Not Every Start Line Is a Peak

I wasn’t supposed to still be in Florida.

We were meant to be home already — back in the mountains — but an ice storm hit one weekend, followed by snow the next. The kind of winter weather I actually love. The kind I wanted to see, photograph, feel.

Instead, we stayed a little longer.

And when you stay a little longer in Florida, Florida does what Florida does:

another race appears.

Alligator: The Race landed on the calendar. I hadn’t planned for it. I hadn’t trained specifically for it. But I was there — so I lined up.

Race morning was cold.
Low thirties.
Strong wind.
Bright blue sky.

Cold fingers under palm trees.

At the last moment, the race was shortened from four laps to three — cutting it from roughly 32 miles to 24. I had been mentally prepared for something longer, something I could settle into.

Instead, it became sharp.

Fast.

Florida vs. Mountains

Let me be honest.

Florida racing has never truly suited me.

I thrive where races stretch out and strip you down — long climbs that burn steadily for hours. Endless gravel. Sustained ascents. Terrain where patience matters and strength unfolds slowly.

In the mountains, I don’t rush.
I endure.
I build.
I rise.

Florida asks for constant accelerations, tight turns, quick decisions.

It isn’t where my strengths sing.

And knowing that isn’t weakness.

It’s clarity.

Inside the Race

The course was fun and demanding — concrete climbs, wooden features, log-overs, tight transitions. Gun Range was fast and alive. Collarbone carried history.

Mid-race, a bright green iguana lay on the trail, stunned from the cold. Florida always adds something surreal.

Jen almost didn’t race after crashing in preride. She lined up anyway — and absolutely crushed it.

As for me, the race unfolded quietly.

I rode well.

I committed to the features.
I stayed steady.
I didn’t panic.

But when I tried to accelerate, there was nothing there.

No spark.
No surge.
No extra gear.

And that wasn’t surprising.

I had been riding steady gravel miles. Building base. Not training for repeated XC surges.

This wasn’t a season goal race. It wasn’t something I had circled for months.

It was a start line I chose to stand on.

And the result reflected exactly where I was.

On paper, it wasn’t impressive.

But it wasn’t catastrophic either.

It was accurate.

The Part We Don’t Always Share

I wanted to write about this race.

And at the same time, I wanted to forget it.

Even though I wrote notes the day after, it took longer to actually process it.

Not because it was dramatic.

But because I’m hard on myself.

When you’re known for big events and strong results, it can feel uncomfortable to finish near the back of the field at a smaller race.

But here’s the truth:

This race didn’t define anything. It just reflected where I am right now.

Performance reflects preparation.

And I simply wasn’t in a phase built for sharp XC results.

That doesn’t make the ride bad.

It just makes it honest.

When I was nine years old at my first table tennis tournament, I was unrated and matched against the number one seed in the first round. I could have walked away.

I didn’t.

Just a little over three years later, at thirteen, I won two national titles.

Because it’s never the loss that defines you.

It’s whether you learn from it.
Whether you understand what happened.
Whether you keep loving what you do enough to continue.

Funny thing is, when I think back on that Florida day now, I don’t remember the placement first.

I remember the cold air.
The trails.
The feeling of riding through Florida woods under a bright winter sky.

Yes, my legs were empty when I asked them for more.

But I genuinely enjoyed being out there.

You can ride well and still have a result that looks small.

Results depend on timing, preparation, the field, and countless variables outside your control.

You only control your ride.

That’s it.

And I’m proud of how I rode.

What Stayed With Me

Even though I’m no longer a local, I heard people cheering my name.

 

Friends.
Familiar faces.
Encouragement that had nothing to do with placement.

That mattered.

More than the result.

Some races aren’t about proving fitness.

Some races remind you where you truly thrive.

I’m at my best in the mountains.

That hasn’t changed.

But this race reminded me of something equally important:

Results are information.

They are not identity.

There will be sharper days ahead. There will be stronger performances. That’s how seasons work.

I’m exactly where I need to be.    

Six Weeks on the Levee

Florida felt different this time.

Not louder. Not harder. Just different.

Most of my rides happened on the levee — long stretches of gravel cutting through the Everglades, flat and exposed. No climbs to interrupt the rhythm. No technical sections demanding sharp focus. Just steady pedaling and open sky.

You can’t really hide on the levee. If you stop pushing, you slow. If the wind turns against you, you feel it immediately. So I focused on constant movement. On the gravel under my tires. On the endless Everglades stretching beside me. On the wind moving the tall grasses.

Some days were good.

Most days were simply steady.

And that was enough.

 

One evening, I rode past the bench I used to quietly call “my bench.” It sits along the levee where the sunset hits just right. I’ve stopped there before. Sat there. Thought there.

This time, a couple was sitting on it.

I looked at them, smiled, and waved as I rode by. There was something peaceful about seeing someone else enjoying that place. It wasn’t my bench anymore.

And surprisingly, I wasn’t upset.

It felt like a quiet reminder that nothing is ever really ours. We just pass through.

Another afternoon, just as I was starting my ride, I saw a young man sitting on the edge of the levee playing guitar. I had never seen anyone out there doing that.

It made me smile.

What a beautiful way to enjoy this place.

There was something reassuring about it — someone else finding peace in the same wide horizon. Sitting still. Listening. Playing.

And I realized that riding there is my version of that.

Different movement.
Different rhythm.
Same kind of presence.

Not all of those miles were alone.

A few evenings, after laps at Markham, Jen and I sneaked out onto the levee for extra gravel miles. We rode side by side, mostly chatting away, sometimes quiet, occasionally looking at each other and smiling.

She told me she would never be out there if it weren’t for me. And I felt genuinely happy that she got to experience something I’ve always loved.

The openness.
The wind.
The simplicity.

One evening we misjudged the light. I had no lights and still miles to go. At one point she lost hers and had to sprint back the opposite direction, maneuvering in near darkness.

It was a little chaotic.
A little dramatic.
A little thrilling.

And somehow, very us.

But most of the time, it was just me.

The sun would start high and harsh when I rolled out. By the time I turned back, it would be sinking toward the horizon, wrapping the swamps in gold, orange, and deep pink. The air would cool. The wind would pick up. Birds would begin flying toward their spots for the night before dark.

Those were the moments I felt most alive.

Cool breeze.
Strong wind.
Color shifting across the sky.
Solitude stretching in every direction.

We’ve had a lot of shifts in our lives recently. Big ones. The kind that unsettle everything.

But every time I rolled onto that levee and saw the same horizon, the same grasses moving, the same birds settling in before nightfall, I felt reassured.

The world was still there.

I was still there.

Sometimes I would stop and watch the sun drop fully past the horizon and disappear. Watching that slow fade makes you realize how quickly every second is passing by — whether you’re ready for it or not.

Soon I will be back in my mountains — the place I love deeply. Back to climbing and forest-covered trails.

But I will always miss these steady miles.

The flat horizon.
The endless sky.
The simple act of pedaling forward with nothing in front of me but wind.

Florida didn’t give me epic rides this time.

It gave me perspective.

And that was exactly what I needed.