One Year Later – 2026 Marathon National Championships

Some races are remembered because of the jersey you win.

Others stay with you because of the ride itself.

Photo credit: Snowy Mountain Photography

Returning to Roanoke this year felt different long before I rolled up to the start line. Last year, I came here only three weeks after Pax's heart attack. As I stood waiting for the race to begin, I kept glancing over at him standing beneath a small tree near the start. There wasn't much shade, and I remember wondering if he should even be there. We were both trying to act like everything was normal, but nothing about those weeks felt normal.

This year was different.

He's feeling strong again, back to playing tennis and pickleball, and we drove into Virginia simply looking forward to another mountain bike adventure together. Sometimes you don't realize how much life has changed until you find yourself back in exactly the same place a year later.

The days leading up to the race were just about perfect. We stayed in a beautiful cabin overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains with friends, spending our mornings pre-riding sections of the course and our afternoons relaxing back at the cabin. Those pre-rides are some of my favorite parts of any race weekend. We compared lines through technical sections, joked about questionable route choices, encouraged one another on climbs, and met new riders who, within minutes, felt like old friends because we all shared the same passion.

Back at the cabin, life slowed down.

My favorite place quickly became a lounge chair on the porch overlooking the mountain ridges. I'd stretch my legs out, sip my tea, and simply watch the mountains. Almost every afternoon, a tiny bunny would hop into the yard just a few feet away and happily nibble on clover while I sat there. Deer wandered through the property almost every evening. Those quiet moments reminded me that race weekends are about so much more than what happens between the start and finish lines.

Race morning arrived with something I was hoping for all week.

Clouds.

The forecast had changed almost daily, ranging from another brutally hot National Championship to afternoon thunderstorms. Instead, we woke up to overcast skies and temperatures in the mid-70s. Compared to last year's scorching heat, it felt almost ideal.

When the whistle blew, I didn't get into the first singletrack where I wanted to be. With four women's age groups starting together, I found myself somewhere around ninth or tenth wheel. It wasn't ideal. I knew the riders at the very front would immediately begin opening a gap while I was stuck behind slower traffic.

But I also wasn't worried.

Years of marathon racing have taught me that the race is rarely won in the opening minutes. In fact, I almost welcomed the slower start. It gave my body time to warm up, let the adrenaline settle, and ease into my rhythm before asking for bigger efforts.

Only a couple of minutes into the race I started feeling stronger.

Every short climb, every small opening, every safe passing opportunity became another chance to move forward. One by one I worked through the riders ahead of me. By the time we reached the first gravel road, I had already passed six women from my start group and finally felt like I was racing my own race.

The passing never really stopped.

Because my age group started toward the back of the overall field, most of the other categories were already out on the course ahead of us. On a course made up mostly of narrow singletrack, that meant spending nearly four hours constantly catching and passing riders. Every pass required patience, communication, good timing, and often a hard acceleration before the trail narrowed again. By the end of the day, it felt like I had passed fifty riders. It wasn't the easiest way to race, but it was simply part of the challenge.

A little later when I was all alone on the gravel and in my own rhythm, I glanced over my shoulder.

Way behind me was what looked like an entire freight train of riders charging down the gravel road.

For a split second my heart dropped.

"Did all the women get together?"

"Are they working together?"

"Are they about to catch me?"

Then I looked again.

I couldn't help holding my smile.

They weren't women from my race at all.

The younger age groups had simply caught up to us.

It's amazing how quickly your mind can invent a problem when you're deep into a race.

The cooler weather meant I was moving much faster than expected, which created another little surprise.

As I approached the first feed zone, I started doing the math in my head.

"Pax isn't going to make it."

He had gone out for breakfast that morning before heading to the course, and with the pace we were riding I honestly thought he'd still be sitting in a restaurant while I rolled through the feed zone. It was nearly a 30-minute drive from the start to the feed zone, and that didn't even include breakfast. I started wondering whether I should finish my bottle before the feed. What if he wasn't there?

As I exited the singletrack and rolled onto the gravel, spectators lined both sides of the road. I scanned the crowd.

I kept looking.

No Pax.

Still no Pax.

Then, almost at the very end of the feed zone, I spotted his bright green shirt waiting exactly where I needed him.

Perfect timing.

After the race he admitted he had arrived only about a minute before I did. Apparently, breakfast was worth the gamble.

The long climb after the feed zone was where the race really started to unfold.

As I caught my friend Jen, she looked over and said,

"Beata! There are still at least two women from your category ahead!"

That was exactly the information I needed.

I settled into a steady rhythm and kept climbing.

Eventually I reached the long gravel road leading toward Gauntlet.

At first I caught one rider.

Then another.

Then I looked farther ahead and saw a large group stretched across the road—at least fifteen riders.

For a moment I thought there was no way I'd get around all of them before the entrance to Gauntlet.

But little by little the gap disappeared.

One rider.

Then another.

Then another.

The entrance to the single track was getting closer every second.

Seconds later I did learn that one of the women from my category had been sitting in that group the entire time. I had passed her without even realizing it.

Just as I was about to enter Gauntlet, I heard someone sprinting behind me.

She had realized exactly what I had.

Whoever entered the descent first would control it.

I stood up, sprinted as hard as I could, and reached the singletrack first.

Dropping into Gauntlet, I felt good on the inside.

Now the real fun could begin.

Gauntlet didn't disappoint.

As soon as my front wheel dropped into the descent, everything else disappeared. The sprint into the trail, the riders behind me, the calculations of where I stood in the race—it all faded away. It was just me, my bike, and one of my favorite descents on the course.

The rocks were relentless, the corners lose, and the trail demanded complete focus. Every turn flowed into the next. The bike felt incredible underneath me, floating over rocks and roots and carving through corners exactly where I wanted it to go. Those are the moments I love most about mountain biking—the moments when you stop thinking and simply ride.

Near the bottom, something suddenly felt off.

My rear tire felt a little soft.

Not completely flat.

Just... different. Maybe I had hit a root or two a little too hard.

I pulled over for a few seconds, wondering if I had burped some air out of the tire. As luck would have it, my friend Abby was there too.

As I pushed on the tire and hopped back on the bike she said,

"It looks fine."

That was good enough for me.

I got moving again. During those few seconds another rider from my category slipped past, but I wasn't concerned. There was still a long race ahead. I settled back into my rhythm, caught her on the next climb and made the pass.

One of the biggest lessons marathon racing has taught me over the years is that staying calm usually saves more time than rushing.

The miles passed quickly.

With riders from the earlier categories scattered throughout the course, I was constantly calling out, thanking people for moving over, and looking for safe places to pass. Sometimes there was room immediately. Other times I had to sit patiently behind someone until the trail finally opened. It became part of the rhythm of the day.

I couldn't help being grateful and so positive. This time, I was the one doing the passing. A year earlier, I had been the rider standing on the side of these same trails, crippled by cramps while rider after rider passed me.

Eventually I felt the first hint of a cramp in my left inner thigh.

Immediately my mind flashed back to last year's race when cramps completely changed the final two hours.

This time I refused to panic.

I shifted into an easier gear, relaxed my pedal stroke, took a deep breath, and reminded myself not to force anything.

Within a minute, the cramp faded away.

Experience doesn't always make you stronger;

sometimes it simply teaches you how to stay calm.

The second feed zone came and went perfectly. I smiled at everyone volunteering there, grabbed my final bottle from Pax, and rolled away feeling surprisingly strong. With only the final miles remaining, I rode with nothing but pure joy.

Then the rain arrived.

First it was this gentle mountain rain, one drop here one drop there.

With time the dust disappeared and the rocks turned dark.

By the time the gravel section was over and I cleared the lake area, and went into the last steeper singletrack, the rain went down hard.

Within minutes the trail transformed.

The leaves seemed to glow. It was dark, roots were dark brown and slick. The air filled with rain…

I took off my glasses and tucked them onto my helmet, letting the cool rain wash away the sweat and dirt that had built up over the previous three hours.

For a little while I almost forgot I was racing.

I was simply riding through the most beautiful forest. The rain felt cool and cleansing, listening to it patter against the leaves while carefully picking my way across the now-slick roots, reminding myself to hit them straight so I wouldn't slide out.

There are moments in mountain biking that are difficult to explain to people who have never experienced them.

You stop thinking about watts, placings, and finish times.

You're simply moving through the forest, completely present, feeling connected to the trail beneath your tires.

Those moments are one of the reasons I keep coming back.

As I rolled into the final miles, I knew I had ridden a smart race.

The tactics had worked.

I had stayed patient when I needed to, attacked when the opportunities came, and never let the little setbacks throw me off.

When I crossed the finish line, I did so in the pouring rain with a big smile on my face. The result simply confirmed what I already felt.

Second place.

Twenty-five minutes faster than my winning ride on the same course just one year earlier.

That statistic gave me probably more joy than the silver medal.

After the race, Trish who won, walked over with a huge smile.

She thanked me for pushing her to become a better rider and making her train harder.

I couldn't help but smile because I feel exactly the same way about her.

One of the greatest gifts in racing is having competitors who continually inspire you to become better.

A little later I found Kristen celebrating another National Championship. Before the race we'd laughed together, mostly me relieved that we still had a couple more years before we'd be lining up in the same age category. She gave me a huge hug after the finish.

Moments like that remind me what makes this community so special.

We race each other as hard as we possibly can.

Then we celebrate each other's successes just as sincerely.

As we packed up and headed home, I realized the race itself had only been one part of the weekend.

The memories that stayed with me weren't just from those four hours on the bike.

They were the days spent pre-riding the course with friends.

Meeting new people who immediately felt like old friends because of our shared love for mountain biking.

Relaxing back at the cabin after long rides.

Sitting on the porch with my feet stretched out, looking across the Blue Ridge Mountains while a tiny bunny quietly nibbled clover just a few feet away.

Laughing about Pax almost missing the first feed because breakfast seemed like a good idea before a National Championship.

Those are the moments I'll remember just as much as the race itself.

Mountain bike racing has given me so much more than podiums over the years.

It has taken me to incredible places, introduced me to lifelong friends, and given me experiences that extend far beyond a finish line.

Yes, I'm proud of the silver medal.

Yes, I'm proud that I rode the course twenty-five minutes faster than a year ago.

But when I look back on Nationals, those aren't the first things that come to mind.

I'll remember the people.

The trails.

The laughter.

The mountains.

The quiet moments in between.

Because in the end, that's what keeps bringing me back.

Not just the racing.

Everything that surrounds it.

The memories that stayed with me weren't just from those four hours on the bike.

They were the days spent pre-riding the course with friends. Meeting new people who, within minutes, felt like old friends because of our shared love for mountain biking. Relaxing back at the cabin after long rides. Sitting on the porch with my feet stretched out, looking across the Blue Ridge Mountains while a tiny bunny quietly nibbled clover just a few feet away. Laughing about Pax almost missing the first feed because breakfast seemed like a good idea before a National Championship.

Those are the moments I'll remember just as much as the race itself.

Yes, I'm proud of the silver medal. I'm proud that I rode the course twenty-five minutes faster than a year ago. But when I think back on this weekend, those aren't the first memories that come to mind.

I'll remember the people.

The trails.

The laughter.

The mountains.

The quiet moments in between.

Because those are the reasons I keep coming back.

Pisgah All Mountain Challenge — Pushing This Little Pony to Its Limit

30.17 mi | 4:03:31 | 5,308 ft

Pisgah Mountain Challenge was one of those days that reminded me how much I truly love riding in these mountains.

The event itself was something special, organized by Pisgah Area SORBA as part of the Bike Fest weekend, with proceeds going back toward trail maintenance in Pisgah National Forest. It never really felt like a serious race to me, even though people jokingly call it “Pisgah Worlds.” The whole weekend had such a fun community atmosphere around it. My sponsor, Gulo Composites, the local wheel builder here in Brevard, was part of the expo and led a couple of group rides during the festival weekend, so it was really nice seeing them there and being part of the whole event atmosphere beyond just racing. It honestly made me even more excited to line up for this crazy day rolling on my beautiful Gulo wheels out in Pisgah.

I signed up last minute, barely expecting to even get in off the waiting list, and honestly went into it with very little preparation and almost no expectations.

What made the day so meaningful was that it pushed me completely outside my comfort zone.

This wasn’t really a cross-country race at all. It was a big enduro day with only timed enduro stages, all rough, technical descents like Buckwheat, Bennett Gap, Avery Creek, and Black Mountain. I took out my “big bike” Sindel, for the first time in a very long time, and even that bike is tiny compared to what most people ride for this kind of terrain. Around me were full enduro bikes, full-face helmets, and riders much more experienced on this style of trails. Meanwhile I showed up with my little 130mm bike, knowing fully that I was not the strongest descender out there and probably had zero chance of placing high in the actual enduro standings.

And somehow, that made the whole day more enjoyable.

There was no pressure. I was there for the forest, for the trails, for the people who work so hard to maintain them, and simply for the experience of spending another long day deep in Pisgah.

The morning was cool and beautiful, the forest bright green after spring finally arrived, and even with the drought leaving trails loose and dusty, everything felt alive. Right from the start I felt unexpectedly strong. Even climbing on heavier tires and carrying extra bike weight, I found myself riding away from groups and slowly climbing through the field. Before long I was alone on the climbs, completely surrounded by quiet forest, cool air, and that feeling of having the mountains almost to myself.

And the descents were just pure fun.

Exciting. Challenging. A little intimidating at times. But fun.

When I approached the start of stage two, another rider caught up to me right before dropping in. I knew immediately he was going to be much faster than me on the descent, so I laughed and told him he was more than welcome to go first. He looked exhausted, wiping his face, and said, “I need thirty seconds.” I could tell he probably needed a little more than that, so I smiled and told him, “Sure, you can have forty-five seconds… maybe even a minute if you want.” The volunteer standing there started laughing too. Then the countdown started, he absolutely ripped down the trail, and I followed for a little while until he completely disappeared into the forest ahead of me. And honestly, I didn’t care. I had such a fantastic descent myself. Fast, focused, exciting, and smooth. Somewhere in the middle of Bennett, while I was holding on through endless water bars, holes, and drops coming one after another after another, there were people laying in hammocks next to the trail cheering riders on. Once you committed to those sections, there was no stopping, you were pretty much just holding on for dear life. I yelled to them laughing that I was pushing this little pony to its absolute limit, and they completely smiled and agreed. I was probably on one of the smallest bikes out there with the least amount of travel descending that terrain, but somehow that made the whole experience even more edgy.

Somewhere throughout the day I realized how much I’ve changed as a rider since moving to the mountains. Years ago, trails like these would have completely overwhelmed me. And these are not just ordinary trails. This is some of the roughest, most technical riding you can find anywhere, the kind of terrain that demands full focus and respect the entire time. Back then I would have doubted myself constantly. Now, years later, it all feels different. It feels familiar. It feels like home.

I may not be the fastest descender out there, and honestly I don’t need to be, but I know now that I can ride these trails with confidence. I can get myself through all of it safely, smoothly, and still climb hard for hours before dropping into another massive descent. To be able to say that after everything, after moving here, learning these mountains little by little, and changing so much as a rider, feels incredibly rewarding.

Somewhere in the middle of the day, next to the horse stables, there was a feed zone where volunteers were so kind helping fill bottles while I dumped drink mix into my water. There were smiles everywhere, people chatting, racers catching their breath for a minute before heading back out into the forest. What I really liked about this event was that even though everyone was racing hard, there was still space to slow down for a moment longer than you normally would in a traditional race. It felt competitive, but also relaxed and welcoming at the same time, and I really appreciated that different atmosphere.

By the time I reached Avery Creek, all the short-course racers were gathering at the top waiting for their stage start. I was the only long-course rider arriving there at that moment, and people looked around almost confused when they realized I had already made it there from the full route. One of the women looked at me and said, “You are crazy.” I just smiled, rolled in, took my turn, and dropped into Avery Creek.

That last descent of the day felt incredible. Fast, flowing, thrilling, and full of joy. One of those moments where riding a bike feels almost impossible to explain unless you’ve experienced it yourself.

My personal goal for the day became simple somewhere along the way: finish first overall from start to finish as a cross-country race, not just the timed descents. And I accomplished exactly that. I rode hard all day, climbed strong, descended safely, and crossed the line after over four hours in Pisgah feeling genuinely happy. In the actual enduro standings I ended up eighth in the long course, which honestly was perfectly fine with me. This was never really about competing for the descents. It was about showing up outside my comfort zone, riding trails that once intimidated me, and enjoying every minute of the experience.

Another huge day in the mountains. Another beautiful training day bringing me closer to the biggest goal of my year.

PMBAR - Where the Arrows Disappear

I didn’t plan to race PMBAR. It wasn’t even on my radar. During Pisgah Stage Race, somewhere in between stages and everything that week carries with it, Boris messaged me saying maybe we could ride PMBAR together. He had done the race the year before with his friends, what he called “party pace,” and that was his plan again this year, just to go out and enjoy the day. But his friends bailed, so he reached out to me. He knew right away what that meant and said, “I know if we ride together, it’s not going to be party pace.” I laughed and told him, “No, no party pace.” At that moment it was still just a thought.

The day after Pisgah, I was out hiking with Pax, just moving and recovering, and my phone buzzed again. Boris asked me if I had recovered yet and if I wanted to race PMBAR with him. I laughed because no, I had definitely not recovered, but I said yes anyway. And just like that, I signed up for something I hadn’t planned, hadn’t prepared for, and didn’t fully understand.

The weather leading into the race added another layer to it. Early forecasts were calling for rain in the morning and later in the afternoon, and on top of that we got an unexpected cold snap just for that day and night. We started in the low 40s, and I remember thinking this day is not going to warm up at all. In the end we got lucky and the rain held off, but it never really got warm. Throughout the race it barely reached 57 degrees, the sky stayed overcast, and there was a constant cool wind that made everything feel colder.

We lined up at 8 a.m. in that cold air, and this is where things immediately felt off. Boris grabbed the passports, flipped through them, and we both looked at the booklet and at each other and said the same thing: there are no checkpoints, it’s missing pages. He ran back to the table and started going through other booklets one by one, checking if any of them had more pages, but they were all the same. Meanwhile, riders were already heading up the mountain, and we just made a call. “Boris, let’s go.”

That’s when we started climbing. Lower Black, then Middle Black, a little behind, but already passing riders, and at the same time riding into something we didn’t yet understand. It was a strange feeling, racing hard without even knowing what the race really was yet, but we knew one thing, we had to get to Mills River to actually begin.

On that first climb I also realized I made a mistake with my clothing. I wore my mandatory rain jacket because I forgot to grab my light wind vest from the car, and it didn’t take long to regret it. Not even halfway up Lower Black I was already overheating, but I knew if I took it off too early I would be freezing. We were making so many passes that I didn’t want to stop and lose positions, so I just kept climbing, uncomfortable, holding it together all the way to the top of Middle Black where everyone regrouped and started figuring out what to do. That’s where I finally took it off, wrapped it around my top tube, and knew that decision meant I would be cold for the rest of the day.

After that regroup, we hammered down Maxwell gravel, climbed Clawhammer, and then we were flying down Buckhorn, where I even got my PR. It felt fast, smooth, and strong, honestly a great beginning to what was already turning into a big day.

From there we continued, taking the full Yellow Gap gravel road, about ten miles of it, just to reach the real start. By the time we got to Mills River, we were already two and a half to three hours into the day. That’s when the race actually began. We received our passports there, learned the checkpoint locations, and suddenly everything made sense. Five checkpoints, one mandatory at Turkey Pen, and everything else up to us. 

At that moment we had some really strong coed teams right there with us, all standing around, pulling out maps, laying them on the ground, studying routes and options, but the moment you start making decisions, you realize you have no idea where anyone is actually going to go. Everyone is looking at the same map, but everyone is building a completely different race.

We climbed a bit higher and dropped into Spencer, fast and flowing and always fun, reached our first checkpoint at Fletcher Creek, which was small and uneventful and really quick, but I still said out loud, “yey, my first ever checkpoint!” and we kept moving. 

Before reaching our first checkpoint, we even stopped briefly by a small waterfall and filtered water, standing there in the middle of the forest, taking a quick moment before getting back on the bike and continuing on.

From there we headed toward Turkey Pen, but first came a big decision on Yellow Gap. Do we go up to Pilot first or drop down to Turkey Pen and get the mandatory checkpoint done? Teams were splitting both ways, and for a while it felt completely fifty-fifty. At the same time Boris started running low on energy, and soon after that came his first cramps. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was enough to know we had to be smart. We decided to go to Turkey Pen first, get the mandatory checkpoint out of the way, and then figure out the rest.

Getting to Turkey Pen felt like a reward. It was one of the best stops of the day. 

It was stocked with food and water, and this is where we got the hot pizza. Someone handed it to me and said, “Careful, it’s hot,” and I grabbed it anyway, took a bite too fast, burned my mouth instantly, and didn’t care at all. It was warm, real, and exactly what I needed. 

We sat for a moment, drank Coke, filled bottles, looked at the map, and around us people were smiling, chatting, talking about where they were going next. It didn’t feel like a race in that moment, it felt like a shared experience.

From the moment we left Mills River, the day became a series of decisions, and this is what I loved the most. Boris was constantly giving me options as we moved. He would say this trail might have a hike-a-bike, this one has a lot of river crossings, this one will probably have more elevation, and we would take all of that and slice it in our heads, section by section, deciding which direction to go next. Nothing was ever obvious, and that made it so engaging. 

One of the trails we chose on the way through those early sections turned into something completely different than expected. It was full of boulders in spots, stacked on top of each other, and Boris called them “land mines.” You would ride into one section and then another and another, sometimes for fifty feet at a time, trying to pick a line through rocks that didn’t really want to give you one, all while this beautiful river was flowing just to the left of us the entire time. And then other sections, where we thought we would have to get off and hike, turned out to be smooth, rideable climbing. You just never knew. At times we were climbing these overgrown trails with other riders, including the first female team, and we saw a few teams miss turns and have to backtrack. It was actually really nice to see so many people out there in the middle of nowhere, all trying to figure it out the same way. We were riding trails and sections we would probably never choose on a normal day, and I remember us saying to each other how special that was, that you really can’t go wrong when you’re simply out there in a beautiful forest, no matter which trail you pick. It felt like a real adventure, full of unexpected moments, challenges, and so many beautiful sights along the way.

From there the day became a series of decisions. Every direction had trade-offs, nothing obvious, nothing easy. This is where the river crossings really started, one after another. At first you try to stay dry, you look for rocks, you try to pick a line, and then you realize it doesn’t matter. The water is too deep, too wide, too constant. You step in, and cold water fills your shoes instantly, sometimes over your knees. The rocks are rounded and slick with moss, your shoes sliding, and you just move through it. Then you get back on the bike with cold socks and cold feet and keep riding until the next river, where you do it all over again. After a while you stop thinking about it. It becomes part of the rhythm.

Time didn’t make sense. I kept looking at my watch thinking how are we already five hours in, and later, seven hours, no way. I said it so many times, and Boris would just laugh and say, “No, it does feel like seven,” but it didn’t. It felt like the whole day was slipping by quickly.

We reached our third checkpoint Cantrell Creek, deep in the forest and it was one of those peaceful moments. Boris was filling bottles from the stream, I was eating pretzels and chocolate-covered blueberries, and there were other riders around us doing the same. People were smiling, talking, sharing the day, and the forest felt rich and alive, deep green, that sweet smell in the air, crickets in the background, water always nearby.

Climbing out of that checkpoint, we had the biggest decision of the day. Do we go for the last two checkpoints or just one? We were already well over seven hours in, and every checkpoint could cost another couple of hours. Boris had cramped earlier, recovered, but the pace was now more controlled. We made the call together to skip the fifth and go for Club Gap, and it felt right immediately.

The final part of the day was about holding steady and getting back strong. We had to climb Buckhorn now to Upper Upper Black, which we knew was a lot to ask when you are almost nine hours into the race. But we rode this technical climb still strong and in good spirit. The last checkpoint brought us closer to familiar trails, Club Gap, then Avery, then the connector to Clawhammer and Maxwell. I remember one of those climbs, we were both smiling, not because it was easy, but because we knew we were close and because the whole day had come together so well.

The forest stayed cool and mysterious the whole day, lush and deep green, mountain laurels in full bloom, light pink and white, appearing out of nowhere. Everything felt alive. It was so awesome to reach the top of the final climb of the day and finally descend Middle Black and then Lower Black back to the finish.

We crossed the line after about ten hours with around ten thousand feet of climbing and four checkpoints, sitting in second place at that moment. And then came the most nerve-wracking part of the entire day, sitting at the finish line and waiting for two hours, watching the trail, wondering if another team would come in with five checkpoints and push us off the podium. One strong team rolled in with four, same as us. Then another team came in with five and pushed us from second to third, and that’s when I looked at Boris and Pax and said, “I’m getting nervous now.”

It was funny because the whole day felt like bliss, relaxed, happy, completely in the moment, and now after it was all over we were sitting on edge. The last hour felt longer than the entire race. The last minutes were the worst, just staring at the finish, wondering if anyone else was still out there.

And then no one else came.

We kept our third.

And almost immediately we were already saying it, next time we are going for all five.

What stays is the feeling of the day, the cold water in your shoes, the slippery mossy rocks, the smell of the forest, the sound of water, the mountain laurels in bloom, sitting in the middle of nowhere eating hot pizza, and riding all day with a friend, making decisions, staying strong, and having an amazing time doing it.

Pisgah Stage Race 2026 – Camp Pisgah: Where Doubt Meets Strength

Pisgah never gets easier, no matter how many times you line up. This year, I almost didn’t race. I waited until the last few hours before registration closed. I didn’t feel prepared, didn’t feel like I had enough time on the trails, and I wasn’t even sure if I should be racing Open. But something in me didn’t want to sit this one out, so I signed up anyway. And this year I called it, Camp Pisgah!

Stage 1 started on a cold morning, and I could feel it right away. Climbing that first long gravel road, the air was sharp, and I could feel it deep in my lungs with every breath. This was a new version of the stage compared to previous years. We first rode into a really fun and flowy trail system Cove Creek, before the course turned serious.

Soon after, the climbing steepened into those classic Pisgah pitches. New connector trail was no joke. That’s where one of the riders next to me started making exaggerated cry-baby sounds on the steepest sections—half joking, half completely real—and it was honestly the perfect expression of what we were all feeling. It was so painful and so funny at the same time. That’s Pisgah. You’re suffering, but somehow still laughing.

The course kept building—more steep climbing followed by a rugged, technical Daniel's Ridge descent that demanded full focus. Later on, I made a mistake on the trail I never ride, Long Branch. I missed a turn and went straight instead of turning, losing about five minutes before realizing it. When I got back on course, I saw a group of riders ahead, and in between them was Jackie, who I didn't know at the time but she was the rider who eventually finished third overall. That was actually the only time we rode together until Stage 5.

300 Miles of Roots, Rocks, Repeat Buckle Presentation

I worked to close the gap, rode with her briefly through a fun section on Lower Butter, and then was able to move ahead again and create nice time buffer. This descend was fun! Toward the end of the stage, on the final gravel climb before the last gravel descent, I found myself riding next to another racer and pointing out crested irises growing along the side of the road. They looked so beautiful, whole colonies of gorgeous purple little flowers, moving in the wind. I joked that we could race and still have a full flower tour at the same time. Just before dropping into the final trail, we were still talking about them. At the finish, he came over and told me how much he enjoyed that moment. Even in the middle of effort, you can still see something beautiful.

Stage 2 started very differently—with a long road section that felt more like a highway effort than a mountain bike race. It was very cold, and I was honestly shivering, wondering if I needed more layers. But the pace was strong, and I was able to stay with the front group and position myself well going into the first climb of the Turkey Pen. Maddie, who was leading in GC, went by me strongly and dropped into the trail just ahead of me.

The Mills River trail was incredibly fun—updated, flowy, and just a joy to ride. We have massive river crossing though right from the start, so cold feet all day. After that came Squirrel Gap, which is not my favorite, and I was happy to get through it as clean as I could and move on. Then Buckhorn, a steady climb that always suits me well. I felt strong there and carried that momentum into the hike-a-bike, which was steep, never ending, and draining as always.

Then came Black Mountain. That descent felt endless in the best way possible—fast, technical, flowy, and incredibly rewarding. It was one of those moments where everything just clicked and I forgot I was racing. Somewhere along that stage, I also noticed the forest beginning to change. Bright green Lady Slipper orchids were popping up against the still-brown forest floor, like small signals that spring was arriving.

Stage 3, the Queen Stage, is always my favorite. It’s the hardest, longest, and most technical day, with Front Range trails, Sycamore, Upper Black, Avery, Bennett, and finishing with Middle and Lower Black. It’s a stage that demands everything, and I was really looking forward to it.

But only about 15 minutes in, climbing Sycamore on the ridge, I struck my left pedal on something—likely a root—and went straight over the handlebars. I remember flying toward a tree and thinking, just don’t hit it with your head. I landed just inches away. I got up, checked the bike—it was okay, just a bit twisted—and stood there for a moment feeling slightly dizzy, wondering if I had a concussion. Then I got back on and kept going.

Later, climbing toward Middle Black, I reached for a gel and realized my pocket was empty. All my nutrition for the day was gone. At that point, there’s nothing to do but adapt. Stay calm, stay efficient, and keep moving forward.

And somehow, despite all of that, the day came together. The climbs felt strong, the descents were exactly what I love about Pisgah—rough, technical, and fully engaging. Bennett was a highlight, and I ended up taking first on the Enduro segment there. It turned into an incredible day.

By Stage 4, everything shifted. I woke up with a severely sore throat—dry, swollen, painful—and I didn’t want to get out of bed. But I knew what was coming: Squirrel Gap in reverse, technical off-cambers, and the long climb up Laurel Mountain.

Riding along Squirrel Gap, I found myself on the edge of the trail, almost dangling off the side, with deep purple trillium flowers blooming right next to me. For a moment, everything went quiet. I forgot I was racing. I was just there, completely present, taking it in.

Right away however, I felt how little I had. No ability to push, just one steady pace. The climb after river crossing built from gravel into steep, technical singletrack, and then the hike-a-bike near the top. That section is brutal even on a good day. This time, it felt relentless—pushing the bike up rocks and roots, feet sliding backwards, every step heavy. I didn't know where to find strength to continue, it felt as there was none left, but yet I kept on going. 

And yet—even in that state—there were moments that made me smile.

There was a volunteer, John, who showed up throughout the week in completely different costumes. One day he was Superman, another a “hot nurse,” then a sailor wearing the smallest, tightest outfit imaginable. On this day, he was dressed as a lifeguard. I looked at him and yelled, “That’s exactly what I need right now—a lifeguard!” We both just started laughing.

The descent off Laurel, Pilot Rocks was rugged and unforgiving, and coming out of it in one piece felt like a small victory. The rocky switchbacks have no mercy and there are so many of them. The trail has no order, it's a boulders and a holes and a giant roots all tangled together in the most chaotic way. I felt I rode relatively strong the final push—turning the pedals and getting to the finish, knowing it was so near, was exhilarating.

Stage 5 was rough. I woke up feeling completely drained. Even more sick than the day before, I didn't know how I will get through this stage I normally adore. From the start, I knew I couldn’t push or attack. I found myself getting caught by Jackie half way through Cathy's Creek gravel climb, and we ended up staying together for most of the stage.

It turned into something really special. We rode wheel to wheel, quietly, both of us tired, just moving forward together. We climbed steep Long Branch, passed Daniel’s Ridge waterfall, grabbed bacon, and rolled into the final long 50 minute gravel climb. That climb was one of the hardest moments of the week.

Right before that at the last feed zone, Pax handed me my bottle, and I looked at him and said, “Pray for us.” I didn’t know how I was going to make that climb. 

We started the climb together—no talking, just grinding. One pedal stroke at a time. It was hard in a very honest way. No extra energy, just effort. I counted us down, 10 minutes, 20, 30, by the 40 minutes mark something changed. 

Near the top, the terrain started to undulate slightly, and I found just enough momentum to begin moving ahead. Just enough to build a gap to get into single track first. Finally came Bracken. Fast, flowy, smooth—everything you want at the end of a stage race. I rode it with everything I had left, enjoying every second and every descent, all the way to the finish. It was a bliss, however the smallest upward pitch would almost reduce me into the slow slog. It was amazing to cross the finish line, whole five days later, after experiencing so much doubt, sickness, effort, but also beauty and I would say transformation, of the forest and of me... I needed that... 

Through all of it, I truly loved my bike on this course, Orbea Oiz. It climbed aggressively, descended with confidence and traction, and handled the rugged terrain beautifully. The freshly tuned Gulo wheels rolled smoothly over everything with trustful traction, giving me confidence throughout the week. I really enjoyed riding my bike every single day out there.

At the end of the week, I finished second Open Women overall and second overall in Enduro—my best result at Pisgah so far.

But more than the result, what stays with me is everything around it. The forest changing from winter to spring. The flowers. The quiet moments. The laughter. The shared experience.

Pisgah is relentless—but it also gives you something unexpected. 

Camp Pisgah, amazing 5 day training ride was the best thing I could have done to jump start my season!  

And I’m really glad I showed up. 

---

Huge thank you to all my supporters.

And thank you to Pax—for being there every day, handing bottles at the perfect moments, and somehow enjoying amazing breakfasts while I was out there eating gels and suffering! 

Chosen Over Ready

 

Pisgah Stage Race. Few days to go time...

With the Pisgah Stage Race just days away, I found myself sitting with a decision longer than I expected.

Not about whether I love this race—I do. But about what it asks of you… and whether you’re willing to meet it where you are.

The question stayed with me.

Should I race? Should I sit this one out? And if I race—what version of it do I choose?

The one where I stay safe, controlled, maybe even win… or the one where I step into something uncertain—something that will demand everything, physically and mentally, and give no guarantees in return?

Because let’s be honest… there is no such thing as an easy win in Pisgah.

So I went inward. Ran every scenario, every possible outcome. Not to predict the result—but to understand which choice I could stand behind when the week is over.

I’m sitting at my desk. Midday. I just dropped off my Gulo Wheels for a tune-up. I still need to go ride—just a few small intervals, something to wake the legs.

The sliding door is open. It’s warm outside. My flowers sit beside me, soft air moving through the room, an overcast sky holding the light low and calm. Birds are singing. The wind chime plays in the background. Daffodils are fading now… while tiny buds are just beginning to appear on the trees.

And in all of this calm—there’s a knot in my stomach.

If you race, you know this feeling. No matter how many years you’ve been doing it, there is always that question mark.

Did I do enough? Did I train enough? Am I ready?

And strangely… sometimes the more prepared you are, the more you question everything.

But what happens when you don’t feel prepared at all? When you know you had the time… but didn’t take every step early enough to build that confidence?

That’s a different kind of weight.

I rode a lot of Pisgah only in the last week and a half—that’s when I truly started considering the race. I signed up with four hours left before registration closed.

Now I wait. And I don’t fully know what my body—or my mind—will do when the gun goes off.

On paper, the preparation isn’t where I would want it to be. The intervals didn’t fully happen.

So maybe this is it. Maybe this race becomes the training. Maybe this is Camp Pisgah.

Because here’s the truth: you are never fully ready for anything that matters.

If you wait for perfect preparation, you risk missing the very moments that define you. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Strength isn’t guaranteed. Opportunity isn’t guaranteed.

So you choose.

And this is where doubt and preparation meet.

I don’t know how I will feel. I don’t know how I will perform. I don’t know how each day will unfold.

I can picture it all—

I can see myself already scaling Laurel Mountain,
that endless, painful climb,
legs grinding, breath tightening with every switchback.

And then the drop—

Pilot Rock.

A rocky, unforgiving descent—
a river of boulders, sharp edges, tight lines that demand precision.
Line choice matters. Commitment matters.
There’s no halfway riding it.

I’ve ridden it in my mind a hundred times. But imagination doesn’t carry you up the climb—or down the descent.

Reality does.

That moment—when you are on the pedals, lungs burning, legs on edge, and you find out exactly who you are that day.

Pisgah is not just a race. It’s what I call Camp Pisgah—an honest, brutal training camp disguised as a race.

Every day is tough. Rough. Relentless.

These trails don’t give anything away. This is not a smooth cross-country course. This is enduro—every day, all day—with endless climbing, constant movement, hike a bike sections, and precise control over rock, roots, and gnarly bits.

It is, without question, the most technical race I know.

And I’m not stepping into it halfway.

I’m going all in.

Not because everything is perfectly lined up—but because I want to see what’s there.

What my body can still do. How my mind responds when things get hard. Whether it resists… or locks in.

The unknown isn’t something to avoid. It’s something to step into.

The unknown is part of every start line. That’s what makes it exciting. And that’s what makes your stomach turn.

Because you truly don’t know.

And maybe the hardest part isn’t the race itself. It’s the waiting. The days leading in. The quiet tension building in the background.

Like my friend Jen said—it only feels this intense because you care. If you didn’t care, it would just be a ride.

But when you care… you choose to put yourself in a position where it will hurt.

Eighteen years of racing… and this feeling never goes away.

As race day approaches, life narrows. Everything becomes intentional. Controlled. Training fades. Energy is conserved. Every decision points toward one moment—the start line.

And then…

the gun goes off.

Everything sharpens.

No more doubt. No more overthinking. Only movement. Only breath. Only execution.

You are calm. Focused. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.

I didn’t choose this race because I feel perfectly ready. I chose it because it’s hard. Because it demands something real. Because it will show me exactly where I stand.

Not perfectly prepared—but fully committed.

And that is enough.

By the way, in just over a week, this still half asleep forest will turn lush green! 

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.