Marathon MTB World Championships - 52 Miles and 10,500 Feet Through the Rugged Dolomites

52 miles. 10,500 feet of climbing. 6 hours and 35 minutes. Ninth in the world in my age group.

It was brutal. It was beautiful. It was tough.

And I got it done.

After months of thinking about this race, planning for it, training for it, studying the course, and imagining what it would be like to race through the Italian Dolomites, September 13 finally arrived.

Race morning was beautiful and cool as we drove toward Fiera di Primiero. The mountains were glowing around us, and after a week of everything from sunshine and heat to thunderstorms, downpours, and hail, it was finally time to stop thinking about the weather and simply race whatever course we had.

The women lined up together, and somehow I found myself on the front row next to my longtime Italian friend and competitor Lorena Zocca, surrounded by a great group of women from all over the world around us.

And then we were off.

As we rode out of the race village along the river, I found myself right at the very front of the entire women’s field. Three of us were riding across the front—me on the left, another woman in the middle, and Lorena Zocca on the right—with the whole pack behind us.

For those first few minutes, everything felt almost surreal. USA across my chest, the river beside us, Dolomites towering around us, and the World Championships finally happening.

Then we turned onto the steep, twisting concrete road, and suddenly the race got a little crazy.

The women’s field began mixing with the men who had started ahead of us, and before long there were riders everywhere. Different categories were blending together on the climb, people were moving forward and backward, and it became increasingly difficult to know exactly who was where.

Somewhere in all of that, I spotted three Italian women from my age group going by me. I noticed each one and made a mental note. I was sure I was keeping track of the women in my category and knew exactly where I stood.

At least, that’s what I thought.

The first climb would take close to an hour, and once we reached the wet singletrack, all of that traffic became an entirely different problem.

Three days of heavy rain had transformed the trails.

Roots that had been perfectly manageable during our pre-rides were suddenly like ice. Wooden bridges were slick. Rocks were wet. Tires slid sideways. Riders were walking, crashing, and stopping in places where momentum was everything.

There were moments when I wasn't really racing the women anymore. I was simply trying to find a clear piece of trail.

And then there were those wonderful little openings when suddenly nobody was in front of me.

One of my favorites was the bike park.

After fighting my way around a couple of riders—including one who nearly stopped directly in front of a steep, slick wooden ramp—I finally had open trail.

For a few glorious minutes, I could just ride my bike.

Berms. Rollers. Speed.

Freedom.

And then, of course...

Back to climbing. 

We climbed through tiny villages, mountain pastures, and some of the most spectacular scenery I've ever raced through. There were cows and cowbells, mountain huts, beautiful wildflowers, and those enormous jagged Dolomite peaks always somewhere around us.

There were moments when I wanted to look around and take it all in.

And moments when I absolutely did not want to know how much farther up the mountain we still had to go.

Somewhere during the second half, however, my race began changing.

I had started feeling sick before race day, and as the hours passed, my body simply wasn't responding the way I knew it could. My heart rate felt like I was racing hard, but the power wasn't there.

First, a Swedish woman in my category caught me.

Normally, that would immediately switch something on inside me.

Go.

Get on her wheel.

Don't let her go.

But this time I couldn't respond.

I watched her slowly ride away from me.

Not long afterward, I heard a woman’s voice behind me.

“Beata?”

I turned toward her. It was a German rider.

“I saw your name on the list! We raced together in Florida at the 12 Hours of Santos. You beat me. You won.”

It took me a moment to place her. Here we were, years later, two women who had once raced each other in Florida, suddenly riding together again in the middle of a World Championship in the Italian Dolomites.

We talked for a moment.

And then she rode away from me too.

That one hurt.

I knew how competitive I was. I knew how I normally raced. I knew the person who sees another woman disappearing ahead and immediately thinks, No. You're not getting away from me.

But that person simply wasn't there.

My body didn't have the response, and strangely, neither did my mind.

And unfortunately, the Dolomites weren't particularly interested in giving me time to figure it out. 

The course seemed to have an endless supply of mountains.

Somewhere during one of those long, hot, exposed, bumpy gravel climbs, I remember staring ahead desperately hoping for just a little flat section—or, miracle of miracles, a downhill.

Then I saw the next course arrow.

It pointed up.

"Of course it's up," I said out loud. "Of course it's going up." 

And up we went.

Eventually I stopped trying to force something my body didn't have.

I just kept riding.

And there was still an enormous amount of riding left.

One trail became affectionately known in my head as the Snot Trail because the wet roots were so unbelievably slick. 

During the dry pre-ride, I had flown through it. Now my front and rear tires were sliding sideways across polished roots, my left foot was constantly coming out to dab, and my right quad was beginning to cramp from doing so much of the work.

At another point I looked down at the little sticker Pax had put on my top tube before we left home:

YOU'LL BE FINE.

Those were the words Pax and our neighbor Jim had jokingly been telling me before Italy.

Now I was saying them out loud.

"You'll be fine. You'll be fine. You'll be fine."

One slippery root at a time.

Eventually I reached Pax at the final feed zone. He gave me my bottles and essentially told me what I already knew.

Don't worry about the result anymore.

Just keep going.

Finish.

So that's what I did.

There were still insanely steep wet switchbacks, rocky descents, and a suspension bridge I informed the laughing volunteers that I absolutely did not want to ride again.

They laughed.

I laughed.

Someone told me to look far ahead.

Someone may have suggested closing my eyes. 

Wonderful advice for crossing a suspension bridge on a mountain bike.

Somehow I got across.

And then, naturally...

UP.

One final concrete climb that seemed determined never to end.

Every time I thought I could see the top, another set of switchbacks appeared.

I would climb all the way across the grassy mountainside, turn, climb all the way back, and think:

Okay. That's the top.

Nope.

More.

Another switchback.

Another false top.

More climbing.

At least this part of the mountain was beautiful. There were cows with their bells and fields filled with tiny purple flowers that looked almost exactly like the crocuses we have at home in spring.

Eventually, even that climb had to end.

And then came the final technical descent.

My forearms were so pumped that holding onto the handlebars was becoming a challenge. Rocks that had given me absolutely no trouble during the pre-ride were now wet and polished by thousands of tires.

Once I committed to a rocky section, there was no changing my mind halfway through.

You had to go.

Let the bike move.

Let the tires slide.

And trust that somehow everything would still be underneath you when you came out the other side.

On one of the slick rocky switchbacks, I passed a rider sitting beside the trail wrapped in a silver emergency blanket while volunteers attended to him.

That was a pretty good reminder that even this close to the finish, I still needed to pay attention.

Finally, the rocks ended.

I made one last turn and suddenly found myself flying down smooth concrete.

Cool air hit my face.

And there, immediately beside me, was the river.

Beautiful, clear mountain water.

All week I had been saying I wanted to get into that river, but around town it was always surrounded by walls, bridges, and concrete structures.

Here it was wild and open.

I could have stopped my bike, walked down the bank, and stepped straight into that beautiful cold water.

And for a few seconds, after more than six hours of racing the Marathon World Championships, I seriously considered doing exactly that. 

Apparently getting into the river had become more appealing than getting to the finish line.

But the finish was only minutes away.

So...

Finish the race, Beata.

The concrete path carried me toward town.

Barricades appeared.

I rode through a little playground area.

Left turn.

Another left.

And suddenly there it was.

The huge finish arch.

Music.

People.

The announcer.

USA.

There was a guy riding just to my right, and after everything that had happened that day, apparently some tiny competitive part of me was still alive because I looked over and tried to encourage him to sprint me to the finish.

He didn't look particularly interested.

Fine.

I sprinted anyway. 

I think I passed him.

Then I crossed the line.

He finished behind me and gave me a little fist bump.

Pax was waiting there, taking a video.

And just like that, it was over.

6 hours and 35 minutes.

52 miles.

10,500 feet of climbing.

9th in my age group at the Masters Marathon World Championships.

Was it the race I dreamed about?

No.

I'm competitive enough to admit that.

I came to Italy wanting more. I knew what I had hoped I could do, and there were moments afterward when it was difficult not to define the entire experience by the number beside my name.

But with a little distance, I see something much bigger.

I raced my mountain bike for 52 miles through the Italian Dolomites.

I rode mountains I'd never seen before.

I raced women from around the world.

I struggled.

I laughed.

I slid sideways across wet roots.

I rode through tiny Italian villages, past cowbells and fields of purple wildflowers.

I crossed that ridiculous suspension bridge.

I saw Pax waiting for me at the feed zones.

I finished.

And when I think about this entire trip—the pre-rides, the meals, the friendships, the crazy logistics, the laughter, the beautiful villages, the storms, the stress, and all the little adventures in between—I can't possibly reduce it to one result.

Of course results matter to me.

Racing matters to me.

I'll learn from this one, just as I've learned from every race before it.

But sometimes we become so focused on the outcome that we forget how extraordinary the opportunity itself is.

I got to line up at a World Championship in Italy.

I got to wear USA across my chest.

I got to race some of the strongest women my age in the world.

And after 52 miles and 10,500 feet of climbing through one of the most spectacular places I've ever ridden a bicycle...

I crossed that finish line.

Ninth in the world.

Maybe it wasn't the race I imagined.

But what an incredible adventure it was...

It Takes a Village

And there was something else that made this day incredibly special.

The Crew: Me, Mike, Trish, Amy, Pax, Matt

I was proud and grateful to be there representing my country, wearing USA across my chest, and representing Sycamore Cycles back home in North Carolina. CUORE created an awesome custom Worlds jersey for me, and it felt pretty special to pull it on that morning and line up in Italy wearing my country’s colors.

My bike rode incredibly well through everything the Dolomites threw at us. Wet roots, slick rocks, mud, steep climbs, and technical descents—it never gave me a reason to think about anything except riding. I absolutely loved racing my new Gulo wheels, my Selle SMP saddle kept me comfortable through more than six and a half hours in the saddle, and my DeFeet accessories helped keep me comfortable through a long day in constantly changing mountain conditions. And on a course made so wet and muddy by days of rain, Squirt Cycling products helped keep everything running smoothly all the way to the finish.

Behind the scenes, Pax and Mike had their own race going on. They did an incredible job navigating those mountain roads, racing from feed zone to feed zone, somehow appearing exactly where we needed them, and taking care of all of us racers throughout a very long day.

It really does take a village.

I’m incredibly grateful for the people who supported me, the partners who helped me get to that start line, the equipment I could completely trust underneath me, and everyone who became part of this adventure.

More Than a Race

As much as this trip was built around one very important day on the bike, when I look back at Italy, the race is only one part of what I remember.

There was Fiera di Primiero itself, this beautiful little village tucked beneath the rugged Dolomite peaks, with flowers spilling from balconies and bridges and the river rushing straight through the middle of town. There were walks through the village, dark chocolate gelato that was so good I immediately announced, “I’m staying,” dinners in little restaurants, homemade meals at our villa, and evenings spent laughing with friends.

There were the pre-rides too—hours together on the bikes exploring the course and those incredible mountains. Some days under brilliant blue skies, others in rain, hail, and thunderstorms that seemed to change the mountains completely. There was plenty of stress mixed into the adventure as well, beginning with our rather complicated escape from Venice and continuing with weather that seemed determined to keep us guessing right up until race day.

And there was Venice itself—brief, hectic, beautiful, and completely different from the peaceful little corner of the Dolomites that eventually became our home for the week.

But mostly, there were the people.

The conversations, the laughter, the rides together, the meals, the gelato stops, and all those ordinary little moments in between the big ones. We came to Italy because of a bike race, but somehow those moments became just as much a part of the experience as anything that happened between the start and finish lines.

Maybe that's one of the things I love most about racing in places like this.

The race gives you a reason to go. But once you're there, life gives you so much more.

ORAMM 2026 – Mud, Mountains, and Gratitude

Every ORAMM tells a different story.

Some years it's the heat.

Some years it's the climbs.

Some years it's the people you meet along the way.

This year, it was written in rain, mud, rolling clouds, slippery roots, rock gardens, and nearly seven hours of adventure through the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Ever since Marathon Nationals, I'd been looking forward to ORAMM. It would be my final long race before the biggest challenge of my season—a chance to spend nearly seven hours pushing my limits in the mountains.

Sixty-five miles.

More than 9,000 feet of climbing.

Seventeen women lined up in the Open category, and I knew almost every one of them was younger than me.

ORAMM has never been an easy race. It is usually hot, humid, and unpredictable. Some years the heat becomes the biggest challenge, while other years the weather throws something completely different at you. This year I found myself hoping for clouds, cooler temperatures, maybe even a little rain—anything but another ninety-degree sufferfest.

Well...

I definitely got my wish.

By the time I picked up my packet in Old Fort, thunderstorms rolled across the mountains. As I walked across the historic bridge, the sky opened completely. I laughed, pulled my race packet over my head, and ran back to the car in my brand-new ORAMM shirt while rain poured down around me.

The storm delayed any real warm-up, but eventually the rain eased just enough for us to line up.

From the gun, I felt surprisingly good.

Really good.

I found myself riding with the lead group almost immediately. Madison, one of the strongest riders in the Southeast, came around me early, and I jumped onto her wheel. Only seven or eight minutes into what would become nearly seven hours of racing, everyone was already riding at threshold. I looked down at my power numbers and couldn't help laughing. Even the guys around me joked about how hard we were pushing this early in the day.

One final paved climb stretched the group, and I finally lost contact with the leaders. Looking back, I realized I was completely alone between groups. A minute later, two riders came charging from behind. I eased just enough for them to catch me, tucked onto their wheels, and together we buried ourselves for several minutes until we reconnected with the leaders.

One of them smiled and asked,

"Worth it?"

I smiled back.

"Oh, absolutely."

With trails this wet, entering the first singletrack near the front was worth every watt.

Bernard Mountain immediately reminded us what kind of day this was going to be. Standing water covered the doubletrack leading to the trail, fresh mud coated the singletrack, and the lower we descended, the slicker everything became.

Near the top, though, the forest opened for just a moment.

Huge white clouds rolled through the valleys below us, drifting between endless Blue Ridge ridges.

I pointed toward the view for a rider from Florida.

"Look!"

He turned his head for a second, smiled, and said,

"Now I understand why you moved here."

Exactly.

That one view explained everything.

By the time I reached the road toward Kitsuma, I was completely covered in mud and almost out of water. Pax was supposed to meet me with a fresh bottle, but he wasn't there yet. I only had two small sips left.

The rider I'd been climbing with noticed me looking at my bottle.

"Do you need some water?"

I hesitated for just a second.

Taking a drink from someone else's bottle isn't something you normally think about during a race. But then I realized I still had the entire climb and descent of Kitsuma ahead of me, and it would probably be another forty minutes before I'd see Pax again.

I nodded.

He handed me his bottle.

It was still frozen.

The water was ice cold.

Just plain water.

I took two long sips.

Nothing has ever tasted so good.

As I handed the bottle back, I knew those would probably be the last cold drinks I'd have for quite a while, so I found myself savoring every sip.

Then it was back to racing.

Suddenly every climb became about one thing.

Water.

I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The funny thing was that whenever the trail pointed downhill, I completely forgot I was thirsty.

Kitsuma demanded absolute focus.

Every root.

Every rock.

Every muddy corner.

Every decision had to be made before entering it because once you committed, there was no changing your line halfway through.

Oddly enough...

I loved it.

It reminded me of descending Bennet during Pisgah Stage Race a few years ago in total downpour. Sometimes terrible conditions force you to become completely present.

Seeing Pax at the bottom with a fresh bottle felt like heaven.

The next major challenge was Star Gap.

As I climbed beside Heckler, I wasn't thinking about the climb.

I was studying the rock garden I'd have to descend hours later.

Every few steps I looked back, memorizing the rocks, the angles, and the possible lines.

Before the race, I'd already made up my mind.

I was about 97% sure I was going to ride Heckler.

The remaining three percent had nothing to do with fear.

It had everything to do with making the right decision.

This wasn't just another technical feature.

It was one of the biggest obstacles on the course, and I was only a few weeks away from the biggest race of my season. I wasn't willing to take unnecessary risks simply to prove I could ride it.

If the rocks became too slick...

If the line disappeared...

If something didn't feel right...

I'd walk it without a second thought.

Sometimes experience isn't about riding everything.

Sometimes it's about knowing when not to.

As I continued climbing, I kept replaying the descent in my head, trying to remember exactly where I wanted my wheels to go.

The climb itself became a battle against slick clay, packed cleats, and endless off-camber roots. At one point, a younger rider crashed above me and tumbled all the way down the switchback while his bike stayed caught in the bushes. Thankfully he was okay, but it was another reminder that these mountains demanded respect.

The middle part of the race seemed endless.

It had taken me almost three and a half hours just to get there, and I knew we were in for a very long day.

Trail after trail.

Corner after corner.

Machine-built singletrack twisting through the forest.

After a while, it all began to feel the same.

I remembered something another rider once said about Marathon Nationals—"death by a thousand cuts."

To be honest...

This felt even worse.

The sun had finally broken through the clouds, and the temperature climbed quickly. The mud dried onto my arms, my legs, my shoes, and every part of the bike until it felt like I was carrying the mountain with me.

Then, as I reached the last of those endless twisting trails, the sky suddenly turned dark again.

Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.

A cool breeze swept through the forest, bringing instant relief from the heat.

Within moments the rain came pouring down.

The water mixed with sweat and mud until I could barely see. I kept taking my glasses off, then putting them back on again, never quite sure which was the better option. At one point I slammed straight into a rock I simply hadn't seen through the muddy blur.

The rain washed away some of the clay that had dried onto my skin and bike, but it also transformed the trail beneath my feet. The clay became something else entirely.

Every switchback turned into a balancing act.

Sometimes it was difficult to ride them.

Sometimes it was almost as difficult to walk them.

My shoes packed with slick clay. Then, almost without warning, the rain stopped.

I wasn’t completely sure what trail I was on, it was some kind of connector I have never ridden. When I got out finally on the gravel it was a relieve and I knew at any time I should be reaching the Star Gap in the opposite direction. Thankfully everything was familiar again.

For just a few peaceful seconds, everything became still, while I was rolling through this soaked gravel with great speed.

Eventually, I stopped thinking about miles.

My mind became completely focused on the last major climb that still waited ahead.

Star Gap.

I knew that once I reached the top and made my way down Heckler, the race would be almost over.

As I climbed, I found myself replaying the descent over and over again.

The rocks.

The lines.

Every possible decision.

Oddly enough, having something technical to think about became a welcome distraction from how many hours I'd already spent on the bike.

Then I met another rider coming down the trail.

She looked exhausted.

"What are you doing here?" I asked with a smile.

"I flatted earlier," she replied. "Someone finally helped me fix it, and I'm just getting going again."

"How many miles are you on?" I asked.

"Seventeen."

I smiled.

"I'm already on fifty-two."

She looked at me for a second before laughing.

"Oh... I think I'm a little behind."

"Yeah," I laughed. "Just a little."

We both smiled and continued on our way.

That brief conversation stayed with me. It was a reminder that everyone out there was having a completely different race. Some riders would spend eleven or twelve hours on the course that day. Others would battle long enough only to come up short of the finish line. ORAMM has a way of humbling every single person who lines up.

When I was climbing the middle pitches of Star Gap toward Heckler, yellow-brown water rushed straight down the middle of the trail. Every root had become its own little puzzle. I found myself studying each one—the angle, the shape, where my tire would land, where it might slip.

Somehow...

I enjoyed it.

Instead of thinking about tired legs or how many hours I'd already spent on the bike, my mind became completely absorbed in solving one obstacle after another.

One root.

One line.

One decision at a time.

The approach to Heckler came almost before I realized it.

People stood on both sides of the rock garden.

The photographer waited below.

I rolled to the entrance and took one last look.

The rocks were wet, but surprisingly grippy. The line I'd been studying all morning was still there.

That missing three percent disappeared.

I rolled in.

Not aggressively.

Not recklessly.

Just completely committed.

Every move was deliberate.

Every rock received my full attention.

When I reached the final right-hand turn I'd been studying for hours, my tires gripped perfectly.

I cleaned the entire section.

The cheers from the spectators made me smile, but what stayed with me most wasn't cleaning Heckler.

It was knowing I'd made the right decision.

The hardest technical challenge of the day was behind me.

Or so I thought.

Late in the race, descending Bernard one final time, the trail had become even slicker than it had been that morning.

The lower section was one long series of muddy corners. My rear tire drifted through almost every turn, never completely out of control, but never fully planted either. Every corner demanded total commitment because once I chose my line, there was no changing my mind halfway through.

It wasn't about riding aggressively.

It was about trusting the bike.

Trusting the trail.

And trusting myself.

Then I heard a helicopter overhead.

Pax had told me he'd be waiting near the bottom of Bernard.

Instantly my mind went somewhere I wish it hadn't.

After everything we'd been through over the past year, fear arrived before logic.

"What if something happened?"

I kept telling myself to stop.

To focus.

To ride.

When I finally rolled onto the road, I saw Pax leaning out of the car window, smiling and taking pictures.

I've never been happier to see him.

The fear disappeared instantly.

The rain had stopped.

The sun had come out.

The mud that had covered me for hours was already beginning to dry, caking onto my arms, my legs, my jersey, and every inch of the bike.

Then something unexpected happened.

Instead of fading after nearly seven hours of racing...

I felt powerful.

Really powerful.

I stood up on the pedals and sprinted all the way back toward Old Fort.

I crossed the railroad tracks, weaved through the obstacle course of old railroad ties, crossed the bridge, and rolled across the finish line after 6 hours and 53 minutes.

2nd Place – Open Women

Fifth ORAMM Finisher Buckle

It was one of the longest, muddiest, ORAMM days yet

But strangely...

The finish line wasn't my favorite memory.

Somewhere during the hardest part of the race, while slogging through endless muddy trails, my mind had started wandering toward the river.

I kept imagining exactly what it would feel like to sit in that cold mountain water after the race.

When I finally finished, that's exactly what I did.

Pax and I walked back across the bridge.

I took off my shoes, my helmet, and my mud-soaked jersey before stepping into the cool river.

As I sat there, I watched nearly seven hours of mud slowly wash off my arms, my legs, and my face.

It felt cleansing not only in the physical way...

A few days before the race, someone wished me luck and said they hoped I'd finish on the podium.

It made me realize something afterward.

No podium is ever guaranteed.

Not because you've done it before.

Not because you've trained hard.

Every podium has to be earned all over again.

Every race.

Every season.

Standing on another ORAMM podium at 51 years old, racing against an incredibly strong field of younger women is something I never want to take for granted.

Every ORAMM tells a different story.

Every year this race asks different questions.

Every year it presents a different challenge.

And somehow...

It never gets any easier.

Receiving my fifth ORAMM Finisher Buckle made me stop and reflect for a moment.

It isn't just five finishes.

It's five completely different adventures through these incredible Blue Ridge Mountains.

Five years of learning.

Five years of pushing myself.

Five years of suffering, smiling, adapting, and discovering something new every single time I pin on a number.

As I watched the last streaks of mud disappear into the river, I realized I wasn't just grateful for another podium.

I was grateful for another day in the mountains.

Another adventure on my bike.

Another chance to discover what I'm still capable of.

One final thought...

When we got home, I looked at my bike and couldn't help but laugh. It was almost impossible to tell what color it actually was anymore. Layers of Pisgah clay covered every tube, every cable, every component, as if the mountains wanted me to take a little piece of ORAMM home.

Pax just smiled.

I knew he was already planning how he was going to tackle the cleanup, and I had a feeling he was going to have plenty of fun uncovering my bike from beneath all that mud.

Looking back, I realized I'd chosen the perfect Defeet race socks for the day, that simply say...

"Do Epic Shit."

I couldn't help but smile.

They seemed perfectly appropriate for the day.

After nearly seven hours of rain, slick clay, rock gardens, creek crossings, and relentless climbing, I couldn't have asked more from my equipment. My Gulo Wheels inspired confidence through every technical descent and never missed a beat in some of the toughest conditions. Squirt Chain Lube, Squirt Tire Sealant, Squirt Barrier Balm and much needed Squirt Bike Cleaner, also proved their worth on a day when mud seemed determined to find its way into absolutely everything.

Now it's time to get everything clean...

And start looking forward to the next adventure.

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.