Bad Habit — Racing Together, One Lap at a Time

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

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

Simple. Perfect. Exactly what we wanted.

Jen went first.

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

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

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

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

Florida made itself known immediately.

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

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

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

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

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

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

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

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

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

Photo credit: Erik from Bikes Plus

It was beautifully synchronized chaos.

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

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

That’s why we raced Bad Habit.

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

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

And days like that stay with you.

FSC Endurance Florida Series – Lakeland, FL

Sunday, January 5, 2025

55.69 miles | 4:43:04 | 1,135 ft elevation gain

Since I’m back in Florida again, it feels like the right time to finally write about a race I did here last January—one I never really planned to do, but one that ended up reminding me a lot about who I am as a racer.

When I moved to North Carolina, I told myself I was done racing in Florida. I’d done it all so many times—over and over—for years. It had been great, but that chapter felt closed. I was chasing new things now, bigger mountains, longer climbs, a different kind of challenge.

But life has its way of stretching plans.

Our trip extended unexpectedly, and suddenly there was this empty weekend ahead of me. No races on the calendar. No friends around to ride with. Jen wasn’t in town. And honestly, I had zero desire to ride the same Florida trails by myself again.

Saturday morning came—the day of the time trial and preride—and I still hadn’t decided what I was doing. I stayed in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, feeling that strange mix of restlessness and boredom. I texted Erick to see what he was up to. His reply came fast:

“I’m already on my way to Carter Road in Lakeland.”

I looked at Pax. He looked at me.
“Let’s go,” he said.

That was it.

I threw a few random things into a bag—no breakfast, no real race nutrition, nothing planned—because I genuinely had not intended to race at all. And off we went. The drive across Florida felt oddly peaceful. Flat sugar cane fields stretched forever, familiar and unchanged, like so many drives we’d done over the years.

When we arrived, it felt like stepping back in time. It was a Goneriding event, and seeing race director Dave and his wife Terry felt like no time had passed at all. Erick was already there and kindly handed me some sport bars, which, at that point, were absolutely necessary.

We did a short preride, and despite my strong dislike for time trials, I signed up. If I wanted a shot at the leader’s jersey—today and tomorrow—it was the only way.

The time trial itself is mostly a blur. Wide sandy dirt roads, a group ahead of me I couldn’t quite catch, and one unfamiliar female rider who ended up winning. I took second. Without real food in my system, I felt woozy and off. I’m small, and I know my body—I need to eat when I need to eat. That day was chaotic from the start.

At least we managed a good dinner later and tried to reset for race day.

Carter Road has always been one of my favorite places to ride in Florida, along with Santos, Hales, and Alafia. So I was curious—after all these years—how it would feel now. Especially since this was an endurance race.

Back in the early days of the Florida Endurance Series, when races were six hours long, I’d won the series overall. But times had changed. Not many riders wanted to race in circles for six hours anymore, so the format shifted to 60 miles—six laps on a ten-mile course.

Race morning came with a mass start: 60-mile and 30-mile racers all together. We hit the narrow singletrack almost immediately, and chaos followed. A standstill formed between trees so tight it barely allowed bikes through. I could’ve squeezed into the lead, but the same woman from the time trial went first and set the pace. I grabbed her wheel and decided to study her riding.

Within minutes, I had my first moment of regret.

The trails were flat, narrow, and very sandy. Someone joked about me racing in Florida again, and honestly, I felt sad about what I’d signed myself up for. Six laps of this? Mentally, that felt like a tall order.

There were beautiful sections—the fern trail, though stunning, was incredibly twisty and relentless. The last trail was tough too. Some areas with elevation and riding along the water’s edge were fun and added just enough tension to keep things interesting. I love those big oak trees draped in moss, the narrow lines hugging the swamp. I just wished there were more of those sections. Unfortunately, the most technical and scenic trails weren’t included in the course this time.

When we crossed the dirt road into an even deeper sandy climb, reality set in. This was going to be a very mental day.

But once I start something, I finish it.

I refocused. I stayed calm. I watched the rider ahead—she had excellent handling skills and rode the technical bits clean and confidently. I knew I was racing someone strong. This wasn’t going to be a runaway.

After a full lap sitting in second, I decided lap two was the time to make a move. I attacked—but the moment I reached for my bottle, everything changed. The bottle slid too far. Way too far.

My bottle cage had snapped.

Second time in my racing life this had happened—and in the middle of a race. An old carbon cage finally gave up at the worst possible moment.

Attack aborted.

I couldn’t race 50 miles without reliable water access. I settled back into her pace, we chatted briefly, and at one point she even offered for me to go first. I declined. At the feed zone, I pulled over and tried taping the cage together.

I watched her ride away.

It wasn’t a huge gap—maybe 40 seconds—but once I got going again, I couldn’t see her anymore. I knew the chase was on. I rode steady, composed, not panicking. Near the end of lap three, on a doubletrack section before the final trail, I finally spotted her again.

That’s when I knew I was okay.

I caught up quickly, followed, and made my pass heading into lap four. Full gas now. Everything clicking—until suddenly my bike refused to shift.

I looked back and couldn’t believe what I saw: a squirrel-nest-sized wad of moss from those beautiful oak trees had wrapped itself into my entire drivetrain. Cassette. Chain. Jockey wheels. Everywhere.

I stopped, peeled it out strand by strand, laughed out loud, and reminded myself to stay calm. Somehow, no one passed me during that mess.

Then lap five delivered one more surprise.

Out of nowhere, my pedals locked solid. Wouldn’t move an inch. I pulled over immediately and found a small rock wedged perfectly into the drivetrain. I just stared at it in disbelief. How many strange things could happen in one race?

I fixed it and rolled on.

Lap six—the final lap—was about survival and gratitude. I soaked in what I could: the light reflecting off the water, the lush greens, the narrow trails, the tiny climbs and descents that did bring flashes of joy. I crossed the line first—60 miles done—first female pro/expert and first overall in the Florida Endurance Series.

 

The finish was filled with familiar faces, laughter, and relief. Talking with Dave and Terry reminded me how much they’ve done for mountain biking in Florida—and how much their work helped shape the path that eventually led me to where I am now.

It was a strange, imperfect, chaotic day.

But it was also a beautiful reminder of the past—of friendships, resilience, and the kind of racing that shaped me long before the mountains did.

Sometimes it’s good to look back.

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

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

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

Stage 1 – Flowing Trails and First Magic

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the first slick descent.

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

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

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

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

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

Stage 2 – Queen Stage, Glacier Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stage 3 – Rewarding Valleys, Bent Rotor Drama

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

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

But this stage brought its own chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stage 4 – An Unconquered Finish Line

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

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

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

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

Stage 5 – Davos, Singletrack Paradise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then came the masterpiece: the Panorama Trail.

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

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

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

We were about to finish our dream race.

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

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

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

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

Reflections – A Dream Realized

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

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

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

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

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

Gratitude to the Sponsors Who Made This Dream Possible

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pisgah Chaos and Joy: My Swank 65 Adventure

Swank 65 – 2nd Open Women | 2nd Overall Triple Crown Series

29.83 miles | 3:21:05 hrs | 4,925 ft elevation gain

The last race of the season—Swank 65—and with it, that familiar mix of anticipation and disbelief: Am I really race-ready for these raw, technical Pisgah trails?

Turns out, I was.

I finished 2nd in Open Women, matching my best time on this demanding course, and wrapped up 2nd overall in the Triple Crown Series. It was the perfect finale—sunny, crisp, and full of everything I love about racing here: challenge, camaraderie, and connection.

After days of cold rain, we were gifted a warm, golden day. It was 52°F at the start, but I decided to skip the layers—a great call. By the first big climb, I was already toasty and feeling strong. Cool conditions always bring out the best in me.

From the start, we jetted up Upper Sycamore. Madison surged ahead early and disappeared up the climb, while Stacey tucked right behind me. We’d raced here before, years ago—a tough, memorable battle—and I knew this would be another good one.

She passed me on the first climb, and I followed closely through the rooty sections, calm and steady. When she slipped on a slick root and I managed to clean it, I slipped by, and we found ourselves riding together—laughing, cheering each other on, and still pushing hard. It’s rare to have that kind of friendly rivalry; it made the day even more special.

At the top, the off-camber roots and damp leaves were waiting. My tires gave out twice—small slips but enough for Stacey to reclaim the lead. I knew she’d crush the descent, so I braced for it. She flew down Sycamore, and by the time I hit the road, she was a good dot ahead of me.

The next climb was relentlessly long—over thirty minutes of steady gravel that just kept going. I could see Stacey ahead, maybe 40 seconds up the road, but I made the conscious choice not to chase hard. There’s a fine line in Pisgah between riding strong and burning too many matches too soon—and I knew what was waiting at the top.

Because once the gravel ends, you hit the Upper Upper Black Mountain climb: steep, rooty, and technical in every sense. It’s one of those climbs where brute force isn’t enough—you need finesse, balance, and a clear head. The roots are slick, the switchbacks are steep, and every wrong line costs you both time and energy.

I reminded myself that it’s smarter to stay composed and save my focus for the hard parts ahead. I stayed seated, spinning smooth and trying not to stress too much about my position. When the gravel finally pitched up into the singletrack, the real work began.

That climb feels endless—logs to step over, rocky sections, and the kind of roots that require you to dance on the bike, fight for tractions, all while totally in red zone. But it’s also beautiful: the sunlight filtering through the trees, the wind picking up near the ridge, and that deep Pisgah silence between breaths.

I passed a few riders on my way up, inching closer to the top, and by the time I crested the final section, I saw Stacey just before the last pitch. I was patient, focused, and proud of how I rode that section—steady, technical, and super close to clean.

By the top, I had reeled her back in. I let a few guys go ahead for the descent and offered Stacey to go first too—“Go ahead and enjoy it,” I said. I knew her descending skills and trusted that if I was meant to catch her, I would.

That descent was wild—boulders, roots, moving rocks, and deep leaves—but I stayed smooth and in control. Twice I had to stop to stretch my arms from the arm pump, it was that intense. Still, I hit the gravel smiling, knowing Bennett Gap was up next. I wasn't sure how I felt about it at the time, as I knew it was the most difficult part of the race. 

At the feed, Pax was there with perfect timing, handing me a fresh bottle after nearly 40 minutes without water. He’d been chasing me all day on his e-bike on those gravel roads, cheering and getting his own adventure in. Seeing him out there again, after years off the bike, made me so happy.

I caught my friend Ben on the climb—he laughed, “I’ll catch you on the descent!” and I said, “We’ll see about that!” A few minutes later, I worked my way back to Stacey, passing her just minute or so before Bennett.

She smiled and said, “Go get it, Beata!”

“Great work, Stacey, you killed it on Avery” I replied.

Then the final Pisgah chaos began—roots, drops, off-camber madness, and a brutal wind whipping through the treetops. The overlooks were stunning; I caught just a flash of the mountains and said “Wow,” before diving back into the leaves.

I didn’t know how I was going to handle Bennett, but I was doing so much better than expected. At one point, my tires washed out completely and I landed in a soft pile of leaves, laughing—“Yeeehaw!” It was perfect. I picked myself up, still grinning, and carried on through the toughest lower sections.

The trail was slick and unpredictable, but I rode it with confidence and flow, even though I hadn’t pre-ridden it on my race bike. It was tricky, but I felt strong—calm and focused in the middle of all that Pisgah mayhem.

At the bottom, I saw Pax and Madison’s parents cheering. “F—yeah, that was fun!” I yelled, and everyone laughed. To my surprise, there was no sign of Stacey behind me. That meant I’d ridden Bennett really well. My worst-case scenario had been to exit just behind her and have to claw back time on the next climb, but I was already ahead—and that felt great.

Still, I kept pushing. I wanted to finish this race knowing I’d ridden strong from start to finish. The final climb came, and I dug in—steady, powerful, focused. The last descent was fast and furious but controlled, and I was ecstatic to cross the line in second, feeling good and proud.

Later, I learned Madison had crashed on Upper Upper, and Stacey had gone down twice near the end on Black. It was that kind of day—Pisgah rawness in full force.

After some baked potatoes from The Ktchn, chatting with other riders, and the podium celebrations, it was time to roll home. The air was cooling fast—just in time for the coming freeze and first snow of the season.

It was the perfect ending to an adventurous year—a day of gratitude, fierce competition, and happiness on two wheels.

It felt especially meaningful to finish the season racing on these wild, rugged trails that make Pisgah so unique — the same trails that shaped my riding and remind me why I love this sport so much. I was proud to ride and race here representing Gulo Composites, our incredible local wheel brand built right here in Brevard. Their wheels handled everything Pisgah threw at them — from roots to rock gardens — smooth, strong, and true all the way to the finish.