Through Pain to Stars: My Marathon National Championship

 Marathon National Championships – Roanoke, VA

43.39 mi | 4:23:07 | 4,528 ft climbing

Photo credit: Snowy Mountain Photography

The picture that captured the day wasn’t me crossing the finish line—it was Kristen, last year’s winner, stepping toward me with a huge hug. We both knew what it had taken: the years of training, the endless preparation, the hope, the laser focus, and then—on one single day—you either piece it all together through unimaginable pain… or you don’t.

That hug said: I know what you went through, because I went through it too. But it also spoke to something bigger—that it’s not just about racing. It’s about the friendships we build, the way we can be genuinely happy for each other while chasing the same dream, and the joy of doing what we love. That, to me, is the most incredible part of all.

This could have been the hardest race of my life. Not just because of the course, or the heat, or the competition—but because of everything that happened in the weeks leading up to it.

Three weeks before Nationals, life took the most devastating turn. My husband Pax suffered a massive heart attack—air lifted straight to emergency surgery, and days in the ICU that felt like an eternity. I stayed by his side in that hospital room, barely moving, sleeping on a pull-out chair, terrified every second.

I didn’t ride for a while nor I cared to. I was burned out from fear, uncertainty and exhaustion. When we finally came home, it felt like a gift—but also a shadow. Nothing was the same. We had change so much. I rushed through short rides, unable to stay away from the house for long, constantly worried. So when Nationals came, I said I’d be fine skipping it. I’d raced so many before, and nothing mattered more than being with Pax. But he insisted: Go race. I want you to race. So I did.

Roanoke greeted us with a wall of humidity. Just stepping outside was overwhelming. The course itself was excellent - flowy, fast, rocky, and technical—but in this heat it felt punishing. I rode a couple of the big sections beforehand but couldn’t summon the energy to see it all. Just standing in the sun felt like it drained me. And not just me, I could see it was a struggle for Pax too. 

On race morning, I stood at the start line and looked over at Pax. He had lost 17 pounds, looked pale, fragile. Tears stung behind my glasses. I thought: this is too soon, for him, for me. But I was here. I was as ready as I can be in this position.

The race exploded off the line and for the first hour, everything clicked. I was riding up front, shoulder-to-shoulder with strong women from other categories. Through the first singletrack, I felt sharp and fast, even as the heat pressed down like fire. At one point I rode next to Libby—such a powerhouse—and I asked if she felt as hot as I did. My face felt like it was burning. But my energy was good, maybe a reserve I had built weeks and months before.

On a gravel stretch I told her to stick with me. Normally she drops me, but I was flying. I yelled out excited greetings to Mayra, Kelly, and others as I surged by. The race felt alive.

Photo credit: Snowy Mountain Photography

On a rocky side loop, Libby pulled away. I told myself to ride my own pace—it was too hot to go above red. At the first feed zone, I spotted Pax and managed only a few words: “Are you ok? These next two hours are going to be very important.”

The course pitched upward into flowy, climbing trails. I was still catching riders, but then things started to unravel. My fingers cramped first, curling sideways on the bars. I thought it was odd, but kept going. Then on the gravel climb toward the mountain top, I felt my earlier speed and energy was no longer there.. By the bottom of the descent, disaster struck—both legs locked completely. I couldn’t pedal. Pain ripped through me. I screamed. I had never cramped before, not like this. I always had been grateful not to experience cramps, beside very short two occasions in all my years of racing. And suddenly, just like that, I couldn’t turn the pedals without agony.

I was only halfway through the race, and my body had betrayed me. Every time I tried to put power down, cramps shot through my legs. Still, I managed to catch riders from younger categories. Amy, a good friend, tucked in with me for a bit. But as soon as we hit a narrow uphill singletrack, my calf spasmed violently and I had to stop, screaming, while she and other rider rode away. I was shaken. This wasn’t racing anymore. It was survival.

Carla appeared—super strong, normally untouchable and she should have been in a far front, I should not be seeing her as she started earlier. I asked how her day was. She told me she was suffering too, so badly she had jumped into a lake mid-race just to cool off. Even she wasn’t herself, but she still pushed through, holding onto third in her class.

Meanwhile, my day dissolved into a cycle of cramps, spasms, and screams that echoed through the forest. At times I thought I would faint. My body shook, my head spun. I questioned how I would even get back to the feed zone. When I did, Michelle—my friend Humberto’s wife—was there and handed me a bottle. I didn't want to have Pax there in this heat for that long. So I am very grateful for this help. Her smile and encouragement were a lifeline. Around us, volunteers and spectators cheered, unaware of the agony inside me.

                

By then I had lost over five minutes of moving time. My body barely worked, yet I was still clinging to first. The final sections of singletrack in the small loop, were mercifully more flowy, and I nursed the pedals, trying to manage the spasms. But when I asked volunteers how far was left, their answer gutted me: “A couple miles of gravel, then maybe three of singletrack.” On a normal day, that would have sounded easy. Today, it felt impossible. I looked back often, convinced someone was closing. The thought of losing now, after all this, terrified me.

The last singletrack tilted upward. I caught a rider stopped on roots and asked to pass, but he was still in the way when I arrived. I had to put my foot down—and immediately my calf locked again. I screamed, waited seconds that felt like eternity, then willed myself forward.

Finally, the top. I recognized a sunny, sandy corner from earlier, when we rode other direction on this first section. A blast of heat hit me like someone had opened a giant oven door. It was suffocating, hellish. Then the last climb. My legs cramped with every pedal stroke. I zigzagged, gasping, forcing each turn of the cranks. Then I heard it: cheers from the tent, voices shouting “National Champion!”

         

I crossed the line shattered. My body was broken, screaming from cramps. But I was whole again. Under the tent, Lisa from Mountain Goat Adventures and her family covered me in icy towels, cooling my battered body. Around me, friends and riders shared relief, exhaustion, laughter.

                          

This title wasn’t just mine. It was Pax’s. He wanted me to race, and I raced for him. In the darkest moments, when I thought I couldn’t go on, he was the reason I kept moving. Finally, after years of chasing and countless second places - I was National Champion again.

After the awards, friend Beth came to me, shared her story, and wrapped me in huge hugs, her eyes filled with tears. She was so genuinely happy for me and proud. She knew what I went through—because she had also endured a very long and tough day out there. That moment wasn’t about results or podiums. It was about two riders who had both fought their own battles, recognizing the grit and heart it took just to finish. It’s been so many years of very strong finishes, close races, and countless second places. 

Photo credit: Snowy Mountain Photography

The last time I won a National title was back in 2018. This win reminded me that sometimes it can take years of consistency, persistence, and belief to keep chasing the Stars and Stripes jersey. And when it finally comes together, the weight of all those years makes the moment even more unforgettable.