Not Every Start Line Is a Peak

I wasn’t supposed to still be in Florida.

We were meant to be home already — back in the mountains — but an ice storm hit one weekend, followed by snow the next. The kind of winter weather I actually love. The kind I wanted to see, photograph, feel.

Instead, we stayed a little longer.

And when you stay a little longer in Florida, Florida does what Florida does:

another race appears.

Alligator: The Race landed on the calendar. I hadn’t planned for it. I hadn’t trained specifically for it. But I was there — so I lined up.

Race morning was cold.
Low thirties.
Strong wind.
Bright blue sky.

Cold fingers under palm trees.

At the last moment, the race was shortened from four laps to three — cutting it from roughly 32 miles to 24. I had been mentally prepared for something longer, something I could settle into.

Instead, it became sharp.

Fast.

Florida vs. Mountains

Let me be honest.

Florida racing has never truly suited me.

I thrive where races stretch out and strip you down — long climbs that burn steadily for hours. Endless gravel. Sustained ascents. Terrain where patience matters and strength unfolds slowly.

In the mountains, I don’t rush.
I endure.
I build.
I rise.

Florida asks for constant accelerations, tight turns, quick decisions.

It isn’t where my strengths sing.

And knowing that isn’t weakness.

It’s clarity.

Inside the Race

The course was fun and demanding — concrete climbs, wooden features, log-overs, tight transitions. Gun Range was fast and alive. Collarbone carried history.

Mid-race, a bright green iguana lay on the trail, stunned from the cold. Florida always adds something surreal.

Jen almost didn’t race after crashing in preride. She lined up anyway — and absolutely crushed it.

As for me, the race unfolded quietly.

I rode well.

I committed to the features.
I stayed steady.
I didn’t panic.

But when I tried to accelerate, there was nothing there.

No spark.
No surge.
No extra gear.

And that wasn’t surprising.

I had been riding steady gravel miles. Building base. Not training for repeated XC surges.

This wasn’t a season goal race. It wasn’t something I had circled for months.

It was a start line I chose to stand on.

And the result reflected exactly where I was.

On paper, it wasn’t impressive.

But it wasn’t catastrophic either.

It was accurate.

The Part We Don’t Always Share

I wanted to write about this race.

And at the same time, I wanted to forget it.

Even though I wrote notes the day after, it took longer to actually process it.

Not because it was dramatic.

But because I’m hard on myself.

When you’re known for big events and strong results, it can feel uncomfortable to finish near the back of the field at a smaller race.

But here’s the truth:

This race didn’t define anything. It just reflected where I am right now.

Performance reflects preparation.

And I simply wasn’t in a phase built for sharp XC results.

That doesn’t make the ride bad.

It just makes it honest.

When I was nine years old at my first table tennis tournament, I was unrated and matched against the number one seed in the first round. I could have walked away.

I didn’t.

Just a little over three years later, at thirteen, I won two national titles.

Because it’s never the loss that defines you.

It’s whether you learn from it.
Whether you understand what happened.
Whether you keep loving what you do enough to continue.

Funny thing is, when I think back on that Florida day now, I don’t remember the placement first.

I remember the cold air.
The trails.
The feeling of riding through Florida woods under a bright winter sky.

Yes, my legs were empty when I asked them for more.

But I genuinely enjoyed being out there.

You can ride well and still have a result that looks small.

Results depend on timing, preparation, the field, and countless variables outside your control.

You only control your ride.

That’s it.

And I’m proud of how I rode.

What Stayed With Me

Even though I’m no longer a local, I heard people cheering my name.

 

Friends.
Familiar faces.
Encouragement that had nothing to do with placement.

That mattered.

More than the result.

Some races aren’t about proving fitness.

Some races remind you where you truly thrive.

I’m at my best in the mountains.

That hasn’t changed.

But this race reminded me of something equally important:

Results are information.

They are not identity.

There will be sharper days ahead. There will be stronger performances. That’s how seasons work.

I’m exactly where I need to be.    

Six Weeks on the Levee

Florida felt different this time.

Not louder. Not harder. Just different.

Most of my rides happened on the levee — long stretches of gravel cutting through the Everglades, flat and exposed. No climbs to interrupt the rhythm. No technical sections demanding sharp focus. Just steady pedaling and open sky.

You can’t really hide on the levee. If you stop pushing, you slow. If the wind turns against you, you feel it immediately. So I focused on constant movement. On the gravel under my tires. On the endless Everglades stretching beside me. On the wind moving the tall grasses.

Some days were good.

Most days were simply steady.

And that was enough.

 

One evening, I rode past the bench I used to quietly call “my bench.” It sits along the levee where the sunset hits just right. I’ve stopped there before. Sat there. Thought there.

This time, a couple was sitting on it.

I looked at them, smiled, and waved as I rode by. There was something peaceful about seeing someone else enjoying that place. It wasn’t my bench anymore.

And surprisingly, I wasn’t upset.

It felt like a quiet reminder that nothing is ever really ours. We just pass through.

Another afternoon, just as I was starting my ride, I saw a young man sitting on the edge of the levee playing guitar. I had never seen anyone out there doing that.

It made me smile.

What a beautiful way to enjoy this place.

There was something reassuring about it — someone else finding peace in the same wide horizon. Sitting still. Listening. Playing.

And I realized that riding there is my version of that.

Different movement.
Different rhythm.
Same kind of presence.

Not all of those miles were alone.

A few evenings, after laps at Markham, Jen and I sneaked out onto the levee for extra gravel miles. We rode side by side, mostly chatting away, sometimes quiet, occasionally looking at each other and smiling.

She told me she would never be out there if it weren’t for me. And I felt genuinely happy that she got to experience something I’ve always loved.

The openness.
The wind.
The simplicity.

One evening we misjudged the light. I had no lights and still miles to go. At one point she lost hers and had to sprint back the opposite direction, maneuvering in near darkness.

It was a little chaotic.
A little dramatic.
A little thrilling.

And somehow, very us.

But most of the time, it was just me.

The sun would start high and harsh when I rolled out. By the time I turned back, it would be sinking toward the horizon, wrapping the swamps in gold, orange, and deep pink. The air would cool. The wind would pick up. Birds would begin flying toward their spots for the night before dark.

Those were the moments I felt most alive.

Cool breeze.
Strong wind.
Color shifting across the sky.
Solitude stretching in every direction.

We’ve had a lot of shifts in our lives recently. Big ones. The kind that unsettle everything.

But every time I rolled onto that levee and saw the same horizon, the same grasses moving, the same birds settling in before nightfall, I felt reassured.

The world was still there.

I was still there.

Sometimes I would stop and watch the sun drop fully past the horizon and disappear. Watching that slow fade makes you realize how quickly every second is passing by — whether you’re ready for it or not.

Soon I will be back in my mountains — the place I love deeply. Back to climbing and forest-covered trails.

But I will always miss these steady miles.

The flat horizon.
The endless sky.
The simple act of pedaling forward with nothing in front of me but wind.

Florida didn’t give me epic rides this time.

It gave me perspective.

And that was exactly what I needed.

Bad Habit — Racing Together, One Lap at a Time

Bad Habit wasn’t a race we planned weeks in advance. It wasn’t about chasing results or proving anything. It was about not missing the chance to have fun together, support the trails that shaped so many years of our riding lives, and spend a full race day surrounded by friends, family, and bikes.

Bad Habit is a four-hour race, but instead of racing solo, Jen and I decided to race it as a two-person team—purely because it sounded more fun. We swapped laps the entire day, one lap at a time, with each lap just under 30 minutes. By the end, it added up to about two hours of racing each.

Simple. Perfect. Exactly what we wanted.

Jen went first.

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

She’s amazing at starts—especially mass starts. Fearless, powerful, and completely comfortable in chaos. She surged ahead right from the gun and rode a very strong opening lap, making space for us early and setting the tone for the day.

When she came through the exchange, I rolled out knowing my job was to settle us into rhythm.

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

Florida made itself known immediately.

That first lap hit hard. The heat and humidity wrapped around me instantly—heavy and relentless. My head started pounding, my face flushed, and my body felt like it was cooking from the inside. On top of that, I had a few fast guys coming through early, which added to the intensity. My toes began crossing inside my shoes—always my warning sign—and I thought, this is exactly why I live in the cool mountains now.

Still, I stayed calm and present. I didn’t miss any of it.

The second lap was my favorite. The most peaceful. Traffic thinned out, the pace felt right, and I finally settled into a groove where everything made sense. I was exactly where I needed to be, riding smoothly, managing the heat, enjoying the trail for what it was.

We kept trading laps like clockwork. Roll in, quick drink, tiny snack, no time to even take the helmet off, and line up again. There was barely time to sit before it was time to go. The rhythm became familiar, steady, almost comforting.

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

Toward the end of my third lap, the skies opened up.

Rain started falling just enough to change everything. The trails went slick fast—sand turning greasy, roots and corners demanding more care. It was refreshing and brutal at the same time. The humidity stayed, but the rain cooled things just enough to make it feel manageable again.

By the final laps, traffic picked up. More riders on course, more navigating around slower lines, more patience required. But the course was set up well, flowing nicely even with the congestion, and overall it stayed fun—challenging, but fair. Of course, minus the humidity.

In between laps, the tent felt like its own little world. Friends everywhere. Familiar faces. Marsha holding things down while Robert L was out racing. Kids playing and cheering near the finish line, watched over by dad Robert S in that relaxed race-day way. Pax was everywhere—timing laps, calling out exchanges, keeping us in sync.

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

It was beautifully synchronized chaos.

At the end, Candance, our old friend, and I exchanged a high five and laughed about our very first race together—total newbies, more than fifteen years ago, with no idea what we were doing. Just excited to be there. It felt good to walk down that memory lane and realize how far we’ve come—and that we’re still here, still racing, still having fun.

Jen and I, we weren’t riding side by side, but we were racing together all day long. Sharing effort, heat, rain, laughter, and that quiet understanding that comes from years of friendship.

That’s why we raced Bad Habit.

Not for results.
Not for validation.
Just for a really good day on bikes, with people we love. 

And yes we snagged the win, but again, that was just a bonus of the day... 

And days like that stay with you.

FSC Endurance Florida Series – Lakeland, FL

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.

Swiss Epic 2024 – Dream Race in the Heart of the Alps

Some dreams linger quietly in your heart, years before you even know if they can come true. For me, one of those dreams was the Swiss Epic. Ten years ago, my best friend Jennifer, casually said, “We should race Swiss Epic together one day…” I let the idea float somewhere in the back of my mind, imagining those trails, the adventure, the mountains. Little did I know that one day, this vague vision would become reality.

Fast forward to 2024—we were finally here. Standing at the start line, breathing in the alpine air, gazing at the Morteratsch Glacier, it felt surreal. The dream I had carried for so long had taken shape. My best friend by my side, our bikes ready, and five days of racing through some of the most beautiful, challenging, and unforgettable trails on the planet ahead of us.

Stage 1 – Flowing Trails and First Magic

46 miles | 4:45 hrs | 7.1K ft climbing

Just minutes before the start of Stage 1, it finally hit me. The noise, the colors, the energy, the mountains towering above us—I looked at Jen, then around at the sea of riders, and the emotion washed over me.

I was actually here. We were about to race the Swiss Epic.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as that truth sank in. Jen kept giving me those grounding, comforting hugs—the kind that say I’m right here with you. And just like that, our journey began.

The morning air was crisp, only 52°F, and we rolled off two minutes behind the UCI Women’s start. Straight into the first climb, the Master Women leaders surged away, riding incredibly strong and opening a gap almost immediately. We knew they would be fast—this was their terrain—and we didn’t try to chase, just focused on finding our pace.

Then came the first slick descent.

Wet roots. Tight switchbacks. Steep pitches that demanded total trust in your bike. It was classic Swiss singletrack: challenging, technical, alive. As we navigated those slippery corners, we began catching riders from the UCI Pro Women’s field—a small but encouraging sign that our rhythm was settling in exactly where it needed to be.

The climb to Corviglia felt endless, a slow-motion battle against gravity. In some sections, whole groups of riders were off their bikes, all pushing together beneath the gondolas overhead. The trail twisted and turned with no mercy, but slowly—step by step—we gained altitude.

Then, the sound.
The distant call of Alphorns drifting down from the peak.
A fairytale welcome to the top.

From Corviglia, the world opened up into pure joy: flowing trails through sun-dappled forests, smooth lines, fast corners, and that mix of exhilaration and relief you only feel after a massive climb. Jen and I kept cheering each other along, sharing every laugh, every moment of magic that made the effort worth it.

We crossed the line smiling, finishing 2nd in Master Women and 6th in Pro UCI Women—a strong, happy start to the adventure of a lifetime.

Stage 2 – Queen Stage, Glacier Dreams

46 miles | 5:56 hrs | 8K ft climbing

Stage 2 was the Queen Stage—a true test of endurance, skill, and heart, and for me, the most demanding day of the entire Swiss Epic—but also my absolute favorite. It had everything: long grinding climbs, raw alpine terrain, surreal beauty, technical singletrack, and moments that stay etched into your memory forever.

We climbed from Pontresina to Davos, starting on slippery, root-filled trails that reminded me of home in Pisgah. One section was a super steep and exposed descent that few dared to ride. KTM medics traversed the mountains alongside us to ensure safety, which was comforting as we tackled the tricky lines.

Early in the climb, we truly made friends on the trail. The day before, we had leapfrogged a duo men’s team from Italy on singletrack—passing them, then being passed again, almost as if they couldn’t quite decide how to feel about two women riding that strong in front. After several exchanges, when we caught them at the base of the first long mountain we needed to conquer, they shouted with huge smiles:

“Hey Beata! Great to see you! How is your day going?”

That small gesture marked the moment we were accepted as belonging—a tiny but meaningful piece of camaraderie in a race where everyone is hurting but everyone is together. From then on, we often rode near them, using each other as quiet benchmarks through the day.

To our left, cascading off the mountains, flowed the clearest, bluest, most otherworldly glacier-fed river I’ve ever seen. As we pushed up the gravel road—getting steeper and steeper toward the last feed zone before the main climb—I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I imagined myself sitting at the edge, with a sandwich and my camera, spending a perfect, quiet day absorbing the scene. Higher up, the river briefly split into two braided channels, glowing like liquid turquoise against a backdrop of jagged rock and distant ice—the mountain we were about to climb.

Then came the legendary Scarletta Pass, over 8,000 feet. The climb was relentless—first gravel, then bouldery, narrow trails where every corner demanded careful attention. Some of the pro women were off their bikes, pushing up a brutally steep, punchy section. Somehow, we were still pedaling—barely, but pedaling. When the trail funneled into tight switchbacks and loose, sharp rocks, we found ourselves hopping on and off the bike again, navigating each twist and slippery corner.

Reaching the top was pure joy. Pure relief. Pure life. We had no shame stopping there for a moment—soaking in the sweeping views, breathing the thin, cold air, and wearing smiles so huge you’d think we’d just won the race.

Descending Scarletta Pass was technical, rough, and rocky. Hands screamed from gripping so hard; the rocks seemed to jump out at every turn. But the reward—the views, the sense of accomplishment, and the camaraderie with Jennifer—was beyond words.

Stage 2 asked for everything—and gave back even more. We finished 2nd in Amateur and 8th in Pro, exhausted but exhilarated, carrying memories of turquoise rivers, jagged peaks, and the magical camaraderie that only an epic like this can create.

Stage 3 – Rewarding Valleys, Bent Rotor Drama

39 miles | 4:29 hrs | 6.3K ft climbing

Stage 3, we had seen a little bit of everything—slick roots, cold alpine air, endless climbs, wildflowers dancing on steep ridgelines. This was supposed to be the “breather” stage, but it didn’t quite feel that way. Still, something clicked for me around the two-hour mark, and I remember thriving on the slippery, rooty singletrack, feeling strong and more settled into the rhythm of the race.

But this stage brought its own chaos.

At one point, the trail dropped us into one of the wettest, most technical rock gardens of the entire week. It was a wild mix of slick boulders, deep mud pockets, and wooden bridges shining with water. It was survival by commitment—carry speed with confidence, or get swallowed by the mud. We felt great here, dancing over the rocks.

A team of guys caught up to us, and I didn’t realize until much later that Jen had pulled off the narrow trail—leaning her bike toward a wall of rocks—to let them by.

We kept going and eventually spilled out onto a washed-out river crossing. As we started walking our bikes across, Jen said something was very wrong with her front wheel. She tried spinning it.

It barely moved—maybe a quarter of a rotation.
And the tech zone was still 8–10 miles away.

Jen was suffering—truly suffering—and she never complains. She’s the strongest person I know, and even she said, “B… I don’t know if I can make it.”

I just looked at her and said, “Yes, you can. Whatever it takes—we’ll get there together and can slow down a little if necessary.”

But Jen being Jen… she didn’t slow down.
She went harder.

She went in front of me, pushing these massive watts into a wheel that barely wanted to move. Watching her fight like that was unreal—pure heart, pure grit.

When we finally rolled into the tech zone, the mechanics immediately spotted the problem. The rotor was bent badly—almost certainly from when she leaned her bike into the rocks to let those guys pass. It’s crazy how one tiny moment in a race like this can turn into a massive obstacle miles later.

The tech crew was incredible—they swapped her rotor out in record time, fast and calm and absolutely clutch. While they worked, I sprinted back and forth between Jen, the bikes, and the feed table, stuffing my pockets and enjoying whatever snacks I could grab. It was frantic, but also such a welcome, funny little reset in the middle of a wild day.

Once Jen’s wheel was spinning freely again, we were off—and back in the fight.

The rest of the stage delivered more unforgettable moments: tight, root-strewn passages, exposed traverses, and ridge views that felt like we were walking inside the clouds. And that one insane, eroded, steep descent—the one so few dared to ride—where KTM medics shadowed us from the side of the mountain like guardian angels. It was ridiculous, beautiful, and unforgettable.

Stage 4 – An Unconquered Finish Line

39 miles | 5:36 hrs | 8.3K ft climbing

Stage 4 was the roughest day yet. We were riding from Davos to Chur—our remote finish line about 1.5 hours away by bus—so the day felt even more epic. Early on, we went off course down someone’s steep, bouldery driveway. We hiked our bikes back onto track, laughed at the misadventure, and pressed on.

The trails were relentless: paved climbs under the hot sun, bumpy grassy chatter, rocky paths, off-camber cow walks, and roots screaming under every touch. My hands, with countless painful blisters, protested every descent. Massive Swiss cows even blocked a gate and the entry to the next singletrack; all we could do was stop, laugh, and take a few pictures of them.

Finally, we descended the technical trails to Chur along the glacier-blue river. It was bumpy, rooty, and challenging, but offered a beautiful, refreshing reward—a moment to breathe in the Alpine splendor and reflect on the epic journey we had just ridden.

Stage 5 – Davos, Singletrack Paradise

38 miles | 5:06 hrs | 7.9K ft climbing

The final stage of Swiss Epic felt like stepping into a dream one last time.

We rolled out from the heart of Davos, weaving through quiet morning streets before the route funneled us onto gravel roads and into a long, determined line of riders. The climb began almost immediately—steady at first, then steeper, then steeper still—an hour-long ascent that pushed every muscle already worn from four brutal days.

My legs were on fire.
Jen’s too.
We exchanged a look that said everything:

I’m hurting.
You’re hurting.
But we’re doing this.

We spun our smallest chainrings, wishing we had one more gear—just one more—to ease the burn. But the Alps don’t deal in mercy; they deal in beauty and grit. And up we went.

Eventually, the city shrank into a tiny dot below us, swallowed by distance and cloud. We climbed above the mist, onto a ridge where the world turned surreal—a landscape shifting between moon-like black and red rock, stitched with narrow ribbons of trail perched high above the valley. The air was thin and crisp. The exposure was real. And the riding… the riding was everything.

The trail demanded precision, balance, full trust.
I felt light.
I felt alive.
My bike had wings.
I was flying.

And then came the masterpiece: the Panorama Trail.

A high-alpine ribbon of perfection, it flowed along the mountainside with big, smooth berms, perfectly carved into the hillside. Each turn slingshotted us into the next, feeding into steep, flowy features that felt like a rollercoaster built for mountain bikers. You could see the lake shimmering below, the jagged peaks on the horizon, and the city of Davos slowly appearing far in the distance. It was impossible not to smile—pure joy in trail form.

Every corner, every feature, every view felt like a reward for the work of the entire week.

Descending into Davos brought us closer and closer to the sounds of cheering, cowbells, and the heartbeat of the final finish line. And then, as the last stretch opened in front of us, everything inside me lifted.

We were about to finish our dream race.

Pax was right there at the finish—camera out, eyes bright, so proud.
Jen’s parents and her kiddos were cheering their hearts out.
Robert was there too, smiling, relieved, happy, taking it all in.

It wasn’t just our finish.
It was everyone’s finish.
A journey we had all shared in one way or another.

There was so much joy, so much accomplishment, and so much gratitude wrapped into that final moment. Jennifer and I rolled across the line side by side, hearts full, knowing we had lived something extraordinary—something we would carry with us for the rest of our lives.

Swiss Epic 2024… what a journey. What a gift. What a dream come true.

Reflections – A Dream Realized

Swiss Epic was not just a race. It was a dream fulfilled, a celebration of friendship, a journey through some of the most stunning mountains on Earth, and an adventure I will carry in my heart forever. Every technical trail, every breathtaking view, every root and rock, every laugh and cheer— all of it made this race extraordinary.

And to top it all off, we were thrilled to place 2nd in the Master Women category, finishing just behind a local team of incredibly strong women who consistently dominate this race. Sharing this accomplishment with Jennifer, in a race we had dreamed about for years, made it even more special. We are proud, accomplished, and endlessly grateful for this experience.

A piece of my heart stayed at Morteratsch Glacier, where Jen and I took our very first spin and stumbled into raw, untouched beauty. The turquoise rivers, the jagged white peaks, the whisper of glacier air, and the endless ribbons of singletrack left a mark that still pulls me back. Swiss Epic 2024—five days, countless memories, and a piece of my soul forever tucked into the Alps. Every breathtaking view, every technical trail, every root and rock, every laugh and cheer made this race more than just a challenge—it made it unforgettable.

We were so lucky to share this adventure with our families too. My Pax was there, and so were Robert, Jen’s kids, and her parents. It took some serious coordination to make it all happen, but it was worth every bit of effort. Between stages we shared delicious meals, splashed around in the pool, played mini golf at the little hotel course, wandered playgrounds with the kiddos, and took gondolas up to alpine gardens where we hiked magical trails that felt straight out of a storybook. And of course, we soaked in the experience of the famous red Swiss trains—carving through steep valleys and breathtaking peaks like the mountains themselves were putting on a show just for us.

Those moments in between—soft, joyful, ordinary in the best way—are memories we’ll hold onto forever.

Gratitude to the Sponsors Who Made This Dream Possible

Racing the Swiss Epic was a dream come true, and we couldn’t have done it without the incredible support of the brands who stood behind us.

Squirt Cycling Products played a huge part in making this adventure possible. As an official race sponsor, they took care of every racer’s bike each night—washing them with their biodegradable Squirt Bike Cleaner and storing them safely for the next day. Jen and I relied on Squirt Chain Lube, Squirt Sealant, and Barrier Balm, all of which worked flawlessly through mud, rain, dust, and long Alpine days. Their support kept our bikes—and our bodies—running strong through every stage.

Swiss Epic Squirt

My Zerounobikes Mag SL Queen Li Mei was flawless—smooth like butter over changing terrain, climbing with ease, descending confidently.

We were also thrilled to race on our Gulo Wheels, handmade right at home in Western North Carolina. Their precision, responsiveness, and durability were incredible on the mixed, technical Swiss terrain—from fast alpine descents to rocky climbs and wild, rooty forest trails.

Our Absolute Black chainrings were truly lifesavers. You don’t show up to race in the Swiss Alps without a small arsenal of gearing options, and every stage demanded something different. With those oval rings, we were ready for it all.

We loved racing in our favorite, ultra-comfortable DeFeet socks, baselayers and arm warmers, which kept us and our feet happy through endless hours of pedaling and post race. And of course, our setup wouldn’t be complete without ESI Grips, Xpedo USA pedals, and Selle SMP saddles and Gaerne shoes from Albabici—all products that performed perfectly day after day.

For hydration, we used USWE packs along with bottles on our bikes, which kept us fueled and hydrated through the long climbs, high heat, and long days in the saddle.

TrainerRoad deserves a special thank-you. I’ve used it for years to build the foundation that carries me through seasons like this one—but it played an even bigger role for Jen. While most of my preparation happens outdoors, Jen trained almost entirely indoors for this race, relying purely on TrainerRoad to build the fitness she needed for five brutal stages. It was incredible to watch her transform through that structured work and show up ready for everything the mountains threw at us.

We are deeply grateful for every sponsor who came along on this journey with us. Your support helped turn a lifelong dream into one of the most unforgettable experiences of our lives.