This past April, I signed up for a 50-mile mountain bike race in Vermont. I saw it as my exit from a never-ending loop of “maybe next year will be better.” I didn’t think, I registered. I had never ridden more than 16 miles on a mountain bike. This was way out of my league.
But this was more than a race for me.
250 people lined up at the start. It was cold and drizzling. Gray sky sat low, thick around the reds, oranges, and yellows. They rang the bell, and we took off. Rough-cut, muddy trails and wet meadows sapped my legs. Glasses covered in droplets, fog on both sides, eyes straining to look over the top. I slowed down. I walked. I was only a couple of miles from the start.
In 2020, I was in my ninth year of teaching in a town-wide behavior program. I was incredibly passionate about my job, but the last few years were rough, cut deep, and left me struggling for air. The gray moved in, hung low and persistent. I began having panic attacks for the first time in my life, hands on my knees, gasping for air through uncontrollable sobs on the sidewalk outside of my classroom door. Then COVID happened.
The first 8 miles were the hardest. Steep, punchy, and sudden, I struggled to switch gears fast enough. I popped out onto the road and settled in for a minute. I settled into a pace with two women that became fast friends. We pedaled, swapped stories, snacked, and agreed to adventure over competition.
COVID was terrifying, overwhelming, confusing, and my escape. Schools closed, and I sank into home, into my family. We were scared but close. My bike provided a dose of normalcy, and I prescribed it regularly. I pedaled and processed and plotted a post-COVID life for my family and me. There was always a tailgate apres. My friend and I sat on our own cars and cheers-ed from a social distance. With nowhere to be and nothing much to do, biking and drinking were it.
Around mile 20, my husband and two friends met me around the first support station. Like a pit crew, my water was filled, chamois cream provided, and hugs shared. My friend grabbed her bike and pledged to join me for a “few miles.” She offered words of distraction through the rolling cross-country terrain, joyful “yews” and “woooohs” on the bermed-out downs, and a quiet vote of solidarity on the long, slow climbs. Her presence was powerful.
As COVID restrictions were lifted, so was my temporary solution of biking and drinking to self-medicate. The air felt heavy and gray again, now electrified. Surges of anxiety flooded my body while navigating how to transition into a new post-pandemic world. I returned to work, sent my toddler to daycare in a mask, and set my Kindergartener up remotely. The panic attacks morphed into something I didn’t recognize.
We pedaled singletrack, meadows, and roads, but mostly singletrack. I felt my body feeling things, and so I played tricks with my mind. I spoke out loud, “You’re doing great, body, this is hard,” “You’re just riding your bike, just keep riding your bike,” and “Good job, legs,” to which my friend added, “And brain! It takes all the things!”. My body responded, I looked up more often, the still-gray-sky made the yellows pop.
In the summer of 2021, I quit my teaching job. It was a huge risk, but one I had assessed thoroughly. My mind and body fell into step again, and I moved forward, saying aloud to myself, “I’m proud of you, you can still do scary things,” and “You promised you would always follow your heart, you keep promises.” I started a part-time position at my dream job and matched their grassroots energy to do good immediately.
Around mile 27, I hit my crux. My quads twitched, threatening to cramp, my lungs stretched, and my back ached. I jumped off my bike and stood on the side of the trail. I told my friend, “My legs are about to cramp. I’m tired. I have to do something.” She ordered chips and electrolytes, and I plopped to the ground to take in as much as possible.
In December 2022, my husband and I sat in a private room at the G.I. Office, waiting for the doctor to join us. Slow, deep breaths attempted to settle the unease building in my stomach. He joined, and then he said, “Cancer”. My breath gone, stomach tight, chest clenched, a surge flooded my body, and then I was far away, watching us hear this news.
I got back on my bike, pedaling slowly, ready for the muscle twitch and feeling the stretch in my chest. “I’ll just go slow,” I told my friend. “I predicted this as my crux, I’m in it now.” She offered words of wisdom and encouragement, and we inched along. At the top of the hill, my husband greeted me with a huge smile and a hug. His pride in my steadfast progress fueled me on to the next leg.
The next few days were gray, thick, slow, and wet with tears. We passed time in purgatory close to each other, leaning in. We learned the treatment would be a combination of radiation and chemotherapy, surgery, a temporary ostomy bag, and more surgery. The prognosis was good. We told our families. We told the kids through tight throats and forced smiles. We chose mantras, “It is what it is” and “We’ll do the things until they’re done,” and we dropped in.
Mile 27 turned into mile 37. While my body ached, my mind urged me to look to the end,
“We’re so close! What mile am I on? How long is this climb? When is the next break?” A response slowly formed in retaliation. “Stay here, stay in your body.” “Stay here, it’s beautiful, look around.” “Stay here. Things hurt, but they should. It’s ok.” “Stay here. This is what we do. We do hard things.” Snapped back to present—oranges, yellows, white birch, pedal, pedal, pedal.
My husband and I share a love language of adventure. He is used to suffering, and that is what he did. He did what he had to do, over and over again, until it was done. I used my new goal and necessary training as my new self-medication. The air around me still felt thick. I believed in our mantras. The air was heavy. I believed he would be ok. Colors were dulled, everything was loud. I stopped and listened. My body knew what I had been ignoring for years. I went to the doctor and told her everything. I started on an antidepressant.
“Stay here.” I’ve developed and held on to many mantras in my life. Most of which have evolved from climbing, biking, and backpacking. My friend had to leave around mile 43. I waved, pedaled, and vowed to “stay” in the last 7 miles. Pickle juice and maple syrup shots at mile 47 fueled me on and up. The air felt lighter, I felt lighter. Thoughts morphed from “We’re almost there” to “Wait, it’s almost over.” Deep breaths through a wide smile, legs on autopilot, I coasted down the final hill. My husband was at the bottom, cheering, filming, and excitedly laughing. The tears came. For the first time in a long time, tears of pride, joy, and gratitude came.
I did it. And I did it with intentional joy. I did it with gratitude for the space I was in, for the beautiful scenery, for the people I was with, for those who made this event happen, for the cows and the chickens and the dogs I met along the way, for my husband and his pit-crew-love and energy, for my friend’s powerful presence, and for the power of snacks, and coca-cola, and maple syrup shots. I allowed myself grace. I was patient with my body. I listened. I took care of it. I honored what I knew and needed. I crossed the finish line. My husband hugged me. I did it. He did it. We did it.
Stay here. Stay when it’s gray, let the colors pop. Stay when it’s cold, lean into each other's warmth. Stay when it’s heavy and walk, sit, go slow. Stay when it hurts, listen. Stay here.
