Ending on a high note: Winston Salem

My last blog post from Cyclocross Nationals concluded with teammates swarming me at the finish, exclaiming, “you’re in our territory now!” Since the Milligan team is made up of roadies, this was true. The dirt seasons were over. It was time to hit the pavement.

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At the start of the school year, we had written out our personal riding goals. I was ambitious with what I put down for mountain biking, but for road I wrote something along the lines of just doing what I could to support the team, gain some experience, and maybe land a spot on the team time trial squad.

Lots of rain, freezing temps, pushing limits, long travel days, tons of teamwork, some frustration, a handful of solo breakaways, and one massive learning curve later, I surprisingly found myself in the yellow jersey and Milligan had won the team conference title as well. My sights were then set on Nationals, and I went to bed every night envisioning the glory of crossing that finish line victoriously in Grand Junction, CO.

There was a pack of about 20 of us still together leading into the final climb before the finish at Nationals. It was really anyone’s race, but I felt terrible. We turned the corner, everyone darted up the hill, my mom cheered wildly from the side lines, and I dropped like a brick to finish in 16th. It was all over. I tried to keep it together but couldn’t hold back the tears of raw disappointment. It’s a terrible feeling.

The following days poured salt in the wound. I was the weakest link in the TTT, collapsing at the end barely able to breath in the relentless altitude. Since my confidence was blown I got sketched out and did poorly in the crit as well. We’re nearly certain it was the altitude that crippled me, but we’ll never know for sure.

Before the racing at Nationals even began, Coach had mentioned flying to North Carolina to guest ride in a UCI Pro race. I had been working hard with classes and training since school had started last fall, so for the first time ever I was actually looking forward to a break from the bike. The thought was distant in the back of my mind throughout the weekend.

After the racing was over, I moped around the hotel room eating trail mix. I didn’t want to keep riding; not after this. I needed a break; my mind, body, and soul. When we got home, I moped around some more. I cried. I knew that pro race was a great opportunity, and a chance at redemption, but I couldn’t bring myself to mount a bike. I told my mom I didn’t want to go, but before I knew it the team had purchased my UCI license. So I got on the mountain bike and rode a couple hours. For the next 3 weeks of training, my mind was pretty much numb. I could not doubt, question, worry, or complain. I didn’t want to ride every day but I knew I had to so I did. It was good to be back on a mountain bike, and good to ride with people that I’ve missed while being away at school. I was back in the cycling community where I grew my roots.

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Flying back to the south felt like coming home. The scenery is gorgeous at this time of year, especially coming from a dry and dusty Southern California. The trees emit a fluorescent green, and in them was nestled our beautiful host home. We’d see trails canopied by trees tunneling into the forest. The riding was enjoyable, almost magical.

Saturday afternoon came quickly and we lined up for the crit. Collegiate conference races usually had about 20 girls, Nationals 60, and this one well over 100 professional riders. I was not aggressive enough at staging to get a good placing, so I was stuck toward the back, another factor contributing to my doubt that I’d even be able to complete a race at this caliber.

When the whistle blew, a rider from behind rammed into me, forcing my bike to stop and my foot to unclip. In the process, the bottom part of the ratchet system on my shoe that holds my foot in place was torn off. I didn’t have time to fiddle with it, check the bike, or second guess myself. I was now in last place, nothing to lose, here goes nothing

In every turn I would lose places, just like at Nationals. Then I’d work really hard to gain places on the hill climb, only to fall back again. I was burning enough matches to start a wildfire, and slowly moving up, but it wasn’t quick enough. Girls were getting dropped every lap, and the accelerating pace awaited its next victim.

I started to get mad every time I’d get passed in a turn. That was my spot that I had fought for on the climb! I started to hold my line, not where I wanted to go like in mountain biking, but relative to other riders, which I’d never been bold enough to try before. I was desperate.

It was working, and I soon found myself around top 5. My teammates, cousin Claire, and mom cheered from the sidelines. Coach Zack told me to continue moving up. Alas, it was over, and I didn’t even know it was the last lap until I saw the winner in front of me put her hands up. I crossed the line in 23rd, genuinely surprised to have held on. My teammates embraced me, and it felt really, really good.

Monday morning was the road race. It was surreal to again line up with these women, especially since I was a front row call-up because it was Ortho’s home race. However, as soon as the race started, I fell back in the pack. Steph told me to relax and breathe. At Nationals I rode stiff which wasted energy and prohibiting a smooth ride. The middle of the pack was a scary place, and when I got sandwiched between riders I instinctively went backwards. In addition, I would coward in corners, obey other riders’ verbal instructions to move out of the way or stay put, and give up wheels freely. I was out of my league.

Then came the infamous hill climb. A long, pitchy ascent with grades reaching 18%. On the first lap I checked it out, having never seen the course before, but the second time I went for it, making it to the top second out of the group and snagging a few QOM points. What was I thinking? I don’t know. But it was an unforgettable rush of adrenaline. This was a turning point, where I felt that I may actually belong, and I put my game face on. I spread my elbows, ramming up against a girl trying to steal my wheels, made up spots on the winding downhill even though it was slick from the rain, called out my positions assertively, and shot a few gaps. Every time I fell out of the top 15 or so, I would calmly make my way to the outside, move up, and settle back in. I’m sure it was far from professional, definitely not smooth, and yeah I got yelled at and scorned, but I was in survival mode. I wanted to be there at the finish.

The last half of the race was painful. The false-flats began to feel like climbing Skyline, and the QOM hill became a wall. I looked back terrified to discover that I was the last rider in the peloton. The merciless group accelerated again. “This is it,” I thought to myself. “You have to get there.” I caught back on; minimally escaping sudden death, then made a few passes on the next descent. But then the women behind me fell off. It was a dangerous game.

Coming around the bend into the 8th and final lap of the nearly 70 mile course, the pace pitched once again, this time to stay. I wondered how the pain of childbirth compared to how us stragglers in the back were feeling. Women around me were grunting, panting, exasperating. The rain poured over us, the pace was punchy and unpredictable. It was only a matter of time.

On one of the grinding climbs, with only 4 miles to go, I gritted my teeth, once again the last rider hanging onto the strung-out group. I thought about coming all this way, the hard work, the family and friends here and at home watching the live feed, my disappointment at Nationals, the results sheet, making people proud. But I couldn’t do it. I fell off the back, into an abyss, right where the other riders wanted me, and was forced to accept my fate. I rode the remainder of the lap solo, and spectators still cheered. I could barely muster up the strength to make it up that last hill. I almost got off and walked, but that would have probably been harder given the slick road and my cycling shoes.

I finished 38th place, dizzy, shaking, and completely gassed. It’s typical for me to think of how I could’ve gone harder, and I thought about my future self as I was getting dropped. Once I had let go there was disappointment, but also a sense of relief.

I was so excited to be greeted by one of my best friends from school and personal race photographer, Martin, who had come to cheer.

We went to lunch with him, and after he had left everything really began to settle in. This was the official end of my first ever road season, and I couldn’t make up my mind on whether it was a high or low note. 23rd and 38th sound like pretty rough results, but these are pro racers, and many of them had come from around the world for this event with a massive prize purse. I find a little bit of joy knowing I was the 15th US rider to finish the road race. In fact, many spectators on course were cheering for USA, which was extra special considering it was Memorial Day.

I gained so much from this experience and am glad we made the trip. My Milligan teammates and coaches have been so patient in teaching me the rules of the road, then putting up with me during races, and I definitely thought about them out there. I am truly grateful for all they’ve poured into me this past season, and I hope I made them proud by hanging in there as long as I could. It was so wonderful meeting and living with our generous hosts, Michael and Lynn, as well as being reunited with my cousin Claire and of course seeing Martin.

At the beginning of road season, I had low expectations. I choose to allow ending on Winston Salem to be a high note. Mountain biking is where it all began, and is still my first passion. But I’m honestly just as excited for next year’s road season as I am for mtb. I still have much to learn, but room to grow excites me and makes the possibilities seem limitless. Until then, it’s time to take some long-awaited time off, then ride the mountain bike for the rest of the summer. Will you see me on a road bike? Maybe. But only once or twice.