Pre-Race Recap: My First Ever World Cup Race - Nové Mesto

I grew up as a soccer fanatic, watching FIFA Women’s World Cup soccer with a reverence one reserves for heroes and legends. World Cup soccer matches were the highlight of my summer, and I can still recall vividly, at 9 years old, watching Team USA take the win against China in the 1999 Women’s World Cup final match in a penalty shootout. My adoration for those women transcended everything else in my life; they were the embodiment of everything I wanted to be when I grew up.

As a result, if you told 9-year-old Kelly that she would be competing in a World Cup event against the best of the world in her sport, she would have been amazed. Perhaps even a bit disbelieving. This young girl would have associated herself with the highest level of sport, and indeed, she would be inspired, energized, and proud. 

But now at a distinguished 33 years old, an age when most would consider me at least marginally “grown up”, my perspective seems a bit marred. Someone recently asked me “are you excited to race at your first World Cup race in Nové Mesto?” and my response was “actually no, not really.” It’s not that I’m anti-excited; I’m more agnostic to it all. Lately I’ve been feeling unmotivated and a bit like a shell of myself moving through the world using momentum instead of intention. Along my journey since I was a 9-year-old dreamer, I lost the sense of awe I once had for World Cup level competition. Something is deeply distorted in my mind lately, and as much as I know this to be true, I also don’t yet know how to fix it. Indeed, no matter how much therapy I throw at it right now (a lot), and how many mental tricks I try (many), the solution is going to take time. More time than I can spare before my first ever World Cup Marathon Mountain Bike Race on May 13th, 2023.

How can I get to race day and feel like a happy and productive version of my athlete self? 

Answer: I’m going back to basics and finding a mantra. Ever since I used a mantra during the 2021 XCM World Championships, this mental trick has always served me well.

Recently while laying in bed and attempting to fall sleep, I decided to roll through all the mantras I could think of, some well-worn classics and some creative new ones, trying them on like outfits in a dressing room. Which one feels most like me right now? Which one fits the sharp edges and dull corners I seem to have developed over the past couple months? Ultimately, I ended my search with an unlikely mantra that seems to do the trick. But first: some background. 

In the nearly ten years since we first met, Joe and I have created a game that we didn’t realize we were creating. I’m not sure if it really qualifies as a game because you can only win when you play, but since I prescribe strictly to the win/lose paradigm in life (don’t worry, I’m working on this in therapy too), I’m calling it a game.

Here’s how we play: anytime we are in a situation that makes us tense, uncomfortable, angry, stuck, lost, or any number of negative emotions and one of us detects it, we have to yell “ADVENTURE!”. Whether we are feeling tense at each other or we are sharing the same negative emotion toward something/someone else, this exclamation is a quick and easy way to snap us out of the current situation and gain perspective. It’s a silly reminder to not take anything too seriously and to believe that, in the end, we’re going to be okay. 

We’ve never formally discussed the rules, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It is a game, after all.

The rules: you must say the word with drawn out excitement, almost as if you’re singing it to those around you. You can’t just say the word “adventure” with typical inflection and expect to win the game. Imagine the way a European football announcer yells “GOOOOALLL” after their home team scores. Or the way Julia Childs proclaims “Cocoaaa Coooookieeeesss” when she opens the warm oven. You must draw out the “-URE!” as if the syllable is hanging on for dear life and you are its only hope. You cannot say the word in the grunting way Henry Cavill’s Geralt of Rivia might, and certainly not with the despondent disposition of Ebeneezer Scrooge. The word must be exclaimed in your voice, not an imitation of someone else’s, and it must hold the reverence we reserve for heroes and the excitement of a young child. Our game, our rules.

Only a few people close to us know we play this game, but most do not, so anytime one of us proclaims “ADVENTURE!” we’re usually met with surprise, confusion, bewilderment, and a sense of unexpected joy. To that I think to myself exactly. Sometimes we get a newbie to yell it in response, which really is the winningest outcome of all.

Joe and I find ourselves playing this game when we’re lost driving, lost riding our bikes, or just lost trying to follow IKEA furniture directions. We’ve used it while out biking and climbing a slog of a hill and both of us are hungry and tired. I’m pretty sure we even used it when, during the Covid pandemic, we decided to participate in a virtual cooking class to learn how to make homemade gnocchi and all that resulted was a pile of dirty dishes and an absurd amount of extremely salty potato objects that much more closely resembled turds than pasta.

Okay, back to the point. 

The whole idea of racing at a World Cup next weekend has been giving me a lot of big emotions, and most of them are not good ones. I don’t think the World Cup race on its own is giving me these feelings, but rather a combination of many things converging in my life simultaneously. Right now, I have more questions than answers, which is unfortunate given my nature as an engineer to want to solve everything. So I’ve decided to make the mantra of my Nové Mesto World Cup race experience “ADVENTURE!”

Interestingly, when I mentioned this mantra to my therapist, I immediately felt ashamed at how silly the idea sounded once it left my mouth. But she surprised me by saying the idea was fantastic. In the way a therapist does when they help you peel back layers, she said the phrase was not only a helpful reminder to be present and gain perspective, but also an exclamation of trust. “ADVENTURE!” is a statement of trust that although I am facing a challenge, I have done the things I need to do to get through it. Similar to how I carry a multi-tool in my jersey pocket on race day, I will carry this mantra as the reminder that I have 33 years of experience navigating life’s challenges and have survived all of them. It’s a reminder that while I might not know everything, I know enough to be okay. I will be okay.

Here’s what I know to be true about the upcoming Marathon Mountain Bike World Cup Race experience in Nové Mesto, Czech Republic:

• The race course is 120km long (two 60km laps) but I don’t know the actual route yet

• The weather forecast is gloomy, with relatively cool temperatures and lots of rain, which is oddly familiar to the past several weeks of weather in Massachusetts

• We are staying in an old farmhouse Airbnb that might or might not have all the essentials for daily living

• We overpacked to the extreme—as usual—with items befitting a high maintenance person such as myself, including “essentials” like a pancake pan, an extra roll of toilet paper, and a sharp kitchen knife

• I know a grand total of zero Czech words, either written or spoken

• I am travelling with my best friend and adventure partner, Joe, with whom I have successfully navigated many scary and uncertain travel experiences

The “ADVENTURE!” mantra gives me hope that I’ll approach the full trip — including the race experiences and post-race Prague exploration — with openness. A willingness to take everything as it comes, rather than trying to force a transactional experience. A mindfulness that enables me to feel like myself without getting lost in my thoughts.

With nearly a week yet before my first ever World Cup race, it feels pretty good to have this plan, to write it out, to breathe life into it through my writing. Maybe I will, in fact, be okay.

That’s right, 9-year-old Kelly. We’re going on an adventure.

Race Recap: 2022 UCI Marathon MTB World Championships

More than two weeks have passed since the 2022 Marathon MTB (XCM) World Championships race in Denmark and I finally feel like I have a handle on the truth of my experience, its richness and texture familiar now, after turning it over endlessly in my mind like a polished rock. 

It seems prudent to tell you the story of my experience twice. The first story is my initial perspective, a raw retelling of events as they happened. The second is the real truth about my world championship race week, a retelling shaped by reflection and time, filling in the glaring gaps that weren’t so obvious at the time.

Part 1: What happened at the XCM World Championships

On the morning of our flight to Denmark, I fell down the stairs at home. When it happened I was in an almost-finished-packing-for-the-biggest-race-of-the-season stupor, feeling relieved and unsuspecting, probably multitasking, likely looking down at my phone screen while thinking about all the things I forgot to throw into my suitcase. My foot slipped on the top stair and I bumped my way down half a flight of stairs with absolutely no grace or control. It wasn’t catastrophic, and if I’m embarrassingly honest, it was the second time this happened in the span of three weeks. Maybe my slippers have gotten a bit slick from shuffling around on my worn out carpets, or maybe my coordination has started to deteriorate at the ripe old age of 32. Either way, when I fell, I bruised my heel, tweaked my lower back, and gave myself a solid amount of whiplash. I was generally fine and I brushed it off with an admonishing chuckle, hoping this wasn’t an indicator for how the trip would unfold. You know what they say – there’s nothing like a good old stair tumble to kick off the biggest race week of the season. 

The trip from Boston Airport international terminal, through TSA, and into the air was uneventful. I planned to sleep the entire flight and instead was met with shocking wakefulness for all 7 hours, so I traded precious sleep for reading an underwhelming book and watching a disappointingly strange movie. We connected through Munich airport and eventually landed in Hamburg, where a pleasant man at the Hertz Rental Car counter apologized for only having a manual transmission car in our reserved category. As someone who enjoys driving a manual, Joe was immensely pleased but I was disappointed because while I don’t particularly enjoy driving in general, I don’t actually know how to drive a manual. So, I could not share our international driving experience on this trip. Hertz Man graciously recommended I use the rental car to learn how to drive a manual on the quiet Danish roads. Clearly he didn’t sense (or didn’t care about) the ferocity with which I approach everything in my life, including my fierce ability to accelerate transmission death when learning to drive.

For those who are curious about Joe’s driving report: Joe found driving on the German Autobahn to be extremely manageable and almost pleasant. Unlike driving in the United States, slower traffic on the Autobahn always stays in the right lane, everyone uses the left lane for passing only, and the rules of the road are well respected. When we crossed into Denmark, the driving speed slowed, everyone was immensely patient and almost generous to a fault. As someone who I believe is a far too generous and patient driver, Joe felt right at home in the quiet Danish roads.

Our Airbnb was a small one-bedroom apartment on top of a red brick home typical of this region. On Monday afternoon, our fluent-in-English hosts were overwhelmingly excited to welcome us after a long day of travel. They encouraged us to eat the grapes and tomatoes in their greenhouse, enjoy the backyard with its various chairs and swings, and even use their basement for bike storage.

Not pictured: all the tomatoes consumed while reading in the cozy, warm greenhouse.

Grocery shopping is always our first stop after a big trip (Joe fears the wrath of hangry Kelly…), so we zombie walked our way through one of the best grocery stores we’ve experienced so far in Europe and then settled into our home away from home. After sitting on a plane and then in a car for multiple hours, I didn’t think much about the pain in my lower back as I foam rolled, stretched, and laid down for bed.

On Tuesday morning, I met with fellow Team USA member and Massachusetts resident, Chris Mehlman, for a longer endurance ride that included a lap of the race course and some local bike path exploring. In our matching Julbo sunglasses, we got a feel for the local terrain as well as the colder temperatures and brutal Danish wind.

Massachusetts reunion in Denmark!

The bike infrastructure in this part of Denmark is unlike anything I have ever seen, or really anything I could have ever dreamed. First of all, automobiles respect cyclists in a way I’ve never experienced. There are bike-specific traffic lights that turn green a few seconds before the automobile traffic lights so the cyclists can get ahead of traffic. Cycling “on the road” is safe because nearly every road has at least a dedicated bike lane or a completely separate bike path. Of all the amazing bike accommodations in this area, the most amazing feature I discovered was a 5-way bike traffic circle (or “rotary” for us New Englanders), located inside and below an analogous automobile traffic circle.

An unremarkable photo of a remarkable discovery — a bike-only rotary!

All of the Team USA members were on a shared WhatsApp message thread, where we discussed travel logistics, ride plans, and travel stories. On Wednesday, a group of five Team USA members met to ride the full race course loop. This group included two-time Olympian and one of my long-time role models, Lea Davison. We set out to survey the terrain, inspect potential line options, and–most importantly–enjoy riding bikes together.

During this ride, I was supposed to add a few 5-minute intervals to the end of my ride and Lea also mentioned she also had some intervals. My coach wanted me to ride the intervals alone so I could stay focused on executing them as defined rather than doing someone else’s workout, and Joe said it might be better to do the intervals alone so I don’t get stuck in my head about how I feel (in case I ended up feeling terrible). For what it’s worth, I agreed with both of them in principle. Yet, when Lea turned to me mid-ride and said “alright Kelly, let’s start a 5-minute opener”, my fan-girl, how-could-I-say-no-to-doing-intervals-with-a-long-time-role-model heart skipped a beat and of course you know I said yes. I stuck on her wheel the entire time, even when we went longer than 5 minutes so we could see how it felt to crest an upcoming hill and recover on the back side. Naturally, I felt like I was on top of the world after sticking right with Lea and feeling pretty darn strong. Then, I joined her for another. And if you told me even last year that I would be doing intervals with Lea Davison at the World Championships, I would have laughed in your face. But here I was.

All it took was one ride for me to feel like I was part of the team. This was starkly different from last year’s World Championships, where I pre-rode everyday alone and had no contact with any of the Team USA guys (I was the only Team USA woman). Last year, I marinated in anxiety and loneliness on the bike. But this year, subsets of Team USA met everyday to ride, laugh, and build our confidence for race day. We also built camaraderie – something I haven’t had much of over the past 5 years of being a privateer pro. The week of riding with Team USA made me feel like I was part of something so much bigger than myself. Indeed, I was in Denmark to represent the USA, but I was not alone; I had teammates, which gave me a sense of purpose.

All smiles for Team USA (left to right): Danny Van Wagoner, Jules Goguely, Jake Sitler, Chris Mehlman, Lea Davison, me(!).

The race course was a 41 km (approximately 25.3 miles) loop that the Elite men completed 3 times and the Elite women completed 2 times with an extra-credit loop (approximately 5 miles) in the middle of Lap 1. It comprised several miles of fun, flowy singletrack, some forest roads, farm fields, park land, gravel paths, a couple urban features (e.g., stone staircase), downtown cobblestone streets, and very minimal paved roads (remarkable!). I was pleasantly surprised by how much singletrack the course contained, and was excited to see the terrain was similar, albeit a bit mellower, to New England singletrack. Unfortunately, unlike any other marathon race I had ever done, the course contained only very short climbs, with the longest being no more than 3-4 minutes. Without sustained climbing typical of my previous races, I knew this was going to be a very different style of racing – one that included short VO2 efforts (sprints) and minimal coasting.

2022 XCM World Championships race course loop (approximately 25.3mi).

It’s difficult to intuit on the map above, but the start of the course was similar to a cyclocross race. Actually, much of the race felt “cyclocrossy”, but most of all the beginning. The first kilometer wound through narrow cobblestone streets in downtown Haderslev before diving into a city park with narrow gravel walking paths that could fit only two racers side-by-side comfortably. The park had a flat hairpin turn on loose gravel, went under a small walking bridge before taking a sharp right turn, and ultimately dumped us into a gas station parking lot. Nothing about the start felt like a typical marathon MTB course. However, if I’ve learned anything over my years of racing, it’s that there really isn’t a “typical” XCM course. The treacherous part of this course is that the race start was NOT neutral, which meant everyone would be all-out sprinting to avoid the inevitable bottlenecks and backups from the mass start and potential carnage left its wake. 

A section toward the loop’s beginning traversed a park that contained rolling, grassy fields, with a gravel doubletrack path cutting through its center. During our first pre-rides, the course map appeared to follow the gravel path, and while the climbs in this park were short, they were steep and punchy. As the race got closer and the official course was marked with stakes, paint, and tape, we saw that the course followed immediately next to the gravel path, on a VERY slow, speed-sucking mowed field full of deer poop, sneaky potholes, and special soil that vacuumed tires to the earth (that last part was made up, but I would have believed it on race day). 

Few things are crueler than racing through a freshly mowed field right next to a gravel road. Photo credit: René Deleuran / Haderslev Kommune

Each morning, Team USA members hopped on course to continue getting a feel for the terrain. We discussed bike racing and riding, and the beautiful Danish countryside. Our conversation skirted around race day topics, such as our concerns for the harrowing first few kilometers, the strange A-line features that really weren’t very technical, and who we expected would win the race. 

Overall, I was having more fun than I could have hoped for during this trip. My goal going into this week was to make sure I enjoyed myself and you bet I was chasing this goal with the same ferocity as anything else I’ve ever aspired to do. In fact, my mission to have fun and enjoy being with my teammates seemed to keep me from thinking about all the race nerves that consume me in the days leading up to a race.

As race day approached, I prepared all of my gear, lining up my race shoes, race helmet, Julbo glasses, and tools in a neat pile on the floor. I struggled to decide what to wear because the forecast was showing rain, wind, and low 40’s (Fahrenheit). My Girl Scout tendencies had me setting aside three types of gloves, two jerseys, and multiple pairs of socks. Just in case, of course. I prepared my fueling plan with aid station handoffs by lining up and labeling all of my bottles. Every action felt mechanical and transactional, without any sort of excitement or emotion. At the time, I was proud of myself for not letting these race preparation activities melt me into a pile of anxiety like they usually do.

Finally, on the evening before the race, I foam rolled and stretched, did some glute activation exercises to help with the strange, lingering back soreness, and went to bed relatively early. 

On race morning, I woke at 4:15am to pee (this is standard), well before my alarm, and when laying back down, instead of slipping back into my restless, dreamless pre-race slumber, my mind lit up with all the potential ways I might crash out of the race in the first 1.5 miles. I visualized all the places where my race could go wrong. I imagined all the ways I might be unable to finish the race. My mind seemed convinced that I traveled all the way to Denmark just to crash in the first 20 minutes. Thoughts wandered without purpose or structure and I was hopeless to control them. Ultimately, I decided to let them take over and hope that would get it out of my system. It did not. I didn’t sleep another minute by the time my alarm went off.

I went about my race morning routine as usual but didn’t feel the same spark of excitement or even anxiousness as my typical race morning. Strangely, I had no appetite for my race morning pancakes and banana. I forced myself to eat four bites, which was about half of one pancake, but was unable to consume any more. I simply wasn’t hungry. Even drinking my coffee was forced and without any sort of emotion (I usually love race morning coffee). In truth, I felt a bit like the actions were empty and lifeless, not at all like I was preparing for this season’s biggest race.

As forecasted, the morning was cold. For months I had been used to short sleeves and shorts weather, but Denmark was already experiencing Fall’s crispness, the cool morning mist and brisk winds. Naturally, I was prepared with every potential option for warmup and race clothing, so I left the house with a quick goodbye from Joe as he loaded the bottles, tools, and gear into the car and headed downtown.

On typical race mornings, my heart rate skyrockets during my warmups. The combination of adrenaline and caffeine make me a bit jittery (and if I’m honest, I love that feeling). I love the buzzing feeling in my entire body, like something big and remarkable is about to happen and it begins right with me, at the heart of it all. That said, I try not to look at my HR during my warm up because I don’t want it to freak me out. But today, my HR was almost completely normal. I put in some harder efforts as I rode around the local bike paths and my HR tracked exactly as I would expect it to on a normal training ride. By the numbers, this was just any other day on the bike. Rather than be concerned, I was proud of myself for continuing to avoid the crippling anxiety I tend to experience at big races.

The women’s Elite call-ups were at 8:35am, 15 minutes before our scheduled start time. They separated groups of women into different boxes, based on their call-up number. As the 25th call-up, I was supposed to be in the first box, which meant I would be sharing a box with Pauline Ferrand-Prevot, Jolanda Neff, Mona Mittenwaller (the defending XCM World Champ), and several other notable female Pro’s. What a feeling, to be grouped among the best in the world. 

Before entering the box, I kissed Joe and stepped away, forcing a smile on my face. Somehow it all felt a bit fake, like I was going through the motions in a rehearsal kind of way, as if I might get to share a fancy rehearsal dinner with all these women shortly after this moment and the Big Day was still at least a day away. But of course, today was the Big Day and I was called up to the start line among the world’s best female pro’s.

The start of the race was exactly the treacherous sprint I expected. Cornering at speed on cobblestones was as terrifying as it sounds, and squeezing a massive group of racers eager to connect with the leaders through tiny paths and gates was the stuff of nightmares. But, somehow, I stayed upright and was sitting around 20th place by the time we entered the first true trail. It’s no surprise that the women around me were aggressive, given what I had seen in previous international races, but it was disorienting to be sprinting so much at the start of a 55 mile race. I was prepared for this to be a fast start, but I couldn’t fathom sustaining this kind of effort for hours.

After the first 15 minutes of sprint-coast-sprint efforts, I started to wheeze and I truly can’t recall the last time I wheezed on the bike. My breathing had been reduced to the point where it felt like my lips were glued around a tiny straw at high altitude. The wheezing was obvious, too, the kind that someone could certainly hear from the sidelines or while passing me. With every painful, labored breath, I felt my composure deteriorating and my body slowing.

Then, the pain in my back began. Ah, my old friend, low back pain. Usually, I get low back pain because my QL is tight and I’ve gone too long between massage appointments. Sometimes, it happens at the end of really hard, short sprint workouts. Despite following my nightly foam rolling and stretching routine leading up to the race, the pain began only 30 minutes into the race. It started as only a slight tightness, a mild burning, but for some reason I knew this was going to be different.

Upon approaching the first mowed path hill in the park, Lea caught me and she said something encouraging like “c’mon!” but I had no energy to reply. I might have forced a smile/grimace but of course she wouldn’t have noticed. I imagined my potential responses like “I swear I’m stronger than this, please don’t be disappointed in me!” or “Hey did you see an adult female sized airway back there somewhere? Can’t you see I’m breathing through a tiny straw?” Of course, by the time I finished any of these thoughts, she was well on her way to connecting with the leaders. 

For a while I was able to hang onto the back of the large chasing group, which included fellow Team USA member Lauren. Interestingly, while I struggled to keep up in the sprinting sections, I was faster than nearly all of the girls in my group on the singletrack. With some coasting relief, my wheezing stopped for a short while and I had a glimpse of enjoyment on the rooted paths, winding through Danish forests. This feeling. The flying-between-trees, floating-over-roots feeling was what brought me back to racing every time. I could suffer immensely in every race and still be drawn back for this exact feeling. 

Flying through Danish singletrack. Photo credit: René Deleuran / Haderslev Kommune

When we turned onto the “biggest” climb (a whopping ~4 minutes), I started to separate from the chase group. It was muddy and slow, and the wheezing returned as soon as I started to dig deep. For the next few miles, I was riding with a group of about four women, working together to keep connected to the larger chase group ahead. On this climb, I was out of the saddle sprinting when my lower back pain intensified. I could feel it worsening, like a knot pulling tighter, making comfort in the saddle impossible. I alternated between sitting and standing frequently, to help prevent it from going into full spasms. Naturally, just as most of the women were settling into their groups, I was watching mine pedal away, along with the positivity I usually have when racing.

At the aid station half-way through the first lap (Tech & Feed Zone 2), Joe and I had a seamless hand-off but I’m sure he saw the desperation in my eyes as we both watched girls I had beaten in Poland, girls I had beaten at last year’s World Championships, pedal away from me with ease. In the way one does with a best friend, I felt the need to explain everything to him in that moment, to share my suffering with the only person who would truly understand, the uncontrollable wheezing, the burn in my lower back, the emptiness in my legs, the way nothing felt right in the biggest race of my season.

On my way back toward town, a Swedish woman came up next to me and I looked over, gauging her speed and whether I could surge to get ahead of her before the upcoming singletrack. Just before she passed me, I was startled by–I kid you not–a huge trail of spit that bridged the gap between her mouth and her handlebars. Never in my life had I seen such physical evidence of grit. Never in my life had I felt more understanding for a fellow racer than I did in that moment. I realized then that I was not at the front of the race, but rather somewhere mid-pack where we wheezed and spit on ourselves. That felt about right. 

In the last miles before the lap ended, I found myself racing alone, facing the headwind and trying to set a pace that was sustainable while managing back pain and breathing through a straw. None of this felt real to me; this was not the race I imagined having every time I set out for a training ride for the past several months. Yet, I continued to sprint every chance I could and was out of the saddle more than any other XCM race.

Something clicked as I was pedaling through a tiny trail that paralleled farmland. Last year, my mantra for the world championships was to “make myself proud.” I asked myself what it would look like to make myself proud today. How could I face my current conditions and still finish feeling proud? The answer: gratitude. 

I found myself thinking about this amazing experience, my second time racing at the WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS. I reflected on how I was one of only three women in the ENTIRE United States racing today. I heard my friend Danielle’s voice in my head saying “You made it” while she reminded me that I had a dream, I chased the dream, and I’m living the dream. I scanned through my racing career, starting as a completely new road racer in college, finding mountain biking years later, and only starting my pro racing career five years ago. Now here I was at the World Championships for the second time in my life and it filled me with gratitude.

Ultimately, I was able to lift myself out of the darkness, despite the pain, despite the heartache.

Tech & Feed Zone 1 was just after the beginning of the lap, where I saw Joe as I began lap 2. At this point, my back was spasming. I had to keep standing out of the saddle, arching and curving my back to find relief from the pain. Each pedal stroke felt like I was digging deeper into an empty well and tightening the tension in my hips. 

Every once in a while, I caught a glimpse of a German girl in front of me. When we entered the singletrack, I would always pop out several seconds closer to her, and then she would pull away when we got to pedaling sections. I imagined myself catching her, and that hope was my currency for many miles. 

As I neared the finish, I found new motivation and strength from my desire to not be passed by the Elite men leaders. I pushed harder than I thought was possible given my physical state and in the end, I crossed the finish line less than two minutes before the first man.

The impending men’s race finish meant the finish straightaway was roaring with fans. I gave my biggest smile and dug one final time to crush the last few moments, despite being alone. As I neared the line, strangers extended their arms out for high-fives. I’ve always seen racers on TV high-fiving fans’ outstretched hands at the end of their races, but this was the first time I ever experienced this for myself. Naturally, my inexperience and severe fatigue led me to misjudge the distance between my outstretched arm and all the strangers’ hands. I ended up missing practically everyone except for approximately five “lucky” people at the end. I use the word “lucky” lightly here, because I question how lucky anyone would be to touch my gloves at the end of a 55 mile race. The jury’s still out on that. 

Evidence of the brave souls who dared touch my gloves after a pretty gruesome race. Photo credit: Ard Jonhsma / Trekantomradet

After crossing the finish line in 36th place, Joe greeted me with a smile. I knew he could read it all on my face. Neither of us knew what really happened, but he knows what heartbreak looks like on me and I know that’s what he saw.

Lea greeted me with a smile and a hug. We exchanged brief race recaps before I headed back toward the start line to cheer on the Team USA men. Joe and I hung around the finish line to cheer every single guy and we stayed to chat with them and their families. It was an afternoon of mixed emotions, happiness, and pride for us as individuals and for our country. 

That evening, Joe and I bought a bunch of pizzas from Haderslev’s Hollywood Pizza, of all places, and we trekked over to one of the Team USA Airbnbs. We ate, laughed, shared race day stories, sat in the outdoor “wilderness bath” (a fancy hot tub) and soaked in the evening in the best way possible – with friends. Somehow, at the end of the day, my disappointment was partly dulled by the pride and excitement I felt for my new teammates.

The wilderness bath. Steamy.

In the days that followed, I was consumed by confusion and anger. I felt embarrassed at how my body wasn’t able to show up on race day and even more embarrassed that I didn’t have a clear reason. I directed my confusion inward, reprimanding myself for something I didn’t understand and didn’t have enough time to process. 

Also in the days that followed, Joe and I visited the Lego Headquarters and Legoland in Billund, just an hour north of our Airbnb. For several hours, we were kids again, watching the magic of legos come alive around the park while laughing until we cried on rides designed for 10 year olds. On the Lego Movie ride, a flight motion simulator attraction in front of a huge curved screen, we were completely lost because the entire mini-movie was in Danish without subtitles. If you recall, the key soundtrack song from the Lego Movie is titled “Everything is Awesome”, so we were able to deduce that “awesome” in Danish is “super duper” (pronounced soo-pah doo-pah). Naturally, as we walked through a kingdom made of primary colored blocks, we fit “super duper” into our conversations as many times as possible–to make us feel part sophisticated but mostly goofy.

You’re welcome.

Llego Llama!

In between bouts of chuckling, I caught brief reminders that everything was indeed awesome, even though I was facing some frustrating uncertainty about my race. It’s funny how that happens, the duality of life coming alive yet again.

Part 2: What really happened at the XCM World Championships

The truth about the 2022 XCM Worlds experience is that it was nothing like the 2021 XCM World experience, which was by design. Before arriving in Denmark, I made a promise to myself that I would not let anxiety and Imposter Syndrome consume me in the way I had last year. I wanted this experience to feel completely different, so I promised myself (and my friends and family) that I would have fun. 

I knew I was susceptible to the same dark feelings as last year’s XCM Worlds experience. A year can feel so long, but it can also feel immensely fast and I knew I had not conquered all my demons yet. If I stewed in anxiety of this race for any length of time, the self-imposed expectations, the crippling pressure, the weight of it all would crush me. The strength to face a race of this magnitude and not feel overwhelmed is not gained over the course of one measly trip around the sun. I knew all of this and still somehow expected that I might be able to fake my way through it, brute force style, just like I’ve done in so many other aspects of my life. Fake it ‘til you make it, right?

What resulted was a swing from one end of the spectrum to the other. At 2021 XCM Worlds, I spent the days leading up to the race in a crippling panic. I slipped into a dark corner of my mind and couldn’t crawl out until race morning. Conversely, at 2022 XCM Worlds, I was oddly serene and mechanical about everything, determined not to allow myself back into that dark corner for fear I might not be able to pull myself out this year. 

The truth about 2022 XCM Worlds is that I still don’t entirely know what happened, and that scares me a little. With some time to process, the closest I can come to describing what really happened is this: I think I was hiding from the reckoning of race day. I assumed, not unlike the monster under my bed when I was a child, if I didn’t look it wasn’t there. If I didn’t acknowledge the race, ignored any potential feelings of Imposter Syndrome, I would be safe. I was using “fun” as an anesthetic, numbing the inevitable anxiety associated with a race of this magnitude. In the way one does with hopeless self preservation, I think I was so determined to make this experience feel unremarkable, like any other race, that I forgot this actually wasn’t just any other race. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t realize what I was doing at the time. I didn’t realize until our last evening in Denmark when the pieces started inching closer together, forming the beginning of a picture. 

Instead I rode with Team USA and discussed things like line choice, race tactics, strategy, and general race specifics in abstract, as if the race would be happening at some point, rather than just 4, 3, 2, and eventually 1 day from then. Every time I felt my mind sneaking into race mode, I would push the thoughts aside for another day.

Unlike every marathon race this year, I hadn’t set an intention or defined a mantra. I hadn’t even written out the distances to each aid station on a piece of tape on my top tube. All of these activities are typical of my race routine, but they also require meaningful reflection about the race and facing its reality. Facing reality felt like a later-Kelly problem; I wanted it to be a later-Kelly problem, not a problem for the Kelly that was just starting to feel part of a team. Somehow it felt like I couldn’t hold enough space to appreciate the fun I was having while also honoring my race rituals.

The back pain I was feeling was almost certainly a remnant from falling down the stairs. Its presence in the days leading up to the race should have at least indicated to me that I might have trouble in a race like this one, where I would be sprinting for much of the course. Instead, I set the thought aside and didn’t do much beyond my usual routine.

On race day, my alarm was set for 6am, which I know now was slightly too late for an 8:50am race start. Knowing the race would be fast from the start, I planned to warm up for a long time (50+ minutes). But in my overly relaxed state, I miscalculated my morning schedule. The time crunch allowed me to feel rushed and panicked in a very concrete and understandable way–I was battling time rather than my thoughts.

On race morning when my mind caught fire at 4:15am, I suspect I was subconsciously doing the work I had ignored all week. I felt unprepared to manage my uncontrolled thoughts because I truly was unprepared. My brain knew the work needed to be done so here I was, visualizing all the permutations of race start crashes while the whole city was still sleeping.

When I couldn’t eat my typical race morning pancakes, I likely wasn’t hungry because my body wasn’t in its typical race-morning anxious state. My body wasn’t on fire and instead I was in some sort of zombie state, going through motions without realizing why. It felt like any other morning, slow and inconsequential, without the desire to EAT ALL THE FOOD (said in a hangry monster voice), which is usually how I feel on race morning.

Right before entering the call-up box on race morning, I kissed Joe one last time and that’s when it hit me. Not only was I racing in just 15 minutes, this was going to be the biggest race of my season. I was standing in the same box as Pauline, Jolanda, Mona. My body was shivering slightly from the cold, but more so from the shock of it all, the realization that I was mere minutes away from chaos, pain, and a boatload of suffering.

The truth about 2022 XCM Worlds is that there’s no whiplash quite like the unexpected realization of being mentally unprepared for the biggest race of the year. I was perfectly ready from a fitness standpoint but I wasn’t truly ready. It felt like the doors were closing on a train and I just realized I had forgotten all my most prized belongings on the platform outside, just out of reach. 

It turns out that being generally unprepared puts my body into a shocked state. It causes me to feel unfocused during the race start. I wheeze and panic and nearly fall apart at the seams doing the thing I love and truly feel like I’m meant to do. This is heartbreaking and it brings a wave of disappointment and the sense that I let myself down. 

The most important truth about 2022 XCM Worlds is that this trip was not all bad. Not even close. In fact, it was one of the most powerful learning experiences of my race career. 

I learned that being part of the Team USA rides, strategy discussions, and banter gave me purpose and meaning. The sting of my poor race was dulled by the pride I felt for my teammates and the camaraderie I helped build.

I learned that race anxiety is a necessary part of my pre-race ritual. Fun and adequate preparation do not need to be mutually exclusive. In fact, I need balance, despite being someone who lives in extremes. 

I have a penchant for spiraling down into dark corners of my brain. My mind feels hardwired for negativity and darkness, the behavior innate, like deeply worn grooves in a soft piece of wood. But it turns out that I also seem to have a knack for pulling myself back out into the light. More than any other facet of my life, the bike has taught me resilience. 

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More than two weeks have passed since the 2022 XCM World Championships race and I finally can appreciate it for what it was: another epic experience. My racing career is full of these opportunities to learn a little more about myself. Looking back, I can see all the versions of myself unfolding, shifting, morphing, maturing into today’s version—and I can appreciate the evolution of my maturity, strength, and perspective. It’s not lost on me how privileged I am to have a safe space to experiment with different methods and techniques for pushing my limits, even if I don’t recognize the experiment at the time. Indeed, learning what doesn’t work for me is just as important as what does.

Before this trip, when someone back home asked me about any of my races, I inevitably replied with my race result and potentially a quick summary of the race day experience, maybe something notable like “I won, but crashed and had to get 5 stitches in my elbow” or “I placed 8th but I knew I could have done better so I’m going to be experimenting with caffeine consumption for the next few weeks”. This trip, however, is different. Every time someone has asked me about 2022 XCM Worlds, I reply with some version of “It was an amazing experience. I got to ride with the incredible Team USA members, race in a beautiful country, and feel like I was part of something way bigger than myself. I didn’t have the race I was hoping for, but I learned a ton.” 

From this point forward, my race trip retellings will not longer focus around results; instead they will be centered on cumulative moments, interactions, and the collective experience. And you know what? That small shift in perspective feels powerful, compassionate in a way I didn’t know I needed until now. One might even say it feels super duper.

Race Recap: 2022 Bike Marathon Jelenia Góra

Promptly after booking our flights for the UCI MTB Marathon Series race in Jelenia Góra, two consecutive thoughts crossed my mind. The first thought was “pierogi paradise!” followed closely by “Holy crap. What did I just do?”. Traveling to France or Italy is one thing, because I can muddle my way through the Latin-based languages using my high school level French as a crutch. But a small resort town in Poland felt like a different story entirely. The Polish language—a Slavik language—is incredibly different, in pronunciation and with unfamiliar characters. For me, being unable to speak the language and connect with the people around me creates a sense of helplessness and discomfort. We were embarking on a trip to a place that felt much more foreign to me than anywhere I’ve been to-date, and if I’m being honest it terrified me.

The terror I felt this trip was equally matched by my preparedness and enthusiasm for the race. Unlike nearly any other trip I’ve ever taken, I finished packing well before 10pm the night before our flight (this is a very big deal). I even studied the race course and designated technical feed zones to create a rough plan for race day even before we left the country. Although I would never put “Excels in Preparedness” on my resume, I recognize that feeling ready puts me at ease. One of my goals for this trip was to eliminate unnecessary stressors, so I made more effort than ever to prepare for Team KellCat’s journey to Poland.

This specific race in Jelenia Góra is part of the UCI MTB Marathon Series, the biggest race series in the world for the cross country marathon discipline. If you follow mountain bike racing, it is the equivalent of a World Cup race, with the same amount of UCI points awarded to finishers. So, naturally, this was one of my cornerstone races for 2022.

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The flights to Poland were uneventful, and the Wroclaw airport was one of the smallest we have ever visited, which meant we landed, picked up our baggage and the bike, navigated the rental car situation (there’s always a rental car situation, right?), and were driving to Jelenia Góra in under 45 minutes.

Unlike the French and Italian adventures of 2021, Joe found the driving in Poland to be quite enjoyable. Indeed, the roads were still incredibly narrow and winding, but overall the driving felt very similar to home (minus the foreign language road signs). The typical driver wasn’t nearly as impatient or aggressive as their French and Italian counterparts and the only behavior we noticed was a universal stubbornness to get out of the way or pull over when the road narrowed. I couldn’t believe how many people still have their left side mirrors perfectly intact—another European puzzle I am unlikely to solve.

Our Airbnb was a one-room apartment in an old army barracks surrounded by a seemingly historic cobblestone road. We ambled slowly along our cobblestone driveway in our rental Volvo while our Polish neighbors bounced through at unfathomable speeds with their perfectly intact left side mirrors.

The barracks, specifically our apartment, was “renovated to suck” as Joe claimed while reflecting about our stay; in reality, it could have used a fair amount more love and maintenance than it had likely seen in years, but it had a good bones. However, good bones don’t make up for lack of common courtesy from our Airbnb host. After a full day of travel, we arrived at our Airbnb only to find no toilet paper or paper towels—just what a scraggly pair of international travelers never wanted. I was well prepared for this trip, but I didn’t bring a spare roll of toilet paper.

The Airbnb turned out to be a personal treasure hunt, with each day revealing a new, unfortunate surprise. We discovered that many of the lightbulbs were missing or dead. The provided sheets and blankets were probably intended for the baby crib in the corner of the bedroom, rather than our queen-sized bed. There were only two pans in the entire kitchen, and neither were suitable to use in the perfectly functional oven, so we couldn’t use the oven. The coffee maker was home to some seriously aggressive mold. Worst of all, the stovetop stopped working two days before the race. Upon discovering this treasure, I was immediately struck with panic—how was I going to cook my pre-race pasta? What about my race morning pancakes? Can I cook pancakes in the oven? No wait, I don’t have a pan for the oven. After trial and error, we discovered that the stove could be coaxed into working inconsistently for short periods of time if we flipped the apartment’s breaker switch twice every 3-7 minutes of cooking. So, Joe spent a lot of time at the breaker box, and I spent a lot of time telling him when the stove stopped working. Ultimately, I cooked my pancakes ahead of race morning and we eventually gave up and made scrambled eggs in the microwave. In case it was ever in question, Joe is indeed an amazing partner and he deserves a raise.

Despite the apartment disaster treasure hunt, Joe and I were determined to have a pleasant trip. I asked my Polish coworker for a crash course on speaking basic Polish. During the call he taught me how to say “Excuse me, I’m on your left” for if/when I had to pass people during the race. I also learned how to say “Do you speak English?” and I even got some great recommendations for Polish cuisine. Naturally, I worked up an appetite while discussing food and decided we had to go out to eat at a local Polish restaurant immediately after the call. Because, pierogis.

Upon entering our chosen restaurant, I was proud to say to the waiter “Excuse me sir, table for two please. Do you speak English?” in what I believed was clear and understandable Polish. He immediately and sternly replied “NO” but somehow we mimed our way into a booth and even received English translated menus. Only then did we notice the restaurant was playing slightly outdated American country music, a perfect juxtaposition of cultures for our first authentic Polish dinner. Despite having an English menu, I still proceeded to order four different entrees, then the waiter tilted his head in amusement and replied, “Only you two?” and after a pause, “NO. Too much.” Apparently no matter what language you speak, the interpretation of “you’ve ordered too much food” is pretty universal. He decided to order for us based on his recommendations and we ended up with pierogis, a massive potato pancake filled with goulash, and a salad topped with duck liver. I could have done without the duck liver, but the rest of the food was sublime. I mean, who doesn’t love a good potato and cheese filled pasta pocket, especially when paired with Keith Urban pouring through the ceiling tiles?

Joe and I decided to visit old castle ruins a couple days before the race. The castle, Zamek Chojnik, is situated on a cliff with sweeping views of the Jelenia Góra region. After an approximate 30-minute drive from our Airbnb and a moderate hike, we were promised a memorable experience of Polish culture. It turns out, though, that finding parking in the small village at the base of the hill midday on a Friday was more challenging than we anticipated. After several failed attempts to find open lots using Google Maps, a man in the middle of a neighborhood road stopped us and immediately started waving his arms. When I asked him “Excuse me sir, do you speak English?” he replied with a stern “NO” and then continued to gesticulate and proclaim something incomprehensible. Unfortunately, due to the harsh nature of the Polish language, I honestly couldn’t tell if he was saying “Welcome to this small village, I’d be happy to have you park down this driveway in front of my home” or “I wish my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather picked a different plot of land for his family home because I’m sick of you crazy tourists driving like idiots looking for parking just so you can hike up a hill to a bunch of cemented-together rocks.” Given Joe’s natural tendency to be a people pleaser, he made the executive decision to smile, roll the windows up, turn around, and go home. (Note: castle visit attempt #2 the day after the race was successful and revealed that the 45-minute hike was no joke but was also well worth the effort.)

Zamek Chojnik, a view from the castle tower during our second (and first successful) attempt to visit.

Adventure aside, Joe and I agreed multiple times throughout the trip that this corner of Poland felt a lot like home. It was disorienting and also pleasantly surprising to be in a completely foreign corner of the world and forget it was ever foreign at all. We would be driving along country roads surrounded by forests and farmland and slip into familiar, easy conversation with only the Polish billboards reminding us we were visitors. Or, I would be biking on a trail or dirt road surrounded by trees and flowers that looked indistinguishable from their counterparts at home. Then I would stumble upon a cobblestone singletrack trail and remember I’m actually thousands of miles from my hometown trails. Jelenia Góra was oddly comfortable in a completely unexpected way.

Green-filled forests and paths made me feel right at home; cobblestone singletrack reminded me I wasn’t actually in Massachusetts.

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I spent the days before the big race exploring the race course. Typically, I only have time to scope out a small portion of any race course, but I had a few days to ride one section at a time. The course primarily comprised farm and forest roads (mostly double track dirt roads with potholes, grass, and mud puddles), with some broken pavement roads and a smattering of singletrack. For a mountain bike race, I was surprised by how little singletrack the course contained, especially because I love a good technical course. That said, I’m adaptable and willing to race whatever is put in front of me.

This course was going to be blazing fast. It included a start and finish section, and a loop in the middle, which we would do twice. On each loop there were two technical feed zones, so I was going to see Joe four times total. Over the course of 56 miles, four feed zones on a fast course meant I only had to carry one bottle at a time, which made hand-up logistics much easier. He just had to drive the 15 minutes between both feed zones a few times. I don’t want to say Joe had it easy, but he definitely wasn’t going to be under the same kind of pressure I would be on race day.

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You, dear reader, likely already know that I struggled at the beginning of this season with some mental health issues, but the leadup to this race felt entirely different. My mind was in a very good place, perhaps due to my preparation and solid sleep schedule. My body felt incredibly strong after many months of focused training. In short, I was ready, like this was the race everything was going to fall into place.

The race began at 10am in the Jelenia Góra town center, a cobblestone courtyard surrounded by restaurants and shops. The announcer’s voice echoed and bounced between the buildings, commanding the attention of every racer and onlooker as he called each racer by name. Rain fell the day and evening before the race, and while race morning brought sunshine, it also brought heavy humidity – my favorite (not really). I knew this might impact my racing, but the Mohican 100 race a couple weekends ago helped me acclimate to humid conditions.

When I stand on any start line, I observe the competition and weigh myself against the successes of the women around me, measuring my worth and capability based on past experiences. Usually I write the race script before the story even plays out based on some arbitrary set of rules and expectations. But anytime I stand on an international start line surrounded by completely unfamiliar faces, the race ahead feels like a blank canvas, a masterpiece of mystery without a pre-determined outcome. Weightlessness is a good way to describe this feeling, like floating in a pool of potential. I was excited to experience what was about to unfold.

The start of the race was slower than I expected compared to my previous experiences in France and Italy last year. We had a few miles of paved road before diving into the first forest road, and the group stuck together, shifting and morphing like a shapeless amoeba. Harmless though an amoeba may be, the rising tension among the women was palpable with each passing minute. My goal was to ride more aggressively in this race because I tend fall on the polite end of the race tactics spectrum, which hasn’t panned out well in past races.

The turn into the forest began the first climb and still no one attacked the pace. Everyone was sitting back, waiting for someone else to take charge. As the top of the climb neared, I decided to put in a surge before a short but steep technical descent leading into a potential bottleneck, determined not to make the same mistake as I did during the Whiskey Off Road. I was surprised to find myself in the lead, feeling quite strong and pulling a paceline for about a mile and a half through old farm roads and broken pavement. At this point a small sliver of me believed that maybe—just maybe—I could pull off a podium in this race. But then I looked down at my Garmin and realized I still had nearly 48 miles remaining and no one was trying to attack with me, so I decided it might be better to save some energy rather than pulling the entire women’s field behind me. I eased up and let the pack regroup.

At around 40 minutes into the race, we were climbing again. Finally a few women decided to attack and the group started to pull away. This was the moment of truth. In nearly every big race prior to today, I have been unable to make the initial selection even though I KNOW I am strong enough to be there. My power numbers, my endurance, every quantifiable measure indicates I can be just as strong and fast as the leaders. Usually I blame the mental side of racing for my inability to hang onto the group, but like I said earlier, this race was different. I truly believed I belonged with the lead women.

When I called on my legs to dig a little deeper, the plea went unanswered. Absolute silence. I had nothing to give and instead watched the leaders slowly break away. I pushed so hard that I nearly vomited from the effort and still I couldn’t keep touch. It’s difficult to articulate the feeling of knowing you are capable of something and it being just out of your grasp, the moment of truth becoming just another blink in time. But here I was, yet again, dissolving into the background of someone else’s stellar race day.

I’d like to lie and say that I spent the rest of the race feeling confident, strong, and determined that I still belonged in that lead group. But I had a few dark moments in the following hour and a half and none of them transported me to a superhuman strength, enabling me to catch the leaders. A couple women passed me after the initial selection as if I was on an easy ride and they were on e-bikes. My spirit was broken in a way I had not expected. I had grand plans for this race, and instead I found myself riding in 11th place for most of the day.

At the first aid station, around mile 12.5, I was in pretty bad pain physically and mentally. A 4-mile climb was ahead of me, and I couldn’t fathom having to do it twice. The higher humidity made me crave some pure water, but all I had in my bottles was my drink mix. Like a desert oasis, there was a magical table with volunteers handing out cups of water right after the feed zone. I taught myself the Polish word for water and asked loudly “water please!” as I neared the table. A young girl handed me a cup and you would have thought it was filled with gold. I downed almost the entire thing in one gulp and immediately felt a burning sensation as if the cup was full of acid. It only took me a moment to remember that – duh – I am in Europe and warm carbonated water is considered refreshing. Talk about completely misaligned expectations and absolute shock. In hindsight, it’s quite hilarious, but there is nothing hilarious about expecting cold still water and getting burning acid in exchange.

At the subsequent aid stations, I still took a cup of the carbonated water, but only forced myself to drink half of it while dumping the other half on my back. A fair compromise in the humid conditions.

Most of the mid-race miles were a slog. For a large portion of those miles, I marinated in self-pity while comparing myself to the women ahead of me. It’s easy for me to slip into comparisons, letting them wrap around me like a boa constrictor, cutting off my oxygen and potential. Sitting with pity feels easier than pushing through negativity, but like I said before, this race was different from the start, so I was ready when the negativity rolled in. Instead of questioning my all my life choices, I combatted negative thoughts by reflecting on positive things in my life. I have an amazing husband, a wonderful family, my own house, a great job at an accommodating company, and fantastic friends. I have the means to travel to amazing places to chase a lifelong dream. Suddenly, my comparisons felt silly; I’m already victorious in so many ways, even if I never see the top of an international podium. It turns out this mindset shift was enough to keep me moving forward.

With about 20 miles to go, we were near the based of the 4-mile climb (for the second time) and I finally felt like I had a second wind. This was the second wind I was waiting for two hours earlier. I passed one woman about one mile into the climb.

At the last aid station, Joe said to me “9th and 10th are 20 seconds ahead. You can do this.” Something about his encouragement gave me a superhuman boost, like I could conquer anything. It also could have been the caffeine in my drink mix, but I’m happy to give Joe the credit he deserves.

It only took about a mile and a half before I caught both women and never looked back. I felt like I was on top of the world and wished we had another 10 miles because I truly believe I would have caught at least two more women.

With a little more than 3 miles remaining, at the base of the last solid climb, my dropper seat post stopped working. As a result, my seat kept slipping down every time I sat on it, which led to an incredibly uncomfortable pedaling position. I decided that pedaling standing up would be the slightly less painful option, so I pedaled the remainder of the race out of the saddle, putting in short sprinting bursts so I could coast. Not knowing how far behind the two women were behind me, I wasn’t about to risk losing my position by stopping to fix the issue.

As I watched my Garmin tick closer and closer to the 56mile finish distance, my burning legs felt like they might give out at any moment. But the novelty of riding standing up, paired with pride for pushing through adversity gave me enough momentum to propel me across the finish line.

As it turns out, I finished in 8th place, my best international race finish in my career.

You can’t tell here, but I’m just barely hovering over my broken seat post. Must look good for the photos!

Upon reuniting with Joe, I could feel tears building up within me—from the pain, the pity, the pride. So many emotions washed over me like a tidal wave that I had to collapse in the shade just to keep myself together. At that moment, all I wanted was cold water, so Joe let me recover while he hunted for cold water to refill my bottle.

While I waited, still covered in mud, dust, and sweat, a local massage therapy company approached me to ask if I wanted a massage. Temporarily, a craving for a massage eclipsed my need for water and I started making my way to the massage tent. At the same time, Joe reappeared like a walking miracle, holding a full bottle of water. I immediately started chugging and almost died on the spot as the warm water’s carbonation snuck up on me for the second time that day. WHO IN THE WORLD THINKS THIS IS REFRESHING?

Luckily, the hour-long massage helped ease the bubbly water trauma, in addition to kickstarting the muscle recovery process.

Post-race “masaż” — already forgetting about the traumatic carbonation confrontation.

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For the first few days following the race, I floated through a spectrum of emotions. Initially I was elated by my 8th place finish and all of the work that led me to this point. But further reflection led me to the dark corners of frustration and anger because I wasn’t able to perform better. When the initial selection happened and the leaders pulled away, I still couldn’t understand why my body was unable to hang on. This has started becoming a trend during the biggest races over the past several years. Why does this keep happening? Have I reached the peak of my capabilities?

After having time to marinate in these feelings, I’m certain there’s more in me. I haven’t unlocked the mystery of tapping into my potential yet, which is infuriating, but I’m grateful for the progress I have made to reach this point. While sharing a bit about the race with my manager at work and then discussing my subsequent disappointment, he asked me what would be worse: having my best race ever and placing 8th knowing I reached all my potential, or placing 8th and knowing there’s still room to be even better? Of course, you won’t be shocked to hear that I would choose the latter any day.

This entire race weekend has left me feeling a strange mix of happiness and disappointment, but it’s unexpectedly motivating. Now, more than ever, I want to achieve the next level in my racing potential. I have no idea what the secret to unlocking the next level is, but I’ll be setting out on a new treasure hunt to find it, and I’m sure I’ll uncover broken stovetops and missing lightbulbs along the way (metaphorically speaking). After everything I have committed up to this point, I’ll be damned if I let myself believe this is where Team KellCat’s potential ends. Instead, I’ll take the unlikely mixture of positive and negative feelings and turn it into something amazing.

It’s interesting—the concept of life’s dichotomy seems come back to me regularly, like a perfectly timed boomerang. Whenever I need it most, I’m reminded that opposites can exist simultaneously. Happiness and sadness, pride and disappointment, give and take. The dichotomy of life is perplexing but it’s also freeing because I don’t have to choose a side. As I look back on my trip to Poland, and back further across the relatively short expanse of my professional bike racing career, I’m struck with a sense of confidence that there is a way I can thrive somewhere in the in-between, in the strangeness of coexisting opposites.

I suppose that’s why I’m okay with feeling proud and a little disappointed after this race weekend. Indeed, it’s also why a completely foreign place can both terrify me and also feel like home.