ORAMM 2026 – Mud, Mountains, and Gratitude

Every ORAMM tells a different story.

Some years it's the heat.

Some years it's the climbs.

Some years it's the people you meet along the way.

This year, it was written in rain, mud, rolling clouds, slippery roots, rock gardens, and nearly seven hours of adventure through the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Ever since Marathon Nationals, I'd been looking forward to ORAMM. It would be my final long race before the biggest challenge of my season—a chance to spend nearly seven hours pushing my limits in the mountains.

Sixty-five miles.

More than 9,000 feet of climbing.

Seventeen women lined up in the Open category, and I knew almost every one of them was younger than me.

ORAMM has never been an easy race. It is usually hot, humid, and unpredictable. Some years the heat becomes the biggest challenge, while other years the weather throws something completely different at you. This year I found myself hoping for clouds, cooler temperatures, maybe even a little rain—anything but another ninety-degree sufferfest.

Well...

I definitely got my wish.

By the time I picked up my packet in Old Fort, thunderstorms rolled across the mountains. As I walked across the historic bridge, the sky opened completely. I laughed, pulled my race packet over my head, and ran back to the car in my brand-new ORAMM shirt while rain poured down around me.

The storm delayed any real warm-up, but eventually the rain eased just enough for us to line up.

From the gun, I felt surprisingly good.

Really good.

I found myself riding with the lead group almost immediately. Madison, one of the strongest riders in the Southeast, came around me early, and I jumped onto her wheel. Only seven or eight minutes into what would become nearly seven hours of racing, everyone was already riding at threshold. I looked down at my power numbers and couldn't help laughing. Even the guys around me joked about how hard we were pushing this early in the day.

One final paved climb stretched the group, and I finally lost contact with the leaders. Looking back, I realized I was completely alone between groups. A minute later, two riders came charging from behind. I eased just enough for them to catch me, tucked onto their wheels, and together we buried ourselves for several minutes until we reconnected with the leaders.

One of them smiled and asked,

"Worth it?"

I smiled back.

"Oh, absolutely."

With trails this wet, entering the first singletrack near the front was worth every watt.

Bernard Mountain immediately reminded us what kind of day this was going to be. Standing water covered the doubletrack leading to the trail, fresh mud coated the singletrack, and the lower we descended, the slicker everything became.

Near the top, though, the forest opened for just a moment.

Huge white clouds rolled through the valleys below us, drifting between endless Blue Ridge ridges.

I pointed toward the view for a rider from Florida.

"Look!"

He turned his head for a second, smiled, and said,

"Now I understand why you moved here."

Exactly.

That one view explained everything.

By the time I reached the road toward Kitsuma, I was completely covered in mud and almost out of water. Pax was supposed to meet me with a fresh bottle, but he wasn't there yet. I only had two small sips left.

The rider I'd been climbing with noticed me looking at my bottle.

"Do you need some water?"

I hesitated for just a second.

Taking a drink from someone else's bottle isn't something you normally think about during a race. But then I realized I still had the entire climb and descent of Kitsuma ahead of me, and it would probably be another forty minutes before I'd see Pax again.

I nodded.

He handed me his bottle.

It was still frozen.

The water was ice cold.

Just plain water.

I took two long sips.

Nothing has ever tasted so good.

As I handed the bottle back, I knew those would probably be the last cold drinks I'd have for quite a while, so I found myself savoring every sip.

Then it was back to racing.

Suddenly every climb became about one thing.

Water.

I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The funny thing was that whenever the trail pointed downhill, I completely forgot I was thirsty.

Kitsuma demanded absolute focus.

Every root.

Every rock.

Every muddy corner.

Every decision had to be made before entering it because once you committed, there was no changing your line halfway through.

Oddly enough...

I loved it.

It reminded me of descending Bennet during Pisgah Stage Race a few years ago in total downpour. Sometimes terrible conditions force you to become completely present.

Seeing Pax at the bottom with a fresh bottle felt like heaven.

The next major challenge was Star Gap.

As I climbed beside Heckler, I wasn't thinking about the climb.

I was studying the rock garden I'd have to descend hours later.

Every few steps I looked back, memorizing the rocks, the angles, and the possible lines.

Before the race, I'd already made up my mind.

I was about 97% sure I was going to ride Heckler.

The remaining three percent had nothing to do with fear.

It had everything to do with making the right decision.

This wasn't just another technical feature.

It was one of the biggest obstacles on the course, and I was only a few weeks away from the biggest race of my season. I wasn't willing to take unnecessary risks simply to prove I could ride it.

If the rocks became too slick...

If the line disappeared...

If something didn't feel right...

I'd walk it without a second thought.

Sometimes experience isn't about riding everything.

Sometimes it's about knowing when not to.

As I continued climbing, I kept replaying the descent in my head, trying to remember exactly where I wanted my wheels to go.

The climb itself became a battle against slick clay, packed cleats, and endless off-camber roots. At one point, a younger rider crashed above me and tumbled all the way down the switchback while his bike stayed caught in the bushes. Thankfully he was okay, but it was another reminder that these mountains demanded respect.

The middle part of the race seemed endless.

It had taken me almost three and a half hours just to get there, and I knew we were in for a very long day.

Trail after trail.

Corner after corner.

Machine-built singletrack twisting through the forest.

After a while, it all began to feel the same.

I remembered something another rider once said about Marathon Nationals—"death by a thousand cuts."

To be honest...

This felt even worse.

The sun had finally broken through the clouds, and the temperature climbed quickly. The mud dried onto my arms, my legs, my shoes, and every part of the bike until it felt like I was carrying the mountain with me.

Then, as I reached the last of those endless twisting trails, the sky suddenly turned dark again.

Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.

A cool breeze swept through the forest, bringing instant relief from the heat.

Within moments the rain came pouring down.

The water mixed with sweat and mud until I could barely see. I kept taking my glasses off, then putting them back on again, never quite sure which was the better option. At one point I slammed straight into a rock I simply hadn't seen through the muddy blur.

The rain washed away some of the clay that had dried onto my skin and bike, but it also transformed the trail beneath my feet. The clay became something else entirely.

Every switchback turned into a balancing act.

Sometimes it was difficult to ride them.

Sometimes it was almost as difficult to walk them.

My shoes packed with slick clay. Then, almost without warning, the rain stopped.

I wasn’t completely sure what trail I was on, it was some kind of connector I have never ridden. When I got out finally on the gravel it was a relieve and I knew at any time I should be reaching the Star Gap in the opposite direction. Thankfully everything was familiar again.

For just a few peaceful seconds, everything became still, while I was rolling through this soaked gravel with great speed.

Eventually, I stopped thinking about miles.

My mind became completely focused on the last major climb that still waited ahead.

Star Gap.

I knew that once I reached the top and made my way down Heckler, the race would be almost over.

As I climbed, I found myself replaying the descent over and over again.

The rocks.

The lines.

Every possible decision.

Oddly enough, having something technical to think about became a welcome distraction from how many hours I'd already spent on the bike.

Then I met another rider coming down the trail.

She looked exhausted.

"What are you doing here?" I asked with a smile.

"I flatted earlier," she replied. "Someone finally helped me fix it, and I'm just getting going again."

"How many miles are you on?" I asked.

"Seventeen."

I smiled.

"I'm already on fifty-two."

She looked at me for a second before laughing.

"Oh... I think I'm a little behind."

"Yeah," I laughed. "Just a little."

We both smiled and continued on our way.

When I was climbing the middle pitches of Star Gap toward Heckler, yellow-brown water rushed straight down the middle of the trail. Every root had become its own little puzzle. I found myself studying each one—the angle, the shape, where my tire would land, where it might slip.

Somehow...

I enjoyed it.

Instead of thinking about tired legs or how many hours I'd already spent on the bike, my mind became completely absorbed in solving one obstacle after another.

One root.

One line.

One decision at a time.

The approach to Heckler came almost before I realized it.

People stood on both sides of the rock garden.

The photographer waited below.

I rolled to the entrance and took one last look.

The rocks were wet, but surprisingly grippy. The line I'd been studying all morning was still there.

That missing three percent disappeared.

I rolled in.

Not aggressively.

Not recklessly.

Just completely committed.

Every move was deliberate.

Every rock received my full attention.

When I reached the final right-hand turn I'd been studying for hours, my tires gripped perfectly.

I cleaned the entire section.

The cheers from the spectators made me smile, but what stayed with me most wasn't cleaning Heckler.

It was knowing I'd made the right decision.

The hardest technical challenge of the day was behind me.

Or so I thought.

Late in the race, descending Bernard one final time, the trail had become even slicker than it had been that morning.

The lower section was one long series of muddy corners. My rear tire drifted through almost every turn, never completely out of control, but never fully planted either. Every corner demanded total commitment because once I chose my line, there was no changing my mind halfway through.

It wasn't about riding aggressively.

It was about trusting the bike.

Trusting the trail.

And trusting myself.

Then I heard a helicopter overhead.

Pax had told me he'd be waiting near the bottom of Bernard.

Instantly my mind went somewhere I wish it hadn't.

After everything we'd been through over the past year, fear arrived before logic.

"What if something happened?"

I kept telling myself to stop.

To focus.

To ride.

When I finally rolled onto the road, I saw Pax leaning out of the car window, smiling and taking pictures.

I've never been happier to see him.

The fear disappeared instantly.

The rain had stopped.

The sun had come out.

The mud that had covered me for hours was already beginning to dry, caking onto my arms, my legs, my jersey, and every inch of the bike.

Then something unexpected happened.

Instead of fading after nearly seven hours of racing...

I felt powerful.

Really powerful.

I stood up on the pedals and sprinted all the way back toward Old Fort.

I crossed the railroad tracks, weaved through the obstacle course of old railroad ties, crossed the bridge, and rolled across the finish line after 6 hours and 53 minutes.

2nd Place – Open Women

Fifth ORAMM Finisher Buckle

It was one of the longest, muddiest, ORAMM days yet

But strangely...

The finish line wasn't my favorite memory.

Somewhere during the hardest part of the race, while slogging through endless muddy trails, my mind had started wandering toward the river.

I kept imagining exactly what it would feel like to sit in that cold mountain water after the race.

When I finally finished, that's exactly what I did.

Pax and I walked back across the bridge.

I took off my shoes, my helmet, and my mud-soaked jersey before stepping into the cool river.

As I sat there, I watched nearly seven hours of mud slowly wash off my arms, my legs, and my face.

It felt cleansing not only in the physical way...

A few days before the race, someone wished me luck and said they hoped I'd finish on the podium.

It made me realize something afterward.

No podium is ever guaranteed.

Not because you've done it before.

Not because you've trained hard.

Every podium has to be earned all over again.

Every race.

Every season.

Standing on another ORAMM podium at 51 years old, racing against an incredibly strong field of younger women is something I never want to take for granted.

Every ORAMM tells a different story.

Every year this race asks different questions.

Every year it presents a different challenge.

And somehow...

It never gets any easier.

Receiving my fifth ORAMM Finisher Buckle made me stop and reflect for a moment.

It isn't just five finishes.

It's five completely different adventures through these incredible Blue Ridge Mountains.

Five years of learning.

Five years of pushing myself.

Five years of suffering, smiling, adapting, and discovering something new every single time I pin on a number.

As I watched the last streaks of mud disappear into the river, I realized I wasn't just grateful for another podium.

I was grateful for another day in the mountains.

Another adventure on my bike.

Another chance to discover what I'm still capable of.

One final thought...

When we got home, I looked at my bike and couldn't help but laugh. It was almost impossible to tell what color it actually was anymore. Layers of Pisgah clay covered every tube, every cable, every component, as if the mountains wanted me to take a little piece of ORAMM home.

Pax just smiled.

I knew he was already planning how he was going to tackle the cleanup, and I had a feeling he was going to have plenty of fun uncovering my bike from beneath all that mud.

And somehow, through all that chaos, I spent nearly seven hours looking down at my favorite Defeet race socks that simply say...

"Do Epic Shit."

I couldn't help but smile.

They seemed perfectly appropriate for the day.

After nearly seven hours of rain, slick clay, rock gardens, creek crossings, and relentless climbing, I couldn't have asked more from my equipment. My Gulo Wheels inspired confidence through every technical descent and never missed a beat in some of the toughest conditions. Squirt Chain Lube, Squirt Tire Sealant, Squirt Barrier Balm and much needed Squirt Bike Cleaner, also proved their worth on a day when mud seemed determined to find its way into absolutely everything.

Now it's time to get everything clean...

And start looking forward to the next adventure.