When I first set my sights on the challenge, I was clear in my expectations. You call this dreaming. I recognized the distance and calculated the incline, but simply failed to address the descents. What called out to me the most about the Leadville Trail 100 MTB were all of the unknowns. From the minute I had decided to embark on the trail, I was interested in who I’d meet along the way. I wanted to feel the heat, and all of the cold, and the breathlessness that creeps in as your wings begin to burn.

The Leadville 100 MTB race came about 11 years after endurance enthusiasts began running the course in 1983. The town bounced back from economic hardship by challenging themselves to suffer through thin air, rough trail, and huge mountain passes. Often called the “Race Across the Sky” because participants would never drop below 9k feet of elevation. I did not respect that name until I arrived the day before the race. The girls and I had driven to Colorado by way of Seattle. As the elevation grew during our drive, I began to believe that elevation was a myth. I wanted to stay humble but my last few training rides, done at progressively higher elevations, did not really feel any harder. Then I spent the day before the race in Leadville.

Last night was easier than I thought it would be. I had the script, it had been written many times, and over many years. I was reciting my lines with laser-like accuracy, not realizing Antony was plotting. I met with Danny at the start line. The morning was cold, but you and the internet already knew that. We had set a soft plan to meet up and it somehow worked out. I arrived early and caffeinated but didn’t realize my definition of “early” was outdated. That energy you’ve heard people describe when they attend big city marathons or near geological disasters, where people get together with a positive common goal, was present. The air was in the 40s but the warmth of hope was radiating and thick.

Click, clat, woot, shift, shift, woot and we were off to the first hill. This side of St. Kevins was more exciting than I had originally anticipated. The climb is slow and more technical than most of you had prepared for. The dirt was tacky and the forest was welcoming. Seeing this section for the first time with everyone else was appropriate. Passing and passing came natural and I can start to taste validation every time I took a sip or you took a slip.

The idea of pacing is so boring when in the context of racing. Racing ourselves is so boring when there are thousands of other dads, and daughters, and all of thems, and all of those dudes up there, and everyone all around. We came here for a fight, only to realize that the wrestling match would only take place in our heads. I had not yet become bored enough to realize I was racing myself. I knew I was in my bag at this point because I was chatty, my favorite version of myself. I should have been chattering about my plan and the goal I set, and all of the ideas I had allowed myself to believe were facts when they were mostly wishes.

I recall the road descent after Kevins a lot. I specifically remember how naive I felt about being there when heading back towards the finish line. I missed the bliss. I passed so many people by simply avoiding my brakes. I enjoyed the confidence, the speed, the temperature, the sugar watter, the gel I took, my dropper post, the padding on my gloves and my shorts. We would soon touch dirt and with it, more sounds of crunching and more sliding. I began to remember why I was there. I looked for it around loose corners, sometimes I looked it right in the face. Sometimes it snuck up on me but I was looking.

Power line is the dragon you paid to fight. I was gradually meeting her. As I worked my way down, I was coming across more equally matched riders. I was intoxicated by my grind from white to purple. There was a man that was trading line choice with me over the first couple of sections on the way down. As my hands grew numb from the descent, the technicality of Power Line was slowly exposing herself to us and we couldn’t resist. Jibbing rocks and “woots” quickly and dangerously became “wahoo’s” and bunny-hopping over square-foot ruts. all of those youtube videos during the pandemic were paying off.

Only when the gnarled shoulder of another overzealous racer came blurring by, followed by the faint and disappearing sounds of his wales of pain that I had passed too fast to process in the moment, did I begin to doubt myself. I can see the white of a fresh wound and the flesh of his back and hands when I think about it. I can see his kit – like mine, chosen weeks before – shredded and held together by dried dust-caked blood. I have no idea how his day went after that. This is how these things go. There are thousands of people with wishes-turned-to-plans trying to prove something to themselves, to their fathers, to the world, all of us taking risks. His agony played a huge role in my race. He served to remind me the we were all playing with undefined limits. I still looked.

I met a single speeder from Gold(?) CO. or something. Who knows. He was well on his way to become that cyclist with a flappy jersey and mid-length socks that is 2 or 3 times stronger than you. You know that guy, he doest train and only uploads 1/3 of his rides to strava. He was so kind and so funny and we were both grateful to have survived and enjoyed the “fun side” of Power Line. He validated my effort because he was from elevation, because he was so strong, because I gave him extra credit pimp-points for riding a single speed, because he called me strong. My mistake was not that I felt grateful or strong, but rather believing that his oxygen-depleted compliment meant I could just gloss over all of the experience necessary to arrive at my destination. My experience. My hard work. What a missed opportunity to celebrate where I had gotten and the excitement that should come from where we still had left to go. This would have been a great time to remember the original fear associated with this challenge; I remember feeling my own oxygen-depleted amount of resolve instead.

You know, I grew up in a family that had to make somethings out of nothings. Ok, so did you, but I mean their country, as they knew it, disappeared and in it’s place, a new planet propped up. They were young enough to reinvent themselves, all the while trying to learn the language, an entirely new set of seasonings, language, fashion, and mannerisms. Add to it that the transplantation was to a planet that was still trying to figure those things out for itself. My mom was also in a hurry to prove they were already here. As a way to differentiate herself from her own and exist within, unseen and celebrated. The destination was survival. Any time spent on any journey was a possibility; a possibility of the exact reasons we go on journeys to begin with: the possible failures.

I was on a journey too, the consequences less dire, but my reluctance to see anything but the destination ruins my experience in the journey. It takes away from the process and all of the enjoyment that the process holds for us.

Every section of this event has two faces, but none two more different than the road section. The only real way for a roadie like me, or you, to think about these spots on the course is to humble yourself. All of my notes mentioned staying beneath what I knew was capable; embrace your humility regardless of how the legs feel. I channeled how good my legs felt into making everyone feel empowered, and welcomed. What I didn’t realize is how many of my fellow racers felt anxiety about the prospect of working together in a pace line. I found myself worrying less about my own performance and instead encouraging folks to join in and work together. The Power Line descent was a ripping good time, sure, but recruiting people from all walks of life to “take a pull” was my favorite part of the day.

On one particular occasion, just as we made it onto a pretty straight-forward dirt section, my growing group and I were coming across a young man that looked strong. We all could use his energy and I told him so. He was so embarrassed at his lack of pace-line experience that he kind of whispered it, almost as if to keep his secret away from the 10-15 other ‘teammates’ I had accumulated. I remember telling him that we all needed him and that I would show him exactly how it was done, even if it meant taking wind on the opposite side of the double track to coach him. He took a chance. For himself, yes, but mostly for the rest of us. There were many others that I would encourage to join in on a mutually beneficial section, or to help in the pace making on gradual sections, or entirely teach how to pull through safely. The difference between this interaction and the others was the sense of accomplishment I saw in his face. When he had effectively pulled through for the fist time and came passed me, I celebrated his amazing effort – hell I fully enjoyed gaining ground on his energy – and his voice cracked thanking me. Imagine that!

I was in the draft of a huge group benefiting from all of his work and he thanked me. I would go on to receive many “thanks” that day. I would receive them for pulling, for encouraging, for celebrating and sometimes just for levity.

Shortly after the road section, the idea of seeing my family started to creep in. I knew I was close because of how anxious I was to tell them about how good I felt. The Twin Lakes Aid section is split in two; one old and new, or overflow or something. I went by the first one and my heart sank when I didn’t see them, only to regain hope when I entered the second one. There they were, happier than anyone else because I had arrived. I looked good. I could feel it and I could see it in the relief in their eyes. Luna was a soldier, ready to replace bottles just like she had agreed to. Mari was the real hero. Though she hadn’t pedaled a single stroke, she had carried a cooler and chairs, and umbrellas, and all of my burdens for an entire week leading up to this moment. She had made sure I was well rested and well fed and took any weight completely off of me. I only felt this good because she was there.

The bladder was hung up on the way out of my USWE pack and I decided it would be ok to climb Columbine without it. She didn’t like this idea, but it was a safe Plan B. I took extra calories in my pockets and vowed to eat them even before the climb would begin. I reminded her I’d see her “soon enough”.

There are two climbs. There is one that’s outside the forest and then there is Columbine proper. Before I tell you about the part of the trail you clicked on this story for, I want to tell you how COOL it is to see the Pros riding the same trail you are riding. Seeing them caked with the same amount and type of dirt is a reminder that we are all feeling some variation of the same thing.

As we were working our way out of Twin Lakes and towards the bear fight, there was a bit of chatter about those Pros. We were all fans and it showed. We began placing bets on who we would see first for the men and the women. We fought about it and laughed about it. In the distance, about half way up the rocky climb there was the growing hum and rattle of a moto. The race veterans made sure to educate the rookies that the first motorcycle was to warn us that there would be a second, and with the second, came the race. That first motorcycle showed us how we all were expected to share the trail. When the pack of pros would come by, we would be ready. Shortly after, another thundering hum and a crescendo of cheers from riders ahead of us. Like the wave at a baseball game, the folks around me were nervously waiting their turn to cheer and celebrate. Then we saw Keegan blow past us. We all began counting seconds. Randomly, as people’s internals clocks would tick off minutes, someone would say “wow thats a big gap”. It was impressive to see.

Columbine is the part you had been waiting for all morning. I am sorry to disappoint you, but climbing that rock is the culmination of all the training you did… or didn’t do. The race hasn’t even started yet when you get to the bottom. You can call Columbine the commute into work.

I felt good. I am embarrassed to say that there were times I thought that maybe I was built for climbing mountains on my bike. I thought I was gifted. I passed all the white plaques on my way to passing all of the purple ones. I mostly climbed Columbine in the center of the road because of how many people I was passing. I was chatting and joking and every time I looked at my head unit, I was within my race plan. I skipped that gel that one time, but I’ll make it up on the road, right? I was moving up fast and I enjoyed most of that climb. I was comfortable and confident. I opened my jersey to stay cool and I remember feeling cool too. It all came to a halt when I we arrived at the conga line. Ugh. I don’t know if I could have climbed it all without putting a foot down, but I do think I would have made it significantly higher than I had. I had been transported from Columbine mountain to Space Mountain. Making jokes helped but the waiting was sapping my energy and all of the stoke.

Sitting up there wasn’t hard. Standing in place, waiting my turn to loop around at 12,000 feet was boring. I expected the standing to be difficult but no one around me seemed to be suffering, just in purgatory.

Bombing down Columbine, on the other hand, is a riot! All of the corners are slippery gravel and all of the switchbacks are off camber. If it wasn’t that my hands would go numb, this would have been one of the more fun sections of the race. Sliding into those corners and saving yourself from eating shit 20 times before reaching the bottom sure does put a smile on your face. There are no opportunities for drinking on the way down. If there was a chance, my hands were frozen stiff on my grips and I preferred relaxing my grip. If you are looking for tips on your race, drink. The descent proved divine.

It had been a couple of hours since I last saw Danny. Coming down this fast hill would be a good chance to see each other. I had one dirt-covered eye to the trail ahead and the other to the left, looking for his orange long sleeve jersey and big smile in a serpent of fellow dreamers. The further down the line I went, the more worried I became. All I could think of was that dude I saw mangled by the Power Line descent. I passed folks on the descent and passed so many racers still climbing, but still no Danny, still no orange jersey, still no resolution to the tension from my worry. I had been descending for a while and the line of people was now getting a little more scattered but then I felt that same warmth I felt rolling into the aid station. A friendly warmth that energized me and sent blood to my numb hands. I realized Danny was ok, just suffering like the rest of us. I only had the ability to YEEHAW! in his general direction. “I remember you yelled something but I’ll be honest, I don’t know what the fuck you said” was the first thing he said to me when we saw each other at the finish line.

I had to pee and I was thirsty. I thought it was par for the course. My body felt good, my gooch was fine, and my hands had remembered how to work again. All I had to do now was head downhill back to town, I remember thinking. Moron.

The girls were ready for me this time. Like me, they both thought I took an awful long time to get back. I briefly tried to explain the queue to the top but I was more concerned with drinking an entire bottle of coffee and some coconut water, something I had practiced a few times before. Something that at sea level had worked just fine. Something I realized now was dumb. I didn’t realize that elevation also made eating and drinking difficult. Adding something other than calories for the sake of adding something new was a mistake. I learned this listening to a podcast on the drive out of Colorado a couple days later. A problem I had never encountered at an elevation I didn’t know existed. On the way out of the aide station, I was joined by a couple of friends I had made on the mountain and we began to make our way towards the road. I remember looking forward to it because of how good of an experience I had on the way in. The smoothness of the road would allow for some steady power, something I thought would be welcomed by my legs after all the descending we had done. I was thirsty but strangely didn’t want to drink anything. I definitely did not want to chew or taste anything. Worst of all I had nothing but sugary water with me. Moron.

By the time I had reached the road again a couple hours had elapsed since I had any real calories. In the year 2022, we all know this is a critical mistake. This time around the wind was pushing us back instead of motivating me and others to learn and play on our bikes together. Those two friends I made had been here before and recognized my inexperience right away.

“You take an easy pull and then rest while we both take a couple easy pulls. We have to save our legs for whats ahead.” is what competed with the buffeting of the wind from one of them.

What was coming ahead? I mean, we had already climbed up and bombed down the reason some of us couldn’t sleep last night. I couldn’t focus on the future, I was having enough trouble wrestling the gale forces of the present. I took my pull and slotted in expertly as they took theirs. Realizing that we all knew how to be smart and strong in the wind gave us confidence to push a little harder with every rotation. Getting to a hill was strangely welcomed because we were no longer plowing through the wall of air. By this time, we had caught up to a couple more hopefuls happy to be out of the wind and we all began our ascent up this beautiful caramel gravel hill. To our right was an inspiring view of the mountains and twin lakes. I heard mention again of “the trouble ahead” but failed to figure out what it could be. I assumed it was just the miles that were left. On this gravelly hill was the first time I felt the result of not eating and drinking on Columbine. I skipped a pull. My pride judged me and I was embarrassed. I was able to hold on but I’d be lying if I said I was in control. I still didn’t want to eat or drink. In hindsight, I should’ve just forced it. In the moment, I swore my body would ask me for food when it needed it.