The Old New Mexican

Standing on the second step of the podium twice at Mountain Bike National Championships wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for. But it reminded me why I keep racing.

I came into Marathon Nationals wanting redemption. Last year’s race ended with a spectacular bonk after I underestimated my hydration needs. This year I approached the race differently. I put more emphasis on durability training, carefully planned my fueling and electrolytes, wore a hydration pack, and came in with a race strategy. I knew Victor “The Slasher” had aged up into my category, so my plan was simple: stay on his wheel and race smart.

The race unfolded exactly as I had hoped. I never bonked, rode consistently from start to finish, and crossed the line more than twenty minutes faster than I had the year before. I still finished second—but I was beaten by the better rider that day. Victor has won national and world championships across multiple disciplines, and what impresses me most is how complete he is as a racer. He doesn’t seem to have any obvious weaknesses.

A week later came XCO Nationals.

The plan was similar: get to the front early, stay with Victor, and make him earn every inch of the race. I executed the start perfectly, won the sprint up the opening climb, and entered the singletrack first.

Then I promptly hit the first tree.

I went down hard, twisted my handlebars, and by the time I got everything straightened out, I was somewhere around tenth place.

My first thought was simply, That was a mistake. Get back up and see how many places you can get back.

I fought my way back to second by the end of the opening lap, but the opportunity to challenge for the win had disappeared almost as quickly as it began. If I was going to beat Victor, I needed to ride a nearly perfect race while applying enough pressure that he might make a mistake.

Instead, I made the first mistake.

Ironically, I had hoped for rain before the race. I thought the slick roots and mud might level the playing field against a rider from California. Nature cooperated with a downpour that delayed the start by fifteen minutes and transformed the course into a skating rink.

As it turned out, the slippery roots challenged me far more than they challenged Victor.

One of my core beliefs is that most “bad luck” in racing isn’t really luck at all. Flat tires, crashes, equipment issues, poor nutrition, and missed opportunities often have causes that are within our control. Bike preparation. Equipment choices. Line selection. Concentration. Fatigue. Decision-making.

I believe in owning everything that’s within my control: my training, nutrition, equipment, race strategy, concentration, and decisions. Winning isn’t something I can control. That’s what makes competition meaningful.

Standing on the podium twice, I realized that my biggest competitor isn’t Victor—or anyone else lining up on race morning.

It’s the rider I was a year ago.

Am I stronger? Smarter? Better prepared? More resilient? Can I make fewer mistakes? Can I stay mentally sharp deeper into the race?

Those are the questions that matter because they’re the ones I can continue improving for years.

Competition isn’t something to fear. It’s one of life’s greatest gifts. Great competitors expose our weaknesses, raise our standards, and force us to improve in ways we never would on our own. I genuinely appreciate the riders who push me the hardest because without them, I’d never discover what I’m capable of becoming.

Will I keep chasing that national championship jersey?

Absolutely.

But the jersey isn’t why I keep racing.

I race because I love the long training rides, the challenge of technical descents, the pressure of the start line, the excitement of finding my limits, and the satisfaction of becoming a little better each season. Passion is what gets me out the door. Grit is what keeps me moving when the trail gets hard. Together, they make me stronger—not just on the bike, but in every part of life.

That’s why I keep racing.