Cross Country National Championships – Roanoke, VA

Three days. That’s all I had between Marathon Nationals and the Cross Country race—three days after winning a title and pushing my legs to the limit with cramping that felt like a freight train was tearing through every muscle. My recovery window was almost nonexistent. On top of that, I needed to squeeze in practice laps on the XCO course.

Photo credit: www.stevethephotographer.photos

The day after the marathon, my legs wouldn’t move. It wasn’t the usual kind of tired—this was different. I can ride all day and feel great, but this race had left me wrecked. It felt like I had just come off a week of lifting a thousand-pound barbell with my legs. Everything hurt—quads, inner thighs, calves—completely destroyed.

The heat in Virginia didn’t let up either. That entire week was just brutally hot. I didn’t even bother trying to ride the first day, even though I knew I should. The following two days, I pre-rode the course. Compared to the vast forest trails of the marathon, this course felt tiny—narrow, off-camber, packed with little roots and tight switchbacks.

My first pre-ride was on a slick track, and my tires slid sideways on the tiniest roots. Riders were struggling with the traction and line choices. A few steep climbs had that “you either make it or you don’t” feel. The one rock garden—always wet—sat just past a super slick drop into a creekbed. Traction was everything.

The trail conditions started improving the next day as things dried out. But just one day before the race, the weather forecast showed storms rolling in. Panic started creeping in across the field. This course becomes nasty with even a little rain. I kept second-guessing my tire choice until nearly the last moment. Do I stick with fast-rolling rubber or switch to something chunkier in case the rain hits mid-race?

From a mental or adventurous standpoint, I almost wanted the chaos. I love when extra elements of difficulty hit mid-race. That fight-for-survival mode is what my soul craves. It’s strange, I know. But perfect weather on a perfect course is great for a fun ride in the mountains. For racing? The worse it is, the better. That’s where real strength shows. Everyone can ride well when it’s clean and flowy. But when things get sketchy? That’s when you see who’s really willing to suffer.

I eventually swapped to chunkier tires.

And of course—it didn’t rain before or during my race. It was just hot and sunny again.

Thankfully, 99% of the course is under a dense tree canopy, which helped. The only exposed section is the paved start/finish.

I haven’t mentioned it until now—and might not get into the full story yet—but some heavy stuff happened in my life recently. It changed how I approached this race. I wasn’t thinking about who I was racing. I didn’t even care. When life smacks you in the face, even a national championship can feel small. So I wasn’t worried about results or my competitors—I was just focused on doing my best. And honestly, that’s the best mindset you can have on race day.

That said, I still felt some pre-race anxiety. Not from pressure or nerves, just because I knew what was coming. XCO racing is intense. Every second counts. Every slide, every mistake hurts more in this format. And if you’re focused on results, that stress multiplies.

We were lined up in our start waves, and I was in a sea of strong, inspiring women. I knew so many of them. But I didn’t get a call-up, so I was the last to pick a starting position. I lined up all the way on the left, and when the whistle blew, I got squeezed in the first left-hand corner. Riders ahead cleared the turn, and I had to sprint on the straight just to squeeze into the singletrack in third.

I liked my position. Now it was time to race.

Pretty quickly, I realized I’d need to pass the second rider. I did, and now I was on the leader’s wheel. She was riding really well. I studied her lines and pace. Then we had the strangest conversation mid-race:

The rider asked, “Is that Beata or Kim behind me?”

I said, “Beata.”

Then she said, “You already won.”

I replied, “No… what did I win?”

She said, “Three days ago.”

I said, “Oh, you raced?”

She goes, “Yes, I was 1.5 minutes behind you.”

Ha. That’s when I realized how unaware I had been of my competition. She was the one chasing me down during the marathon while I was battling the worst cramps of my life. Honestly, I had a lot on my mind and hadn’t even checked the results.

Then she added, "You always beat me."

I tried to steer the conversation to something positive and said, “Well, you’re riding well.”

She said, “You are too.”

That was that. We got back to racing. I followed her closely through the flowy berms, then we dropped into the steep, slick descent to the creek. You really had to stay on your line here to hit the wet rock pile just right and drop down to the bridge. Then came the longest climb of the course—steep and relentless, eventually spilling you out onto the exposed asphalt with crowds cheering.

We were just seconds apart and dropped into lap two together.

Photo credit: https://www.instagram.com/snowymountainphotography

At times, I felt like I could go faster. I tried to pass her on the climbs a few times, but she accelerated each time to block it. Maybe on the fifth try, I finally got around her at the top and dropped into the singletrack in first. I even said “I’m sorry,” feeling oddly guilty that I might have cost her a win again. I was feeling hot but steady.

But I couldn’t shake her—not on flowy parts, not on descents, not even on the climbs.

Photo credit: https://www.instagram.com/snowymountainphotography

Then came a tricky rooty section. A younger rider in front was slowing, so I asked to pass. She moved right. As I was just about to line up for the roots, something hit like a freight train—she came flying by me on the left, so close she nearly hit my bars. I got knocked off my line and couldn’t clear the roots.

That was it. She was gone.

At the beginning of the first lap, a rider had flipped over the bars and tumbled way down the mountain, it was three of us going by, but by the time i was at the spot the rider was already deep down off the hill. Unsure how it actually happened. I had been the only one to ask if she was OK. I don’t know if it was the same rider trying the pass unsafely, but now it seemed possible. 

She opened a gap. By the end of that lap, she had 30 seconds on me.

As I crossed the line again, the announcer said “One lap to go”— but we had been told we were racing four laps. Now I was confused. Was that call for me, or another class?

If it was the last lap, I had to give everything. If not, I couldn’t afford to blow up. So I rode the first part steady, then went full gas later. But I never saw her again. When I hit the top of the final long climb and emerged onto the blazing asphalt, it was obvious—this was the end. No more laps.

Just like that, the race was over.

Another second place.

I’ve lost track of how many silver medals I’ve gotten over the years at Nationals. Those were all strong finishes. Almost every time, it was good enough to win in another class—but not mine. And that’s racing. No guarantees. All you can do is keep showing up and giving everything.

It’s funny how stubborn we all are. How rare victory is. And still, we keep chasing it. Not all of us—but those of us wired this way. The ones who live for the fight. I always say: for a race to become the most brutal, soul-emptying battle, all it takes is one more person like you—just as stubborn, just as driven. It’s not about numbers. It’s about quality.

XCO isn’t my strength. I live for the long, slow burn of endurance racing. But once in a while, I throw myself into these short, intense fights. And even when I don’t win, I leave proud.

This week was long, hot, and emotional. I came out of it with a National Title and a hard-fought second place. I did everything I could. I raced with heart and grit—and I’m happy with that.

And right after I finished, the skies opened up. It poured. Buckets of rain just minutes after my race ended. The timing couldn’t have been crazier.

On the small stuff? I ate and drank well, got feeds from Pax, and loved hearing friends cheering me on.

Really huge prompts for Pax for setting up my bike as usual for the race and all that he does, even when he really shouldn't... 

Bike rode super well, and I loved my fast wheels...

With Chad from Gulo Composites at Nationals.
How lucky I am to have them in Brevard!

  

 

Heat, Hecklers, and Heart: My ORAMM 2025 Ride

ORAMM 2025 – 66 Miles | 8,900 ft Climbing | 6:47 hrs

2nd Place – Open Women

This year’s ORAMM was a wild one — record singletrack, mid-90s heat, and my third big race in just two weeks. But what a ride! Here’s how the day unfolded:

---

Start to First Feed

 

We rolled out fast, and I was in the front group of 30–40 riders. I checked my power — it looked good, and I felt strong. The thought crossed my mind: if I bail now, I’ll skip a long day of suffering. But I felt amazing, and my mind flipped — I was all in. All guys plus Madison made up the front group. Nick  joked that the real race starts when we hit the gravel climb. He was right. That's where we began to separate. 

 

Bernard Trail came early. I’d only ridden it once, just after it opened years ago. Back then, it was smoother. Now it had rocky, exposed features but still held some of its original flow. I didn’t know one of the climb lines — Boris and another rider passed me and cheered me on. At the bottom Pax was cheering too. 

The Kitsuma climb was as usual painful and descent dry, dusty, and beat-up — but fun and techy, and I loved sending it.

Camp Grier to Deep Cove

Next, we entered Camp Grier’s new flowy trails — opposite direction from how I’d ridden them before. Somewhere here I had a train of guys sitting on my wheel. I asked, “Anyone want to pass?” and they said, “Nope.” I figured I was doing something right. At the second feed, I grabbed a bottle — and that’s when the first cramps hit. Only 3 hours in, and the heat was climbing fast.

Deep Cove was brutal. It was fun in the opposite direction last time, but today it felt never-ending — all steep, punchy climbs. We were crawling. I missed one climb and a guy nearby said, “Thank goodness — I needed a break!” It was that kind of suffering.

Camp Rock to Star Gap

After a gravel section, we turned into Camp Rock. I thought we’d just head to Star Gap via Jarrett Creek gravel. I asked Boris, “What the heck is this?” and he said, “This is hell.” He wasn’t lying — more climbing. It dragged on and when I finally popped out on gravel, no one from our group was around. I was alone and focused on reaching Star Gap and the next feed.

I started climbing and was okay at first, but then I ran out of water. On one narrow switchback I lost balance and fell back — bike pinned my legs. When I stood, both calves locked up in spasms. I had to wait, then reset my chain, and a rider from our earlier group passed me. But I managed to pass him back quickly. Still, I was overheating and seriously thirsty.

Heckler Section + Creek Redemption

Finally, I reached the top and the descent began. When I hit the Heckler section, I didn’t know the new lines — hadn’t ridden it in two years. I dropped in blind. My line was gone, and I ended up doing what felt like a track stand on the rocks. I dropped an F-bomb, the hecklers laughed, and I somehow managed to recover without crashing. People were cheering — and laughing with me.

Right after the rocky mess, I crossed the creek. I couldn’t resist — I dropped my bike and flopped belly-first into the water like a tadpole. It felt like heaven. Only lasted a few seconds, but it was everything.

Pax handed me cold bottles — plain cold water never tasted so good. I thought I was saved, but then my legs locked up again. Took a minute to get going through the spasms. We were now climbing Mills River Road, repeating Bernard and Kitsuma.

Final Miles

I rode Bernard alone. The paved climb back to Kitsuma was long and lonely. Over 7,000 feet of climbing and six hours in, my mind wanted to be done — a river finish would’ve been great. But instead, I still had to climb Kitsuma.

Even though I was cooked, Kitsuma’s descent still brought fun. I rolled toward the finish on the road, through the Old Fort. It was the longest ORAMM yet — and one of the most brutal.

Crossing the finish, I was so grateful to place 2nd in a super strong Open Women’s field. I knew we all suffered equally, and many friends had dropped out.

But seeing Pax and my friends, eating from @kchn_kitchen, and finally getting that long creek soak — those moments made it all worth it.

Reflections

I passed so many racers on the side: one said, “I’m just tired,” and I thought — me too. Another was cramping — me too. Another said they ran out of water — same. We all suffered. That’s bike racing. Your body screams to stop, but your mind overrides. That’s what I love most about endurance racing — it shows you strength you didn’t know you had. And it changes you in every part of life.

Southern Cross 50-Mile Gravel Race

Southern Cross 50 Miles Gravel Race 50 miles, 6K of climbing, 3:22 hrs. 5th place finish in Open Women Category. Lining up at the start, I saw so many strong riders, most on gravel bikes, as expected for a gravel race. There were lots of teams, collegiate riders, and a record number of young racers, as race director Lisa pointed out, which was amazing. Around 50 women across all classes took on the 50-mile challenge, which is incredible. I knew I wouldn’t be fighting for the win, but I was ready for an amazing effort, a full-gas race, and the push that comes from riding alongside such a strong field. I set my eyes on the top five—last time I did this race two years ago, I placed 7th. You never know who will show up; you can end up on the podium or far from it with the exact same finishing time. This year, my time equaled last year’s winning time, but two years ago, it was only enough for 7th place.

Photo credit: dashingimages.com

The start was intense as a few hundred riders jetted down the swoopy, steep descent and into the painful climb out of the Montaluce Winery. Groups quickly formed on the road stretch. I had no chance of catching the first group; at least a couple of women disappeared with them, probably more. I was stuck between groups for a while until a small second group caught me, then a few more riders joined. I fought hard to stay, but I couldn’t consistently hold the wheel, drifting back and forth. I was the last rider hanging onto this extension of the front pack, with an endless stream of riders behind. Then we hit the first real climb—no more neutral rollout. The race truly began.

Photo credit: dashingimages.com

Finally, I was in my element—on gravel, on my hardtail Zerouno with Gulo wheels rolling so fast and smooth, I love my bikes. Within the first minute of climbing, I caught two collegiate riders. My countdown began. It took another 45 minutes of brutal climbing on Winding Stair Gap before I spotted another female rider. The rolling hills had turned into a relentless ascent. I passed a strong-looking racer from the front row, someone I had expected to be far ahead. That made three. The gravel became loose and dry, the climb steeper as I neared the first feed zone. There, I passed another strong rider—number four. After a quick bottle handoff, I hit a long stretch of rolling hills and a fast descent.

Photo credit: dashingimages.com

At one point, our race came to a near halt as 57 Jeep vehicles crawled up the middle of the gravel road while we were bombing down. I’d never seen that many Jeeps at once! Eventually, we spilled onto a few miles of asphalt descent. To my surprise, the fourth rider I had passed earlier flew by me on her gravel bike. A minute later, I was able to catch up and sit on her wheel briefly before we returned to rolling hills. That’s when the attacks started—repeated surges trying to drop me. I stayed patient, ensuring I didn’t lose too much ground. Soon, I worked my way back to her side. A quick exchange of words confirmed that there were four women ahead, meaning we were battling for 5th place overall. After that, I pushed forward and didn’t look back. This time, she didn’t follow.

Photo credit: dashingimages.com

Climbing my heart out to the second feed zone, I grabbed water and braced for the insane descent ahead. The course was torn up, with loose rocks, steep drops, and a hurricane-like wind making it even crazier. I sent my bike down like there was no tomorrow. The dust, speed, and wind made it impossible to hear if anyone was near. I was in full sprint mode for the final 18 miles. It’s a long sprint, one where effort management is key. I saw a few crash victims along the way and had no riders around me. Then, suddenly, I heard someone coming up fast—no way was someone passing me here! But it was a guy on a motorbike, giving me a huge cheer and a rad-on gesture before speeding off. That was both funny and motivating!

Photo credit: dashingimages.com

The last gravel sections had some punchy climbs that stung. Then came the long, endless-feeling stretch of pavement leading back to where we started. Everything felt like slow motion. A young rider I recognized from the start caught me. Earlier, he had joked about bringing marshmallows for a chill ride. As he passed, I asked, “So where are the marshmallows?” His turnaround and look were priceless—we both laughed. One last turn led to a grassy field, a muddy creek crossing, and a climb out onto gravel toward the finish. That final climb felt like riding through molasses.

I crossed the line at 3 hours and 22 minutes, feeling great. I hit my goal—5th place in an incredibly strong field, racing against road and gravel pros. Exactly what I set out to accomplish.

I saw familiar faces, made new friends, and soaked in the experience. I always do. No matter if it’s gravel or singletrack, the challenge of bike racing is always profound. You learn so much about yourself—not just what your body can handle, but how your mind processes pain, discomfort, setbacks, and surges forward. The moments that could break you but don’t. That’s the most amazing part of racing—the psychology of pain, turning it into something beautiful and meaningful.

Mountain Goat Adventures puts on phenomenal races, always well-organized and so much fun. I can’t help but keep coming back for more.

Uwharrie MTB Race – A Muddy, Wild, and Epic Ride!

This was my first time racing in Uwharrie National Forest, and wow—what an introduction! The entire week had been brutally cold, and race day was no exception, with temperatures hovering at 30°F. Lined up in a massive 180-rider start, bundled in plenty of layers, I could feel my breath turning to weird stinging coldness as my lungs filled with crisp air.

The race kicked off fast, the leaf covered gravel road immediately sending us scrambling for position. With one female rider ahead of me, I kept pushing, knowing that the real race would begin once we hit the singletrack. Only 1.5 miles of gravel later, just before we dove into the technical Keyauwee Trail, I made my move and surged ahead.

This was the kind of trail I enjoy—bumpy, rocky, and raw, with small rock gardens, slick river crossings, and two massive rock faces covered in moisture and ice. Every line choice mattered. At one point, I glanced back to see that Sarah, who I had passed, had fallen behind—but Annie was right there, just a switchback away. She was charging hard, and before I knew it, she was on my wheel, eager to push the pace even more.

Despite the intensity, we still managed to exchange a few words in between laying down some serious watts! Annie chased me around with this awesome smile on her face! I loved it! When we hit a gravel stretch, she made her move, surging past me into the next trail—Wood Run. This trail was a whole different beast. It started out loose and pebbly, but then transformed into a peanut-buttery, tire-sucking mess. I had ridden it earlier when the ground was frozen, but now? It was a completely different animal, and I had no idea just how much worse it would get on lap two.

Somewhere in the middle of Wood Run, Annie had a bottle cage issue, giving me an opportunity to pass her back. I blasted through the feed zone, pushing into another fast, unfamiliar trail that led me straight into lap two—this time, with far fewer riders around.

With less traffic, I really started to enjoy myself. The river crossings, the rock gardens, the punchy climbs—everything just flowed. I caught myself hooting, and sending “yuppies” into the air, the way I always do when I’m truly in my element. My bike, now thoroughly caked in mud, tore through the slippery terrain, spraying chunks of earth into the air.

But I wasn’t alone. I knew I was being chased, and I still had to hold my lead. When I hit Wood Run again, it had turned into a full-blown mudslide. The switchbacks were insanely slick, and holding a line was nearly impossible. I had a rider right behind me, both of us making all kinds of ridiculous noises as we desperately tried to keep our tires down. It was hilarious and chaotic—the kind of racing that makes you laugh through the suffering.

Somewhere near the top of the climb, I spotted a beautiful plateau covered in blooming daffodils—a brief, surreal moment of peace before plunging back into the slippery madness. My bike was now so coated in mud that chunks were literally flying off into my face. The rider behind me shouted, “You’re a beast!”, and we both cracked up as we fought our way out of the muck.

Still holding a solid lead, I hit the final stretch, pushing hard but also just soaking in the moment—the challenge, the speed, the camaraderie, the absolute joy of racing bikes.

The day had been a battle—not just against my competitors but against the elements, the terrain, and even my own constantly changing body temperature. Frozen at the start, sweating on the climbs, chilled in the shade—I had never raced in so many layers, but for some reason, I just wanted to feel cozy out there. And cozy I was.

In the end, I finished in 2 hours and 33 minutes and took the win! 🎉

Next week, a new challenge awaits. And I can’t wait.

Return to Words: Capturing the Ride in Writing

 

It has been quite a few years since I last wrote on my blog. I love capturing my experiences in writing—riding, racing, and the adventures that come with it. Even when I’m in a race, I find myself mentally blogging, holding onto key moments—the thrill of making a pass, catching someone, noting the time or mile mark. After all, we can’t remember every detail of a race, but those small, special moments stick with us. Like spotting the first blooming pink Redbud tree against the gray stillness of winter or noticing a tiny purple wildflower tucked beneath a familiar root I ride over lap after lap.

I love bike riding and racing. I love being in nature. Even after all these years, I still can’t get enough. Life got busy, and I stepped away from writing, but maybe it’s time to change that. The thoughts, emotions, and experiences that unfold during a race feel too special not to share. The excitement, the energy—it all begs to be put into words. But why? To self-express, to share the moment, the passion, to inspire? Maybe to remind others how incredible it is to ride, no matter your speed or results. The pure joy of riding often surpasses the pressures of racing. Racing brings its own stress and expectations, but do we all need to succeed? Do we need to push our limits just for a medal?

After all these years, I’ve come to believe that racing isn’t just about winning. It’s about the feeling—the burn in the legs, the fire in the lungs, the heartbeat pounding in sync with the rhythm of the ride. It’s about the shared smiles with fellow racers, the small talk on the trail, the cheers from the sidelines, the rush of clearing a drop that once terrified you. Mountain biking and racing bring both mental and physical challenges, but above all, they bring joy. For many of us, this is a way of life. It defines who we are. The constant pursuit of the next adventure, the preparation, the sacrifices—it’s all part of the journey.

Is it worth it? Who can say? Is it worth going to the movies, working in the garden? We each find our own passions, our own sense of purpose. Whether it’s photographing waterfalls, writing poetry, teaching yoga, or racing bikes and blogging about it, what matters is that it brings us joy. It’s about filling life with the things that matter to us, even if they seem insignificant to others. The things that come from your heart and mind—those are the things that make you whole.