Rift MTB – Iceland 2025: First-Ever Edition

First of all — what an honor. To take part in the very first edition of Rift MTB Iceland feels surreal, and I am beyond grateful to have been here. Riding my bike across such raw and untouched landscapes, meeting amazing people, and bringing home unforgettable memories — this is the kind of adventure I live for.

“Adventure is worthwhile in itself.” – Amelia Earhart

I love cool weather conditions for bike racing, and Iceland delivered just that: 50-degree days, some with sun, some with drizzle, fog, or light rain—and always that relentless wind.

This was also my first time racing in the Mixed Team category, and the same for my teammate Ryan. We knew each day would bring learning opportunities—how to race together, how to be as fast and efficient as possible, but also how to absorb the moment, the scenery, and the journey.

From the moment we landed until our planes took off, the Rift crew gave us true white-glove service: arranging domestic flights, picking us up at airports, transporting bikes, and storing our bags so we could enjoy Reykjavik before our flight north. Without this race, I never would have seen so many remote and spectacular places—it often felt too good to be real.

We settled into a beautiful hotel in Akureyri, right on the fjord. Each morning and evening, we were spoiled with delicious meals and surrounded by incredible people. 

The atmosphere quickly became like family: racers, crew, mechanics. By the end of the week, we weren’t just participants in a race — we were part of a shared adventure.

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Stage 1 – Fjord Sprint

25 miles, 2:20 hrs, 3.5k climbing

The opening stage included trails from the local bike park, tucked right behind our hotel. 

We rolled out with a long road start that quickly pitched upward onto gravel, climbing higher and higher until we were above the gondolas. From there, the first descent was a playground: flowy berms into open, exposed rock slabs where you could pick any line and let it fly.

Then came one of the trickiest sections: a narrow, off-camber singletrack along the river’s edge, where one slip could send you swimming. A short metal bridge carried us safely across the water before the course pitched brutally upward — too steep to ride, forcing a grueling hike-a-bike straight into our legs.

Cresting that challenge, the reward was a ripping descent into the lower bike park — a magical Icelandic forest of mossy singletrack, lush greenery, roots, tight turns, and just enough slickness to keep every rider humble.

Ryan and I quickly learned during the gondola climb that the first Elite Mixed team was out of reach. Our real battle would be with the strong third-place team, who excelled on gravel climbs. Luckily for us, every time we hit technical descents we clawed back time, often passing them on technical bits.

The stage ended with an all-out push along the walking path skirting the fjord—wheel to wheel, grinding hard alongside our Brevard friends, Nick and Nell. Just a minute back, another mixed team was chasing fiercely. A short but savage opener, it was clear from the start that this race would be tight all week.

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Stage 2 – Above the Clouds

28 miles, 2:50 hrs, 4k climbing

This time we left the hotel in the opposite direction, climbing straight out of town on a steep road. A small singletrack cut through led us onto doubletrack that climbed relentlessly. We pushed hard to stay with the front, finding ourselves alongside the leading women’s team. At one point, a huge group of schoolchildren lined the trail, reaching out their hands to clap as we rode by—it was a special moment.

The climb continued, gravel giving way to higher alpine terrain. We pushed above the gondola station, higher than the day before, until we were riding through clouds. It was the bluest, warmest day of the week, with endless panoramic views when the fog cleared.

The descent was wild: a narrow rollercoaster trail through thick brush, steep in places, dropping us back to the exposed rocks and then into the now-familiar green bike park trails. 

Other teams were close, and we could hear them breathing down our necks. Once again it came down to a furious sprint to the line—this time with just a slim gap of maybe a minute. Stage two complete, and still locked in battle.

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Stage 3 – The Queen Stage

39 miles, 4:23 hrs, 6.2k climbing

Our first remote start meant an early breakfast already in kit, then an hour’s bus ride through tunnels and rolling green hills toward the coast. Even the transfer was breathtaking: streams tumbling into the sea, tiny fishing villages clinging to the cliffs.

This was the Queen Stage: the longest day in both time and elevation.

Thank you Mucha!

The trails weren’t bike trails at all—hiking routes and sheep tracks, raw and wild.

We rolled out from the harbor in thick fog, cold wind, mid-40s. The road tilted skyward and within minutes we were climbing into a wall of mist. Sheep darted across the trail. Groups splintered. Soon it was just us and our Brevard friends, grinding toward the top. The fog was so dense I had to take off my glasses. The descent was chaos—loose, round rocks everywhere, impossible to avoid, arm pump screaming, feet dabbing to stay upright.

After a road stretch where Ryan pulled us back to two strong mixed teams, we climbed again—this time into true wilderness. A feed zone, then the infamous sheep trail: deep ruts, boggy turf, blueberry bushes, pushing bikes into a wall of rocks and moss. Fog swirled, voices disappeared. It was just me, the rocks, and the wind. I cursed out loud at one point —“Are there enough f***ing rocks here?!”— smiled and kept pushing. 

Then, magic. We broke through the clouds into dazzling sun. Glaciers glistened between jagged peaks, blue sky above, clouds below. Out of water, exhausted, I stopped to take a video just to remember it. And then—an arrow pointing straight onto a glacier. Yes, we had to ride across it. Sliding, laughing, dodging crevasses, it was pure Icelandic madness.

The descent that followed took us through foggy ridges with twin waterfalls, fairy-tale meadows with tiny flowers, bogs, and rivers. At one point I crashed hard, pedal striking a rock and flipping, but even that felt soft, as if Iceland cradled me.

By the time we reached the fishing village finish, I was overwhelmed. I hugged Dana, the race director, and burst into tears. “It was so beautiful out there. Thank you.” Then we warmed up with bowls of hot chowder—the best of my life. This was a day I will never forget.

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Stage 4 – Lava Fields of Fire

50 miles, 3:42 hrs, 2.4k climbing

Another remote start took us east through the longest tunnel I’ve ever seen, past a massive beautiful waterfall, until the world turned black. 

We started in volcanic ash fields, surrounded by dark mountains. The atmosphere on the line was electric—music pumping, crews and racers dancing before the suffering began.

We called it the “Icelandic Fox Pack”: three teams, including us, pushing together into the ash and lava.

The terrain was otherworldly—fields of jagged lava, soft black sand, cracks in the earth. I clipped a pedal on a fence, almost tumbled into the lava, that small mistake caused us to fall back. 

At one point, I launched a solo attack into the wind, hammering nearly 20 minutes to catch and pass Brevard and another mixed team. There was a a moment when we finally descended and sat for a brief moment 3rd overall for the day. But we made a wrong turn on a split of a very windy and never ending looking road, and that caused us to lose a spot. But also when Ryan rejoined after stopping at feed zone, the gravel powerhouse team surged past us like rockets. We clawed what we could, but their strength on road and gravel was unmatched. 

The final stretch included smoking geothermal vents, endless headwind, and a long, lonely road climb that felt eternal. Fingers frozen, body fading, There was a small fun and slick singletracks that led us to the finish. We’d lost four minutes, but we were still in podium position. Onion soup by the harbor never tasted so good.

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Stage 5 – The Ridge of Bogs

40 miles, 3:53 hrs, 5k climbing

Cold, windy, damp—the final day. Spirits were high though, the Rift crew blasting music and cheering as we rolled off across the fjord. 

The first climb stretched the field. We stayed glued to the wheel of our rivals, fighting the wind as a group. It was completely white all around and the pace was strong. 

The ridge was boggy, muddy, and relentless. On a stone bridge our rivals stalled—we slipped past and opened a gap on the rocky descent.

But the course wasn’t done. After a flowing gravel section and a dramatic bridge crossing, the final climb loomed: nearly an hour of grinding switchbacks. I felt dizzy, almost ready to lie down in the grass, I saw the 3rd team just below us, I knew they would get us if we didn't really work hard as a team. Ryan pushed us to the top and I dug deep. 

At the ridge we were alone, shrouded in clouds, riding through pure white emptiness.

One more round of bogs, steep grassy climbs, then finally the descent—grassy, rocky, with wooden steps, and a stunning view of the bay and our hotel below. Road stretch, then the finish at the Forest Lagoon. Five brutal, beautiful days. Wrapped in warm blankets, with our bikes washed beside a waterfall. 

We had done it: 2nd place in Elite Mixed Teams.

After Five Incredible Days

“Dare to live the life you have dreamed for yourself. Go forward and make your dreams come true.” – R. W. Emerson

Antonio and Mari

When the dust settled on five incredible days of racing, we found ourselves in the Forest Lagoon, soaking in Iceland’s famous natural hot springs…we floated, toasted with friends, and savored a delicious dinner. Later, the afterparty and award ceremony brought more joy as the winners raised bull horns full of beer on the podium — a perfect Icelandic celebration.

Matt in action!

The Rift crew designed an unforgettable adventure — white-glove service, raw Icelandic beauty, and trails few people ever touch. Race director Dana set the tone with kindness, fun, and endless energy. The photographers and videographers captured every moment beautifully — and along the way became friends. My husband Pax joined Matt, chasing racers and filming our adventure, always smiling and having fun, while Antonio was everywhere, capturing fantastic photos of us racing with a big, happy smile. The SRAM crew kept our bikes dialed and even played the best rock music at the finish lines.

Our SRAM Crew 

It all came together to make this first edition not only a success, but an unforgettable experience for everyone. I leave with gratitude, awe, and the certainty that I’ll be back.

Dana. You Rock!!!

Cross Country National Championships – Roanoke, VA

Three days. That’s all I had between Marathon Nationals and the Cross Country race—three days after winning a title and pushing my legs to the limit with cramping that felt like a freight train was tearing through every muscle. My recovery window was almost nonexistent. On top of that, I needed to squeeze in practice laps on the XCO course.

Photo credit: www.stevethephotographer.photos

The day after the marathon, my legs wouldn’t move. It wasn’t the usual kind of tired—this was different. I can ride all day and feel great, but this race had left me wrecked. It felt like I had just come off a week of lifting a thousand-pound barbell with my legs. Everything hurt—quads, inner thighs, calves—completely destroyed.

The heat in Virginia didn’t let up either. That entire week was just brutally hot. I didn’t even bother trying to ride the first day, even though I knew I should. The following two days, I pre-rode the course. Compared to the vast forest trails of the marathon, this course felt tiny—narrow, off-camber, packed with little roots and tight switchbacks.

My first pre-ride was on a slick track, and my tires slid sideways on the tiniest roots. Riders were struggling with the traction and line choices. A few steep climbs had that “you either make it or you don’t” feel. The one rock garden—always wet—sat just past a super slick drop into a creekbed. Traction was everything.

The trail conditions started improving the next day as things dried out. But just one day before the race, the weather forecast showed storms rolling in. Panic started creeping in across the field. This course becomes nasty with even a little rain. I kept second-guessing my tire choice until nearly the last moment. Do I stick with fast-rolling rubber or switch to something chunkier in case the rain hits mid-race?

From a mental or adventurous standpoint, I almost wanted the chaos. I love when extra elements of difficulty hit mid-race. That fight-for-survival mode is what my soul craves. It’s strange, I know. But perfect weather on a perfect course is great for a fun ride in the mountains. For racing? The worse it is, the better. That’s where real strength shows. Everyone can ride well when it’s clean and flowy. But when things get sketchy? That’s when you see who’s really willing to suffer.

I eventually swapped to chunkier tires.

And of course—it didn’t rain before or during my race. It was just hot and sunny again.

Thankfully, 99% of the course is under a dense tree canopy, which helped. The only exposed section is the paved start/finish.

I haven’t mentioned it until now—and might not get into the full story yet—but some heavy stuff happened in my life recently. It changed how I approached this race. I wasn’t thinking about who I was racing. I didn’t even care. When life smacks you in the face, even a national championship can feel small. So I wasn’t worried about results or my competitors—I was just focused on doing my best. And honestly, that’s the best mindset you can have on race day.

That said, I still felt some pre-race anxiety. Not from pressure or nerves, just because I knew what was coming. XCO racing is intense. Every second counts. Every slide, every mistake hurts more in this format. And if you’re focused on results, that stress multiplies.

We were lined up in our start waves, and I was in a sea of strong, inspiring women. I knew so many of them. But I didn’t get a call-up, so I was the last to pick a starting position. I lined up all the way on the left, and when the whistle blew, I got squeezed in the first left-hand corner. Riders ahead cleared the turn, and I had to sprint on the straight just to squeeze into the singletrack in third.

I liked my position. Now it was time to race.

Pretty quickly, I realized I’d need to pass the second rider. I did, and now I was on the leader’s wheel. She was riding really well. I studied her lines and pace. Then we had the strangest conversation mid-race:

The rider asked, “Is that Beata or Kim behind me?”

I said, “Beata.”

Then she said, “You already won.”

I replied, “No… what did I win?”

She said, “Three days ago.”

I said, “Oh, you raced?”

She goes, “Yes, I was 1.5 minutes behind you.”

Ha. That’s when I realized how unaware I had been of my competition. She was the one chasing me down during the marathon while I was battling the worst cramps of my life. Honestly, I had a lot on my mind and hadn’t even checked the results.

Then she added, "You always beat me."

I tried to steer the conversation to something positive and said, “Well, you’re riding well.”

She said, “You are too.”

That was that. We got back to racing. I followed her closely through the flowy berms, then we dropped into the steep, slick descent to the creek. You really had to stay on your line here to hit the wet rock pile just right and drop down to the bridge. Then came the longest climb of the course—steep and relentless, eventually spilling you out onto the exposed asphalt with crowds cheering.

We were just seconds apart and dropped into lap two together.

Photo credit: https://www.instagram.com/snowymountainphotography

At times, I felt like I could go faster. I tried to pass her on the climbs a few times, but she accelerated each time to block it. Maybe on the fifth try, I finally got around her at the top and dropped into the singletrack in first. I even said “I’m sorry,” feeling oddly guilty that I might have cost her a win again. I was feeling hot but steady.

But I couldn’t shake her—not on flowy parts, not on descents, not even on the climbs.

Photo credit: https://www.instagram.com/snowymountainphotography

Then came a tricky rooty section. A younger rider in front was slowing, so I asked to pass. She moved right. As I was just about to line up for the roots, something hit like a freight train—she came flying by me on the left, so close she nearly hit my bars. I got knocked off my line and couldn’t clear the roots.

That was it. She was gone.

At the beginning of the first lap, a rider had flipped over the bars and tumbled way down the mountain, it was three of us going by, but by the time i was at the spot the rider was already deep down off the hill. Unsure how it actually happened. I had been the only one to ask if she was OK. I don’t know if it was the same rider trying the pass unsafely, but now it seemed possible. 

She opened a gap. By the end of that lap, she had 30 seconds on me.

As I crossed the line again, the announcer said “One lap to go”— but we had been told we were racing four laps. Now I was confused. Was that call for me, or another class?

If it was the last lap, I had to give everything. If not, I couldn’t afford to blow up. So I rode the first part steady, then went full gas later. But I never saw her again. When I hit the top of the final long climb and emerged onto the blazing asphalt, it was obvious—this was the end. No more laps.

Just like that, the race was over.

Another second place.

I’ve lost track of how many silver medals I’ve gotten over the years at Nationals. Those were all strong finishes. Almost every time, it was good enough to win in another class—but not mine. And that’s racing. No guarantees. All you can do is keep showing up and giving everything.

It’s funny how stubborn we all are. How rare victory is. And still, we keep chasing it. Not all of us—but those of us wired this way. The ones who live for the fight. I always say: for a race to become the most brutal, soul-emptying battle, all it takes is one more person like you—just as stubborn, just as driven. It’s not about numbers. It’s about quality.

XCO isn’t my strength. I live for the long, slow burn of endurance racing. But once in a while, I throw myself into these short, intense fights. And even when I don’t win, I leave proud.

This week was long, hot, and emotional. I came out of it with a National Title and a hard-fought second place. I did everything I could. I raced with heart and grit—and I’m happy with that.

And right after I finished, the skies opened up. It poured. Buckets of rain just minutes after my race ended. The timing couldn’t have been crazier.

On the small stuff? I ate and drank well, got feeds from Pax, and loved hearing friends cheering me on.

Really huge prompts for Pax for setting up my bike as usual for the race and all that he does, even when he really shouldn't... 

Bike rode super well, and I loved my fast wheels...

With Chad from Gulo Composites at Nationals.
How lucky I am to have them in Brevard!

  

 

Heat, Hecklers, and Heart: My ORAMM 2025 Ride

ORAMM 2025 – 66 Miles | 8,900 ft Climbing | 6:47 hrs

2nd Place – Open Women

This year’s ORAMM was a wild one — record singletrack, mid-90s heat, and my third big race in just two weeks. But what a ride! Here’s how the day unfolded:

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Start to First Feed

 

We rolled out fast, and I was in the front group of 30–40 riders. I checked my power — it looked good, and I felt strong. The thought crossed my mind: if I bail now, I’ll skip a long day of suffering. But I felt amazing, and my mind flipped — I was all in. All guys plus Madison made up the front group. Nick  joked that the real race starts when we hit the gravel climb. He was right. That's where we began to separate. 

 

Bernard Trail came early. I’d only ridden it once, just after it opened years ago. Back then, it was smoother. Now it had rocky, exposed features but still held some of its original flow. I didn’t know one of the climb lines — Boris and another rider passed me and cheered me on. At the bottom Pax was cheering too. 

The Kitsuma climb was as usual painful and descent dry, dusty, and beat-up — but fun and techy, and I loved sending it.

Camp Grier to Deep Cove

Next, we entered Camp Grier’s new flowy trails — opposite direction from how I’d ridden them before. Somewhere here I had a train of guys sitting on my wheel. I asked, “Anyone want to pass?” and they said, “Nope.” I figured I was doing something right. At the second feed, I grabbed a bottle — and that’s when the first cramps hit. Only 3 hours in, and the heat was climbing fast.

Deep Cove was brutal. It was fun in the opposite direction last time, but today it felt never-ending — all steep, punchy climbs. We were crawling. I missed one climb and a guy nearby said, “Thank goodness — I needed a break!” It was that kind of suffering.

Camp Rock to Star Gap

After a gravel section, we turned into Camp Rock. I thought we’d just head to Star Gap via Jarrett Creek gravel. I asked Boris, “What the heck is this?” and he said, “This is hell.” He wasn’t lying — more climbing. It dragged on and when I finally popped out on gravel, no one from our group was around. I was alone and focused on reaching Star Gap and the next feed.

I started climbing and was okay at first, but then I ran out of water. On one narrow switchback I lost balance and fell back — bike pinned my legs. When I stood, both calves locked up in spasms. I had to wait, then reset my chain, and a rider from our earlier group passed me. But I managed to pass him back quickly. Still, I was overheating and seriously thirsty.

Heckler Section + Creek Redemption

Finally, I reached the top and the descent began. When I hit the Heckler section, I didn’t know the new lines — hadn’t ridden it in two years. I dropped in blind. My line was gone, and I ended up doing what felt like a track stand on the rocks. I dropped an F-bomb, the hecklers laughed, and I somehow managed to recover without crashing. People were cheering — and laughing with me.

Right after the rocky mess, I crossed the creek. I couldn’t resist — I dropped my bike and flopped belly-first into the water like a tadpole. It felt like heaven. Only lasted a few seconds, but it was everything.

Pax handed me cold bottles — plain cold water never tasted so good. I thought I was saved, but then my legs locked up again. Took a minute to get going through the spasms. We were now climbing Mills River Road, repeating Bernard and Kitsuma.

Final Miles

I rode Bernard alone. The paved climb back to Kitsuma was long and lonely. Over 7,000 feet of climbing and six hours in, my mind wanted to be done — a river finish would’ve been great. But instead, I still had to climb Kitsuma.

Even though I was cooked, Kitsuma’s descent still brought fun. I rolled toward the finish on the road, through the Old Fort. It was the longest ORAMM yet — and one of the most brutal.

Crossing the finish, I was so grateful to place 2nd in a super strong Open Women’s field. I knew we all suffered equally, and many friends had dropped out.

But seeing Pax and my friends, eating from @kchn_kitchen, and finally getting that long creek soak — those moments made it all worth it.

Reflections

I passed so many racers on the side: one said, “I’m just tired,” and I thought — me too. Another was cramping — me too. Another said they ran out of water — same. We all suffered. That’s bike racing. Your body screams to stop, but your mind overrides. That’s what I love most about endurance racing — it shows you strength you didn’t know you had. And it changes you in every part of life.