Lessons from a Last Minute Leadville 100 MTB Race

A few weeks ago I went slackpacking in the San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado with two friends (like bikepacking but staying in hotels instead of camping). We had a ball, ripping around some of the best singletrack in the West and ending with hot showers and subpar food in dilapidated mining towns turned outdoor rec meccas. Our days were big, averaging about 40 miles to 6,000 feet of climbing, and by the end of the trip I was strong and suntanned. 

I also found myself feeling a bit of FOMO. My two friends had races on the horizon — the Breck Epic and the Leadville Trail 100 — and were psyched with our big mountain training days. Normally, I would wish them luck, maybe go spectate, but likely just go do another high country ride. For some reason, this time, I felt like I might want to race, too. I was already planning on covering the Leadville 100 for Velo and PinkBike, maybe I should just do it?

When I mentioned it to people, they were beyond encouraging, 'you'll crush!' they said. Then I mentioned it to a friend who works for the race and a few minutes later a link to register showed up in my inbox. Be careful what you ask for?

There are a few reasons I don't love racing, namely that it's too singularly focused and mutes everything I love about riding my bike (observing my surroundings, exploring, musing). But if I'm being honest, there's another reason that I have never truly trained for a race and that's because it's scary. To have a goal, work toward it, and then ... maybe not achieve it? I don't think of myself as someone obsessed with perfectionism, but most of us are prone to it. And of course, 'failure,' hurts. But really more than failure per se, it's the judgment of the supposed failure that makes us feel so shitty. So, I've created a work-around for myself when it comes to bike races, usually signing up at the last minute, or saying I'm doing it 'for the story.' I have often raced in jorts.

But this time, in the spirit of confronting my own insecurities, I decided to say out loud that I had a goal. To finish in under nine hours and get the iconic 'big' belt buckle finisher prize. To risk not making it across the line in time.

While the admission of a goal felt sort-of scary, what I got in return squashed that tiny bug of insecurity. People were so supportive! And kind! And encouraging! The pro riders that I write about for a living offered words of wisdom (and wished me luck when I went to take pictures of them at the start line). An old friend from Boulder volunteered to help me at the feedzones. A guy I'd never met gave me a box of gels and a bag of drink mix. Two photographers that I know from other events offered me a bed in their AirBnB.

None of these people would have looked at me any differently if I'd crossed the line in 9:01 or 9:11 or in 11 hours for that matter. But their faith that I could do it in the time I wanted to bolstered my own - and that was more nutritious than any gel or energy bar on race day.