52 miles. 10,500 feet of climbing. 6 hours and 35 minutes. Ninth in the world in my age group.
It was brutal. It was beautiful. It was tough.
And I got it done.
After months of thinking about this race, planning for it, training for it, studying the course, and imagining what it would be like to race through the Italian Dolomites, September 13 finally arrived.
Race morning was beautiful and cool as we drove toward Fiera di Primiero. The mountains were glowing around us, and after a week of everything from sunshine and heat to thunderstorms, downpours, and hail, it was finally time to stop thinking about the weather and simply race whatever course we had.
The women lined up together, and somehow I found myself on the front row next to my longtime Italian friend and competitor Lorena Zocca, surrounded by a great group of women from all over the world around us.
And then we were off.
As we rode out of the race village along the river, I found myself right at the very front of the entire women’s field. Three of us were riding across the front—me on the left, another woman in the middle, and Lorena Zocca on the right—with the whole pack behind us.
For those first few minutes, everything felt almost surreal. USA across my chest, the river beside us, Dolomites towering around us, and the World Championships finally happening.
Then we turned onto the steep, twisting concrete road, and suddenly the race got a little crazy.
The women’s field began mixing with the men who had started ahead of us, and before long there were riders everywhere. Different categories were blending together on the climb, people were moving forward and backward, and it became increasingly difficult to know exactly who was where.
Somewhere in all of that, I spotted three Italian women from my age group going by me. I noticed each one and made a mental note. I was sure I was keeping track of the women in my category and knew exactly where I stood.
At least, that’s what I thought.
The first climb would take close to an hour, and once we reached the wet singletrack, all of that traffic became an entirely different problem.
Three days of heavy rain had transformed the trails.
Roots that had been perfectly manageable during our pre-rides were suddenly like ice. Wooden bridges were slick. Rocks were wet. Tires slid sideways. Riders were walking, crashing, and stopping in places where momentum was everything.
There were moments when I wasn't really racing the women anymore. I was simply trying to find a clear piece of trail.
And then there were those wonderful little openings when suddenly nobody was in front of me.
One of my favorites was the bike park.
After fighting my way around a couple of riders—including one who nearly stopped directly in front of a steep, slick wooden ramp—I finally had open trail.
For a few glorious minutes, I could just ride my bike.
Berms. Rollers. Speed.
Freedom.
And then, of course...
Back to climbing.
We climbed through tiny villages, mountain pastures, and some of the most spectacular scenery I've ever raced through. There were cows and cowbells, mountain huts, beautiful wildflowers, and those enormous jagged Dolomite peaks always somewhere around us.
There were moments when I wanted to look around and take it all in.
And moments when I absolutely did not want to know how much farther up the mountain we still had to go.
Somewhere during the second half, however, my race began changing.
I had started feeling sick before race day, and as the hours passed, my body simply wasn't responding the way I knew it could. My heart rate felt like I was racing hard, but the power wasn't there.
First, a Swedish woman in my category caught me.
Normally, that would immediately switch something on inside me.
Go.
Get on her wheel.
Don't let her go.
But this time I couldn't respond.
I watched her slowly ride away from me.
Not long afterward, I heard a woman’s voice behind me.
“Beata?”
I turned toward her. It was a German rider.
“I saw your name on the list! We raced together in Florida at the 12 Hours of Santos. You beat me. You won.”
It took me a moment to place her. Here we were, years later, two women who had once raced each other in Florida, suddenly riding together again in the middle of a World Championship in the Italian Dolomites.
We talked for a moment.
And then she rode away from me too.
That one hurt.
I knew how competitive I was. I knew how I normally raced. I knew the person who sees another woman disappearing ahead and immediately thinks, No. You're not getting away from me.
But that person simply wasn't there.
My body didn't have the response, and strangely, neither did my mind.
And unfortunately, the Dolomites weren't particularly interested in giving me time to figure it out.
The course seemed to have an endless supply of mountains.
Somewhere during one of those long, hot, exposed, bumpy gravel climbs, I remember staring ahead desperately hoping for just a little flat section—or, miracle of miracles, a downhill.
Then I saw the next course arrow.
It pointed up.
"Of course it's up," I said out loud. "Of course it's going up."
And up we went.
Eventually I stopped trying to force something my body didn't have.
I just kept riding.
And there was still an enormous amount of riding left.
One trail became affectionately known in my head as the Snot Trail because the wet roots were so unbelievably slick.
During the dry pre-ride, I had flown through it. Now my front and rear tires were sliding sideways across polished roots, my left foot was constantly coming out to dab, and my right quad was beginning to cramp from doing so much of the work.
At another point I looked down at the little sticker Pax had put on my top tube before we left home:
YOU'LL BE FINE.
Those were the words Pax and our neighbor Jim had jokingly been telling me before Italy.
Now I was saying them out loud.
"You'll be fine. You'll be fine. You'll be fine."
One slippery root at a time.
Eventually I reached Pax at the final feed zone. He gave me my bottles and essentially told me what I already knew.
Don't worry about the result anymore.
Just keep going.
Finish.
So that's what I did.
There were still insanely steep wet switchbacks, rocky descents, and a suspension bridge I informed the laughing volunteers that I absolutely did not want to ride again.
They laughed.
I laughed.
Someone told me to look far ahead.
Someone may have suggested closing my eyes.
Wonderful advice for crossing a suspension bridge on a mountain bike.
Somehow I got across.
And then, naturally...
UP.
One final concrete climb that seemed determined never to end.
Every time I thought I could see the top, another set of switchbacks appeared.
I would climb all the way across the grassy mountainside, turn, climb all the way back, and think:
Okay. That's the top.
Nope.
More.
Another switchback.
Another false top.
More climbing.
At least this part of the mountain was beautiful. There were cows with their bells and fields filled with tiny purple flowers that looked almost exactly like the crocuses we have at home in spring.
Eventually, even that climb had to end.
And then came the final technical descent.
My forearms were so pumped that holding onto the handlebars was becoming a challenge. Rocks that had given me absolutely no trouble during the pre-ride were now wet and polished by thousands of tires.
Once I committed to a rocky section, there was no changing my mind halfway through.
You had to go.
Let the bike move.
Let the tires slide.
And trust that somehow everything would still be underneath you when you came out the other side.
On one of the slick rocky switchbacks, I passed a rider sitting beside the trail wrapped in a silver emergency blanket while volunteers attended to him.
That was a pretty good reminder that even this close to the finish, I still needed to pay attention.
Finally, the rocks ended.
I made one last turn and suddenly found myself flying down smooth concrete.
Cool air hit my face.
And there, immediately beside me, was the river.
Beautiful, clear mountain water.
All week I had been saying I wanted to get into that river, but around town it was always surrounded by walls, bridges, and concrete structures.
Here it was wild and open.
I could have stopped my bike, walked down the bank, and stepped straight into that beautiful cold water.
And for a few seconds, after more than six hours of racing the Marathon World Championships, I seriously considered doing exactly that.
Apparently getting into the river had become more appealing than getting to the finish line.
But the finish was only minutes away.
So...
Finish the race, Beata.
The concrete path carried me toward town.
Barricades appeared.
I rode through a little playground area.
Left turn.
Another left.
And suddenly there it was.
The huge finish arch.
Music.
People.
The announcer.
USA.
There was a guy riding just to my right, and after everything that had happened that day, apparently some tiny competitive part of me was still alive because I looked over and tried to encourage him to sprint me to the finish.
He didn't look particularly interested.
Fine.
I sprinted anyway.
I think I passed him.
Then I crossed the line.
He finished behind me and gave me a little fist bump.
Pax was waiting there, taking a video.
And just like that, it was over.
6 hours and 35 minutes.
52 miles.
10,500 feet of climbing.
9th in my age group at the Masters Marathon World Championships.
Was it the race I dreamed about?
No.
I'm competitive enough to admit that.
I came to Italy wanting more. I knew what I had hoped I could do, and there were moments afterward when it was difficult not to define the entire experience by the number beside my name.
But with a little distance, I see something much bigger.
I raced my mountain bike for 52 miles through the Italian Dolomites.
I rode mountains I'd never seen before.
I raced women from around the world.
I struggled.
I laughed.
I slid sideways across wet roots.
I rode through tiny Italian villages, past cowbells and fields of purple wildflowers.
I crossed that ridiculous suspension bridge.
I saw Pax waiting for me at the feed zones.
I finished.
And when I think about this entire trip—the pre-rides, the meals, the friendships, the crazy logistics, the laughter, the beautiful villages, the storms, the stress, and all the little adventures in between—I can't possibly reduce it to one result.
Of course results matter to me.
Racing matters to me.
I'll learn from this one, just as I've learned from every race before it.
But sometimes we become so focused on the outcome that we forget how extraordinary the opportunity itself is.
I got to line up at a World Championship in Italy.
I got to wear USA across my chest.
I got to race some of the strongest women my age in the world.
And after 52 miles and 10,500 feet of climbing through one of the most spectacular places I've ever ridden a bicycle...
I crossed that finish line.
Ninth in the world.
Maybe it wasn't the race I imagined.
But what an incredible adventure it was...
It Takes a Village
And there was something else that made this day incredibly special.
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| The Crew: Me, Mike, Trish, Amy, Pax, Matt |
I was proud and grateful to be there representing my country, wearing USA across my chest, and representing Sycamore Cycles back home in North Carolina. CUORE created an awesome custom Worlds jersey for me, and it felt pretty special to pull it on that morning and line up in Italy wearing my country’s colors.
My bike rode incredibly well through everything the Dolomites threw at us. Wet roots, slick rocks, mud, steep climbs, and technical descents—it never gave me a reason to think about anything except riding. I absolutely loved racing my new Gulo wheels, my Selle SMP saddle kept me comfortable through more than six and a half hours in the saddle, and my DeFeet accessories helped keep me comfortable through a long day in constantly changing mountain conditions. And on a course made so wet and muddy by days of rain, Squirt Cycling products helped keep everything running smoothly all the way to the finish.
Behind the scenes, Pax and Mike had their own race going on. They did an incredible job navigating those mountain roads, racing from feed zone to feed zone, somehow appearing exactly where we needed them, and taking care of all of us racers throughout a very long day.
It really does take a village.
I’m incredibly grateful for the people who supported me, the partners who helped me get to that start line, the equipment I could completely trust underneath me, and everyone who became part of this adventure.
More Than a Race
As much as this trip was built around one very important day on the bike, when I look back at Italy, the race is only one part of what I remember.
There was Fiera di Primiero itself, this beautiful little village tucked beneath the rugged Dolomite peaks, with flowers spilling from balconies and bridges and the river rushing straight through the middle of town. There were walks through the village, dark chocolate gelato that was so good I immediately announced, “I’m staying,” dinners in little restaurants, homemade meals at our villa, and evenings spent laughing with friends.
There were the pre-rides too—hours together on the bikes exploring the course and those incredible mountains. Some days under brilliant blue skies, others in rain, hail, and thunderstorms that seemed to change the mountains completely. There was plenty of stress mixed into the adventure as well, beginning with our rather complicated escape from Venice and continuing with weather that seemed determined to keep us guessing right up until race day.
And there was Venice itself—brief, hectic, beautiful, and completely different from the peaceful little corner of the Dolomites that eventually became our home for the week.
But mostly, there were the people.
The conversations, the laughter, the rides together, the meals, the gelato stops, and all those ordinary little moments in between the big ones. We came to Italy because of a bike race, but somehow those moments became just as much a part of the experience as anything that happened between the start and finish lines.
Maybe that's one of the things I love most about racing in places like this.
The race gives you a reason to go. But once you're there, life gives you so much more.
