s urging, I decided to keep going anyway, since I had nothing else to do at this point. Fred and Gene would still be there, and I could get a ride back to town with them. Those last 15 miles ended up being the most fun. The course suddenly felt just right for my gearing, and I felt light and playful for the first time in the race, maybe because I knew I wouldn’t have to go up Powerline. I teared up over the kindness and support that our family and friends were showing me. I embraced the cheering from strangers. I missed that cutoff by 15 minutes, and I was out of the race, a DNF at mile 73. The Frank brothers greeted me with kind words and some water. They loaded my bike, and I got back into Leadville with enough time to change and watch Lee come in on his Singlespeed. As far as the rest of the day went, I handled it well. The following morning, not so much.

I still went to the awards ceremony with Lee to support him, but I had no idea how painful it would be for me. It felt like waking up after a big fight that wasn’t resolved the night before. As racers with the fastest (and the slowest) times were publicly celebrated, and everyone in between lined up to get their finisher’s jackets and buckles, I felt unworthy to even be there. I was suddenly no longer part of the tribe, I was just an impostor. In the undercurrent of all those feelings was guilt. Guilt for wasting our support crew’s time, guilt for not training more, guilt for not just being naturally fit and fast enough, and guilt for quitting. Although I didn’t quit officially, I just missed the cutoff, I checked out pretty early on in the race. I may or may not have had more to give physically, but I gave up minutes at aid stations complaining about my pace and standing around in indecision on whether or not to keep pushing forward, minutes that could have gotten me through the Pipeline cutoff (maybe). In between aid stations, I was going through the motions of riding a bike, but there was no power or momentum to it. I was literally and metaphorically spun out.

I have been listening to a lot of podcasts since then, including to performance psychologist Michael Gervais. As a guest on another podcast, he said something that stuck and made sense of my dramatic emotions over a bike race. He said, using different words, that the human brain does not have a separate processing center or mechanism for the experience of losing at something versus the experience of actually losing something (or someone). They are both processed as grief. We can all logically understand that a bike race is just a bike race, one that comes around every year at that. But on the emotional level, I was grieving the squandered opportunity to prove to myself that I am the athlete I want to be, to fit in with the people I look up to, and to be more than just talk.

There are a lot of great things that came out of that season and that race as well. Lee and I completed two iconic rides (White Rim and DK200), which we have wanted to do for long time, within two weeks of each other. There are worse things to burn out from. And while I may have been disillusioned to think I could finish a race like Leadville on a Single with only some half-assed training, I did see pretty clearly going into it that I would learn a lot. That DNF lit a fire under my ass, and it got me moving. When asked that evening if I would try to race Leadville on a Single again, without hesitation, I said I will. A month later, I raced the Barn Burner on my geared bike and earned an awesome starting position for the 2019 attempt. I let the rest of the summer and fall be what it is. I ate more burgers, drank more beer, and rode some bikes among the golden-leafed aspens. In December, I got to work.

This blog series follows me, an extremely average cyclist, as I go all in to complete the legendary Leadville 100 race on a singlespeed mountain bike. 

It has been a while since my last post, where I basked in the glory of not falling apart at a race that had menaced me the previous year. What have I been doing the past four weeks? I don’t remember. I literally just looked at my Training Peaks app to remind me of my own whereabouts and doings. To the surprise of no one who knows me at this point, I went right back into training. It has been pretty refreshing to stay local, though our “Spring” turned into a soul-sucking Winter 2.0. It’s been great for those who are still skiing, not so great for those of us who work outside and are sick of cold extremities and dodging decomposing dog turds. Our current statewide snowpack is somewhere at one billion percent of average, so many of our trails will be slow to dry out. Naturally, I bought a road bike, and within the span of a few days, I can easily say that I got my $175 worth out of it.

For this training block, Coach has me more focused on intensity rather than volume, but so far, my heart has not been interested in revving high. This week, I decided to do a 15 mile race, the Frisco Roundup, the first of our local Summit Series races. I prepped well, ate well, and was hoping to race well, but then it started pouring. I had already been hanging out in my chamois, soaked from attempting a warm-up ride in the rain, for two hours, when the race was postponed for the following day. I showed up again, this time in glorious weather, and had a great race. I rode well, used some tactics, made a point to hydrate, and had all of the fun. I got to see lots of familiar faces, and Lee, who was stuck working late, and Dex, who raced (and won) in the rain the previous night, before they cancelled, both turned up to cheer me on. Most importantly, I learned that I can handle two days straight of pre-race shits, and still push myself.

All in all, I feel like I am making progress. I feel stronger than ever, but as the Leadville 100 looms closer, some self doubt is creeping in. I was five minutes faster this year at the Frisco Roundup than when I did it two years ago, but between all the training and the lighter bike, should I have been faster yet? I haven’t ridden any really long climbs yet this year, will I be ready for that by August 10th? I still don’t know what kind of gearing I’m going to run (spoiler alert: It’s the Wrong Gear), but what if the one I pick is more wrong than the other? Will I burn myself out riding the same three trails because everything else will stay snowed in this year? And will the traditional Leadville 100 course remain the same, or will they have to reroute due to all the snow, leaving me to try and prove myself on something lower, lesser, smaller. Whether my fears are based in much truth or not, I suppose it doesn’t matter. The doubts can hang around if they want to, but all I can really do is keep plugging away, enjoy the small victories, learn from my failures, and embrace what’s to come.

Stay tuned for a race analysis of last year’s Leadville 100 MTB, where I delve into everything I did wrong!