Sunday, January 5, 2025
55.69 miles | 4:43:04 | 1,135 ft elevation gain
Since I’m back in Florida again, it feels like the right time to finally write about a race I did here last January—one I never really planned to do, but one that ended up reminding me a lot about who I am as a racer.
When I moved to North Carolina, I told myself I was done racing in Florida. I’d done it all so many times—over and over—for years. It had been great, but that chapter felt closed. I was chasing new things now, bigger mountains, longer climbs, a different kind of challenge.
But life has its way of stretching plans.
Our trip extended unexpectedly, and suddenly there was this empty weekend ahead of me. No races on the calendar. No friends around to ride with. Jen wasn’t in town. And honestly, I had zero desire to ride the same Florida trails by myself again.
Saturday morning came—the day of the time trial and preride—and I still hadn’t decided what I was doing. I stayed in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, feeling that strange mix of restlessness and boredom. I texted Erick to see what he was up to. His reply came fast:
“I’m already on my way to Carter Road in Lakeland.”
I looked at Pax. He looked at me.
“Let’s go,” he said.
That was it.
I threw a few random things into a bag—no breakfast, no real race nutrition, nothing planned—because I genuinely had not intended to race at all. And off we went. The drive across Florida felt oddly peaceful. Flat sugar cane fields stretched forever, familiar and unchanged, like so many drives we’d done over the years.
When we arrived, it felt like stepping back in time. It was a Goneriding event, and seeing race director Dave and his wife Terry felt like no time had passed at all. Erick was already there and kindly handed me some sport bars, which, at that point, were absolutely necessary.
We did a short preride, and despite my strong dislike for time trials, I signed up. If I wanted a shot at the leader’s jersey—today and tomorrow—it was the only way.
The time trial itself is mostly a blur. Wide sandy dirt roads, a group ahead of me I couldn’t quite catch, and one unfamiliar female rider who ended up winning. I took second. Without real food in my system, I felt woozy and off. I’m small, and I know my body—I need to eat when I need to eat. That day was chaotic from the start.
At least we managed a good dinner later and tried to reset for race day.
Carter Road has always been one of my favorite places to ride in Florida, along with Santos, Hales, and Alafia. So I was curious—after all these years—how it would feel now. Especially since this was an endurance race.
Back in the early days of the Florida Endurance Series, when races were six hours long, I’d won the series overall. But times had changed. Not many riders wanted to race in circles for six hours anymore, so the format shifted to 60 miles—six laps on a ten-mile course.
Race morning came with a mass start: 60-mile and 30-mile racers all together. We hit the narrow singletrack almost immediately, and chaos followed. A standstill formed between trees so tight it barely allowed bikes through. I could’ve squeezed into the lead, but the same woman from the time trial went first and set the pace. I grabbed her wheel and decided to study her riding.
Within minutes, I had my first moment of regret.
The trails were flat, narrow, and very sandy. Someone joked about me racing in Florida again, and honestly, I felt sad about what I’d signed myself up for. Six laps of this? Mentally, that felt like a tall order.
There were beautiful sections—the fern trail, though stunning, was incredibly twisty and relentless. The last trail was tough too. Some areas with elevation and riding along the water’s edge were fun and added just enough tension to keep things interesting. I love those big oak trees draped in moss, the narrow lines hugging the swamp. I just wished there were more of those sections. Unfortunately, the most technical and scenic trails weren’t included in the course this time.
When we crossed the dirt road into an even deeper sandy climb, reality set in. This was going to be a very mental day.
But once I start something, I finish it.
I refocused. I stayed calm. I watched the rider ahead—she had excellent handling skills and rode the technical bits clean and confidently. I knew I was racing someone strong. This wasn’t going to be a runaway.
After a full lap sitting in second, I decided lap two was the time to make a move. I attacked—but the moment I reached for my bottle, everything changed. The bottle slid too far. Way too far.
My bottle cage had snapped.
Second time in my racing life this had happened—and in the middle of a race. An old carbon cage finally gave up at the worst possible moment.
Attack aborted.
I couldn’t race 50 miles without reliable water access. I settled back into her pace, we chatted briefly, and at one point she even offered for me to go first. I declined. At the feed zone, I pulled over and tried taping the cage together.
I watched her ride away.
It wasn’t a huge gap—maybe 40 seconds—but once I got going again, I couldn’t see her anymore. I knew the chase was on. I rode steady, composed, not panicking. Near the end of lap three, on a doubletrack section before the final trail, I finally spotted her again.
That’s when I knew I was okay.
I caught up quickly, followed, and made my pass heading into lap four. Full gas now. Everything clicking—until suddenly my bike refused to shift.
I looked back and couldn’t believe what I saw: a squirrel-nest-sized wad of moss from those beautiful oak trees had wrapped itself into my entire drivetrain. Cassette. Chain. Jockey wheels. Everywhere.
I stopped, peeled it out strand by strand, laughed out loud, and reminded myself to stay calm. Somehow, no one passed me during that mess.
Then lap five delivered one more surprise.
Out of nowhere, my pedals locked solid. Wouldn’t move an inch. I pulled over immediately and found a small rock wedged perfectly into the drivetrain. I just stared at it in disbelief. How many strange things could happen in one race?
I fixed it and rolled on.
Lap six—the final lap—was about survival and gratitude. I soaked in what I could: the light reflecting off the water, the lush greens, the narrow trails, the tiny climbs and descents that did bring flashes of joy. I crossed the line first—60 miles done—first female pro/expert and first overall in the Florida Endurance Series.
The finish was filled with familiar faces, laughter, and relief. Talking with Dave and Terry reminded me how much they’ve done for mountain biking in Florida—and how much their work helped shape the path that eventually led me to where I am now.
It was a strange, imperfect, chaotic day.
But it was also a beautiful reminder of the past—of friendships, resilience, and the kind of racing that shaped me long before the mountains did.
Sometimes it’s good to look back.
