Fog on the Harbor

In May of last year I went down to Arkansas for an experimental new ultra race. The massively popular Rule of Three, established in arguably the most bike-centric city in the United States, introduced a 200-mile category and I wanted in. It had been a spring of seriously unsteady income but the organizers got me a sponsored entry and a host of friends helped me put the rest of the pieces together.

I took on the challenge with two objectives- add another ultra-distance merit badge to my proverbial sash and create a mini documentary of the experience with my phone. I found a handful of people also entered in the 200-mile event to ask one question, on camera- what are you in it for? Some seemed a little caught off guard by the question, and others delivered answers so nonchalant that I knew they were right at home on this horizon.

The race started at 4:00 p.m. the day before the standard 100 and 50-mile distances and we had a 30-hour cutoff to beat. At mile 70, around 1:00 a.m. after hiking my bike up a steep powerline cut that spit me out to a dead-end road, I called for a ride back to town. I was aware this race was going to be a little rowdier than anything I had ridden before, but I went into it knowing that I was ready to take that step up. My limit turned out to be the building unsafety I felt from the combo of loose dogs in the dark, no-trespassing signs my navigation insisted I disregard, 20-miles straight of mostly unrideable (for me) singletrack immediately followed by mud pits and criminally steep powerline cuts that all slowed me to a drag. My body was in great shape but my mind already wasn’t, and I accepted that this was just not my style of race and not a reflection of some deficiency of mine before a support car even got to me. I missed out on getting the video content and the full-circle story I was hoping for, and so I had to settle for a 90-second Instagram reel that I am fond of but am equally haunted by.

I still ache a little over abandoning the spirit of toughing that race out, but I had to call back that one question I had asked so many people before the race that I hadn’t taken the time to answer myself in entirety- what was I in it for?

To briefly touch on themes from my past posts, I’ve labelled myself (or maybe my imposter syndrome has) as a major underdog whose drive to excel in the sport of gravel and ultra-cycling is mismatched with the reality of my life. My circumstances pretty consistently tell me that welfare kids from hoarding houses that feel safe absolutely nowhere can’t access, let alone succeed in, big-time athletic environments that eat resources by the shovel and demand consistent social connections. Despite those voices I persist, much to the discontent of my easily broken heart.

And so I recognized easily that my answer to the big question was that I was in it in spite of everything- for the long haul and that one unsalvageable event wasn’t a threat to that. After a decade of chipping away at the confining factors that left me feeling so less than, I was rebelling again. I’ve experienced enough truly epic rides at this point that I didn’t allow one defeat to unravel that ideal for me, but it did remind me how fragile the pursuit of doing anything exceptional is.

I talk about it so often because as if that saga wouldn’t be trying for anyone, I’ve inadvertently associated my efforts on the bike with the vindication of my broken adolescence. And for better or for worse, I don’t really want to untie them.

I’m not sure I’ll ever write enough about the past to alleviate the weight of it, but ultimately it is time to direct these posts toward where I am now and where I hope to go, in spite of everything.

I’ve been living in a town of 1,600 people for six months and in that time have had the most difficult time finding a stable new job (there are plenty of unstable ones). My boyfriend, Jeremy, has been propping me up and insisting that I not fold for something that doesn’t truly work for me, but I couldn’t have predicted it would be this difficult to even get a call back, and so I’m starting to sweat that my financial hiatus from racing might have to be extended into yet another spring. In the midst of that mess, I’ve been mitigating my job-board doom-scrolling and obsessive “apply” button-smashing by writing more, painting more, and reaching out to individuals I know in fitness and media for advice on potential longer-term ventures that complement life on a bike. The van has been parked on the curb, driven only every couple of weeks, I got my ass kicked by covid for two weeks, and I’ve gone through the motions of indoor training, riding outside when I can, running a 5k or two a week around the entire town, and will begin strength training again soon. I have some local target races I’m clutching to keep my goal-oriented capital-type-A personality engaged, and rejecting the expectations that come with turning 30 next month. Trans-Am is still the long game we’re playing even if it kills me.

I have to remind myself daily that even though I’m deeply discouraged about how much I can’t do, I’m not allowed to let the mission slip away by not being ready when I finally can again. And as much as I am hellbent, maybe to my detriment, of creating this big story for myself, I am even more committed now to talking about it despite the massive political elephant in the room that might have me sounding a little tone-deaf. The loudness of all of those cogs turning literally keeps me up at night while I quantify the burden that passion has been on me, and I’m just going to let this life make whatever example out of me that it wants to.