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.    

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.