I climb and I climb and I put one rotation into the
pedals after the other. All the while I’m gripped with anticipation so fierce,
nerves so sickly good that the hairs on my arms stand up and I’m overcome with
electric excitement. Given all the thought’s rushing through my head, it’s hard
to notice how perfectly moist and unyielding the dirt is. Only for a brief
moment do the contrasting ruby-reds of the Indian paintbrush and earthy-whites
of daisies glide across my vision as I scan for direction. I couldn’t notice
the difference anyway, I’m only seeing red. Finally a trail opens to my left
and dives down a hillside so steep it offers little in the way of recovery as I’m
forced to absorb every rocking blow of root and rock and dirt. The next few
turns weave around trees and dart through open fields where the sun try’s it’s
best to cook and the only salvation is the seemingly radiant cool exuding from
the green tall forest grasses.
I’m going through the motions; turn here, out of
the saddle, pedal, jump. My body is doing what it knows, but my head is a few
turns down the contour line, practicing over and over what needs to be done. It
all comes together and my body catches my mind at the same spot. This is it- no
brakes, full commitment. You know what to do. One banked turn and another, then
it’s a straight shot into a blind freefall. Breath- don’t you touch those
brakes. That’s all it takes. Suddenly I’m flying and can feel everything in the
numbest way. The landing pad flashes below me and I’m about to touch down.
Almost there…. And I’m back at the top of the trail carving into the two berms
again. I go off the jump, freefall, and…. Again. I can’t land. Will I make the
landing? The suspense is killing me. My hearts in my throat. I’m ready to land,
but I always seem to time warp back to the same two berms. I’m stuck in this cycle,
this paradox, Groundhog’s Day with bikes. And now there’s an incessant buzzing
coming from every direction! It sounds a bit like my alarm. As I go off the “A”
line for the hundredth time, each time getting bounced back to the top like a
skipping record, I look down just to check. Sure enough, I’m in my underwear.
That’s when I woke up, June 21st, morning of the Missoula XC.
I normally am not one for superstition, but as I
unwound myself from the contorted cocoon that can only be formed by restless
dreams, I couldn’t help but let the anxiety creep in. I think all athletes,
from every discipline and sport, have felt the way I felt that morning. It’s a
curious mix of emotion ranging from pressure to excitement to a strong sense of
the anticlimactic. It had been almost 7 months since the news of Missoula XC
becoming a junior world cup had reached my ears. From them on it turned into 7
months of focus and work; early morning conditioning and late night mental
laps, riding every line on the course in my head before sleep would inevitably take
me down. But it’s never enough, is it? When the day comes and the start line
becomes a beehive of nervous anticipation, only one thing matters—are you ready
to remember every nightmarish workout to let yourself ride your bike harder
than you could ever dream.
After detangling myself from the bedding and going
pee for about the thousandth time in the last eight hours, I meekly tripped to
the window. The heavy hotel curtains were doing their job and shoving them
apart released a wave of sunshine pent up like water behind a flood gate.
The wait for the 1:45 start was long, until it
wasn’t, then it got very short. It seemed like one moment I was anxiously pacing
around the room with no direction, and the next I was franticly pacing around
the room excavating my “organized” suitcase for everything I needed.
The next hour and a half leading up to the start
roughly followed this general outline:
12:15- I’m still good, I
got plenty of time.
12:16- What the- where
did the time go? Grab the helmet, grab the bike. I’m still in my underwear.
Bike shorts… bike shorts… where are you?
12:18- This is good, I’m
just getting in a nice spin to the course. I’m going to get an extra-long warm
up. Why did I leave so early? I had
plenty of time. 
1:30- How could I have miscalculated
so much? I had plenty of time a minute ago. Where did all the time go? Oh, it
must have something to do with Missoula being the center of the universe- I must
have gone into another time zone.
1:42- Three minutes to
go. I have to wait here for three minutes. Can’t they just start us early?
1:43- I have to go to the
bathroom.
1:44- Wow, what kind of
bird is that?
1:45- How long is this
minute going to las- Ok! Here we go, we’re going fast! 
The last sound I heard was the blowing of a
whistle, then silence. I’d never quite experienced anything like it before.
There had always been something going on in my head; a song, a chant, a word by
word memorized SNL skit, but that day there was nothing. It wasn’t like I
needed anything either. A different chant filled my head. My steady but ragged
breath, in and out and unceasing like ocean waves. This was paired with the
uneven and unrhymed mantra of cheers of the spectators I passed. Some I knew,
some I didn’t, but each cheer of encouragement echoed through my empty head
with a ringing clarity that meant more than they would ever realize.
I rode on, climbing and climbing and putting one
pedal rotation in front of the other. I remembered this place. The red Indian paintbrush
and white daisies, the cool grass and hot sun. I knew where I was going. One
bermed corner followed by another. It was all just dream only a short time ago.
A dream last night and I dream for the last seven months, and now I get the opportunity
all athletes train for and sacrifice for. I get an opportunity to live the
dream and make it a reality.
A sign marked “A” line points the direction of
flight and courage. I sail off and see the trees shrink below me. My tires
scuff the dirt on landing. I don’t even wake up. 
