Pisgah Stage Race. Few days to go time...
With the Pisgah Stage Race just days away, I found myself sitting with a decision longer than I expected.
Not about whether I love this race—I do. But about what it asks of you… and whether you’re willing to meet it where you are.
The question stayed with me.
Should I race? Should I sit this one out? And if I race—what version of it do I choose?
The one where I stay safe, controlled, maybe even win… or the one where I step into something uncertain—something that will demand everything, physically and mentally, and give no guarantees in return?
Because let’s be honest… there is no such thing as an easy win in Pisgah.
So I went inward. Ran every scenario, every possible outcome. Not to predict the result—but to understand which choice I could stand behind when the week is over.
I’m sitting at my desk. Midday. I just dropped off my Gulo wheels for a tune-up. I still need to go ride—just a few small intervals, something to wake the legs.
The sliding door is open. It’s warm outside. My flowers sit beside me, soft air moving through the room, an overcast sky holding the light low and calm. Birds are singing. The wind chime plays in the background. Daffodils are fading now… while tiny buds are just beginning to appear on the trees.
And in all of this calm—there’s a knot in my stomach.
If you race, you know this feeling. No matter how many years you’ve been doing it, there is always that question mark.
Did I do enough? Did I train enough? Am I ready?
And strangely… sometimes the more prepared you are, the more you question everything.
But what happens when you don’t feel prepared at all? When you know you had the time… but didn’t take every step early enough to build that confidence?
That’s a different kind of weight.
I rode a lot of Pisgah only in the last week and a half—that’s when I truly started considering the race. I signed up with four hours left before registration closed.
Now I wait. And I don’t fully know what my body—or my mind—will do when the gun goes off.
On paper, the preparation isn’t where I would want it to be. The intervals didn’t fully happen.
So maybe this is it. Maybe this race becomes the training. Maybe this is Camp Pisgah.
Because here’s the truth: you are never fully ready for anything that matters.
If you wait for perfect preparation, you risk missing the very moments that define you. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Strength isn’t guaranteed. Opportunity isn’t guaranteed.
So you choose.
And this is where doubt and preparation meet.
I don’t know how I will feel. I don’t know how I will perform. I don’t know how each day will unfold.
I can picture it all—
I can see myself already scaling Laurel Mountain,
that endless, painful climb,
legs grinding, breath tightening with every switchback.
And then the drop—
Pilot Rock.
A rocky, unforgiving descent—
a river of boulders, sharp edges, tight lines that demand precision.
Line choice matters. Commitment matters.
There’s no halfway riding it.
I’ve ridden it in my mind a hundred times. But imagination doesn’t carry you up the climb—or down the descent.
Reality does.
That moment—when you are on the pedals, lungs burning, legs on edge, and you find out exactly who you are that day.
Pisgah is not just a race. It’s what I call Camp Pisgah—an honest, brutal training camp disguised as a race.
Every day is tough. Rough. Relentless.
These trails don’t give anything away. This is not a smooth cross-country course. This is enduro—every day, all day—with endless climbing, constant movement, and precise control over rock, roots, and consequence.
It is, without question, the most technical race I know.
And I’m not stepping into it halfway.
I’m going all in.
Not because everything is perfectly lined up—but because I want to see what’s there.
What my body can still do. How my mind responds when things get hard. Whether it resists… or locks in.
The unknown isn’t something to avoid. It’s something to step into.
The unknown is part of every start line. That’s what makes it exciting. And that’s what makes your stomach turn.
Because you truly don’t know.
And maybe the hardest part isn’t the race itself. It’s the waiting. The days leading in. The quiet tension building in the background.
Like my friend Jen said—it only feels this intense because you care. If you didn’t care, it would just be a ride.
But when you care… you choose to put yourself in a position where it will hurt.
Eighteen years of racing… and this feeling never goes away.
As race day approaches, life narrows. Everything becomes intentional. Controlled. Training fades. Energy is conserved. Every decision points toward one moment—the start line.
And then…
the gun goes off.
Everything sharpens.
No more doubt. No more overthinking. Only movement. Only breath. Only execution.
You are calm. Focused. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.
I didn’t choose this race because I feel perfectly ready. I chose it because it’s hard. Because it demands something real. Because it will show me exactly where I stand.
Not perfectly prepared—but fully committed.
And that is enough.
