Late summer in New England is perfection; the multitude of green on trees, ferns, and moss are vivid, intense and deep. The fresh air smells mildly sweet and feels so easy to breathe. The sky is speckled with the kind of clouds a five-year-old would draw across a canvas of sky blue. That’s New England in August. (Of course, as I write this, New England is also now treating us to its tempest-like mood, and it hasn’t stopped raining for 12 hours.)  

Vermont Overland took place on such a day. The course is relatively short in the scheme of gravel races; 57 some odd miles with 7,000 feet of climbing crammed in there. It demands real technical chops to navigate the eight class IV sectors. (Class IV roads in Vermont are unmaintained county roads rich with rocks, roots, streams, and mud - like a mini cyclocross course in an endurance race.) Connecting the sectors are stretches of what Vermont calls “groads”. Imagine for a moment the most idyllic gravel possible - a bit tacky, a blend of rolling and steep, just soft enough to inspire confidence and firm enough to push speed, all suspended in a green archway of trees, winding along babbling brooks, sometimes opening for a moment on views of stonewalled farmlands and grazing horses. No, I'm not shitting you, it’s real and it’s called Vermont.  

The Overland is like racing on home turf and for one of the few times this year, I was genuinely excited to race. Just like last year, the race started hard. Just like last year, I once again impressed myself with an all-time peak 90-minute power. That’s another thing I love about this race; you go hard, and you don’t back off. There was a small tussle on the first climb that quickly split the lead men and a couple of women from the remaining pack. I managed to sneak around the outside and hustled to regroup with the pack ahead. After the first fast descent was a steep, intense 7-minute effort and I knew I could attack that and pick off a lot of wheels before the first Class IV. This year my descending at speed and on technical terrain has improved immensely, in no small part due to my Pivot Vault equipped with Easton’s EC90 SL post, stem, and cranks, EC90AX handlebars and wheels and getting absolutely dialed on my preferred PSI. 

I played the first 10 miles smart, holding onto groups of men who were already cracking and surfing my way up wheels to catch up to the women who had escaped earlier - Caitlin Bernstein, Sarah Lange, Ruby West. For 20 or 30 minutes we were trading pulls, positions, and efforts across the punchy and rolling terrain. I came in too hot on a rutted-out corner and lost my chain (the first of two that day) — mistakes I would pay for the rest of the day. Losing touch with the group didn’t cause me to panic, but I knew I’d have to dig deep. I spent the next hour chasing in a measured but intense effort.  

Finally, we arrived at the infamous Rich Trail, a class IV sector that last year (I’m pretty certain) swallowed some bikes whole. I got feisty with the men around me and had to bark at ones who dismounted and stopped in my line while I was trying to clear the techy, slick rock section. Dismounting, I ran around them and could see Caitlin and Ruby just ahead. I had just dropped some nutrition out of my sweaty hands, but my legs felt good, and I knew that if I could hold an attack on this sector, I had a decent chance to get away. I put in a dig and took the left line while almost everyone rode single file on the right. I passed Ruby then Caitlin and was solo as we came down a shallow descent off the Class IV. I knew Caitlin had far superior technical skills to me and it wasn’t but 10 seconds until I saw her in the corner of my eye. I pitched another attack as we hit the gravel road’s swooping down and up kicker, and I was away.  

I’ve had enough races go wrong to know one attack is rarely enough, so I knew the rest of the race I’d be riding in defense mode. Caitlin is an absolute savage at technical descents. Years of cyclocross and mountain biking are an advantage on this course. The long descent off Noah Wood is my least favorite part and despite what I thought might be a healthy lead on her, she once again caught me and passed me on this rocky, unforgiving sector. We went back and forth like this for many miles, with me pulling ahead thinking: this one might finally stick. But after another 10 minutes, there she was. I looked at her the final time and said, “Goddamn it, Caitlin you’re like a cat” and she smiled. With both of us running low on nutrition and water (but offering one another what we had), we came to an unspoken truce to back off the attacks, but not the pace. We worked hard together, catching men ahead, riding them off our wheel, and catching up about life, racing, and being home.  

It’s been a long year, to say the least. I’ve been struggling to find the thrill, the ambition, the drive of bike racing this year for countless reasons. Suffice to say, bike racing has shifted from something like my North Star to my Albatross. But this day — sharing it with family, riding in this beautiful and idyllic land, feeling my body respond with strength and energy, having a real race and effort alongside Caitlin and countless other strong women — it grounded me. In what I first fell in love with, why I first felt compelled to put myself into this pain cave over and over and over again. 

As we came into the last mile, we both shyly asked how this should end. In short, we agreed that what we had accomplished on this day was enough, it was exactly what we came for in fact, and whatever objective result was up for grabs simply didn’t matter. We had a hard race, a good day, shared with competitors and friends and family. We crossed the finish line holding hands. I felt full, our shared second place an insignificant piece of a day brimming with all that I love most about riding bikes until your legs fall off. It was joyful. The remainder of the day was spent basking in the sun, smiles, maple creamees, and attempting to re-ingest the calories and fluids we spent on course. 

On Sunday, we learned of the tragic passing of Sule Kangani. I felt like air was sucked out of my lungs by a vacuum and my whole body curled on itself trying to hide from this reality. I did not know Sule, but grief is like a ball of yarn and pulling a seemingly distance thread sometimes tugs right at the core. To learn of the death of a fellow racer — one who had made such an indelible mark on our sport, community, and the world — is beyond difficult. At that moment, I swore off racing, I swore off bikes. To echo so many who have asked this question before me, how can we possibly hold so much joy and so much sadness at once? Is it only possible to make space for grief by forgetting the joy? How can one human hold so much of both? This great balancing act has exhausted me, as I have continued trying and, I suppose, practicing for the past many months. Bikes have given me so much and taken so much of my life. Perhaps now is it time to take a pause, to reset? I took a walk for fresh air and to cry.  

Two days later I thought I might try an easy ride. I was scared, simple as that. Scared of how my body would feel, what my mind would do, how badly my heart might break. I’m not here to tell you that if you get back on the bike it will all be ok. It’s not true. Sometimes what you (or I) might need is to step away. We must give ourselves the grace to take space. Maybe it’s two days, maybe it’s two months. Knowing just how much space and when to take it is not easy. Actually, it’s absurdly and frustratingly difficult to know. Often, it’s not even a choice you get to make. I’m still learning this, and it takes real Buddha-level self-awareness and presence to be honest about what you need, whatever that means for me (or you) in that moment. But just like pedaling and all other bike things, it comes with practice.  

 
If you would like to contribute to Sule’s memorial fund, please visit the GoFundMe page. All proceeds will go to support his family. 

Late summer in New England is perfection; the multitude of green on trees, ferns, and moss are vivid, intense and deep. The fresh air smells mildly sweet and feels so easy to breathe. The sky is speckled with the kind of clouds a five-year-old would draw across a canvas of sky blue. That’s New England in August. (Of course, as I write this, New England is also now treating us to its tempest-like mood, and it hasn’t stopped raining for 12 hours.)  

Vermont Overland took place on such a day. The course is relatively short in the scheme of gravel races; 57 some odd miles with 7,000 feet of climbing crammed in there. It demands real technical chops to navigate the eight class IV sectors. (Class IV roads in Vermont are unmaintained county roads rich with rocks, roots, streams, and mud - like a mini cyclocross course in an endurance race.) Connecting the sectors are stretches of what Vermont calls “groads”. Imagine for a moment the most idyllic gravel possible - a bit tacky, a blend of rolling and steep, just soft enough to inspire confidence and firm enough to push speed, all suspended in a green archway of trees, winding along babbling brooks, sometimes opening for a moment on views of stonewalled farmlands and grazing horses. No, I'm not shitting you, it’s real and it’s called Vermont.  

The Overland is like racing on home turf and for one of the few times this year, I was genuinely excited to race. Just like last year, the race started hard. Just like last year, I once again impressed myself with an all-time peak 90-minute power. That’s another thing I love about this race; you go hard, and you don’t back off. There was a small tussle on the first climb that quickly split the lead men and a couple of women from the remaining pack. I managed to sneak around the outside and hustled to regroup with the pack ahead. After the first fast descent was a steep, intense 7-minute effort and I knew I could attack that and pick off a lot of wheels before the first Class IV. This year my descending at speed and on technical terrain has improved immensely, in no small part due to my Pivot Vault equipped with Easton’s EC90 SL post, stem, and cranks, EC90AX handlebars and wheels and getting absolutely dialed on my preferred PSI. 

I played the first 10 miles smart, holding onto groups of men who were already cracking and surfing my way up wheels to catch up to the women who had escaped earlier - Caitlin Bernstein, Sarah Lange, Ruby West. For 20 or 30 minutes we were trading pulls, positions, and efforts across the punchy and rolling terrain. I came in too hot on a rutted-out corner and lost my chain (the first of two that day) — mistakes I would pay for the rest of the day. Losing touch with the group didn’t cause me to panic, but I knew I’d have to dig deep. I spent the next hour chasing in a measured but intense effort.  

Finally, we arrived at the infamous Rich Trail, a class IV sector that last year (I’m pretty certain) swallowed some bikes whole. I got feisty with the men around me and had to bark at ones who dismounted and stopped in my line while I was trying to clear the techy, slick rock section. Dismounting, I ran around them and could see Caitlin and Ruby just ahead. I had just dropped some nutrition out of my sweaty hands, but my legs felt good, and I knew that if I could hold an attack on this sector, I had a decent chance to get away. I put in a dig and took the left line while almost everyone rode single file on the right. I passed Ruby then Caitlin and was solo as we came down a shallow descent off the Class IV. I knew Caitlin had far superior technical skills to me and it wasn’t but 10 seconds until I saw her in the corner of my eye. I pitched another attack as we hit the gravel road’s swooping down and up kicker, and I was away.  

I’ve had enough races go wrong to know one attack is rarely enough, so I knew the rest of the race I’d be riding in defense mode. Caitlin is an absolute savage at technical descents. Years of cyclocross and mountain biking are an advantage on this course. The long descent off Noah Wood is my least favorite part and despite what I thought might be a healthy lead on her, she once again caught me and passed me on this rocky, unforgiving sector. We went back and forth like this for many miles, with me pulling ahead thinking: this one might finally stick. But after another 10 minutes, there she was. I looked at her the final time and said, “Goddamn it, Caitlin you’re like a cat” and she smiled. With both of us running low on nutrition and water (but offering one another what we had), we came to an unspoken truce to back off the attacks, but not the pace. We worked hard together, catching men ahead, riding them off our wheel, and catching up about life, racing, and being home.  

It’s been a long year, to say the least. I’ve been struggling to find the thrill, the ambition, the drive of bike racing this year for countless reasons. Suffice to say, bike racing has shifted from something like my North Star to my Albatross. But this day — sharing it with family, riding in this beautiful and idyllic land, feeling my body respond with strength and energy, having a real race and effort alongside Caitlin and countless other strong women — it grounded me. In what I first fell in love with, why I first felt compelled to put myself into this pain cave over and over and over again. 

As we came into the last mile, we both shyly asked how this should end. In short, we agreed that what we had accomplished on this day was enough, it was exactly what we came for in fact, and whatever objective result was up for grabs simply didn’t matter. We had a hard race, a good day, shared with competitors and friends and family. We crossed the finish line holding hands. I felt full, our shared second place an insignificant piece of a day brimming with all that I love most about riding bikes until your legs fall off. It was joyful. The remainder of the day was spent basking in the sun, smiles, maple creamees, and attempting to re-ingest the calories and fluids we spent on course. 

On Sunday, we learned of the tragic passing of Sule Kangani. I felt like air was sucked out of my lungs by a vacuum and my whole body curled on itself trying to hide from this reality. I did not know Sule, but grief is like a ball of yarn and pulling a seemingly distance thread sometimes tugs right at the core. To learn of the death of a fellow racer — one who had made such an indelible mark on our sport, community, and the world — is beyond difficult. At that moment, I swore off racing, I swore off bikes. To echo so many who have asked this question before me, how can we possibly hold so much joy and so much sadness at once? Is it only possible to make space for grief by forgetting the joy? How can one human hold so much of both? This great balancing act has exhausted me, as I have continued trying and, I suppose, practicing for the past many months. Bikes have given me so much and taken so much of my life. Perhaps now is it time to take a pause, to reset? I took a walk for fresh air and to cry.  

Two days later I thought I might try an easy ride. I was scared, simple as that. Scared of how my body would feel, what my mind would do, how badly my heart might break. I’m not here to tell you that if you get back on the bike it will all be ok. It’s not true. Sometimes what you (or I) might need is to step away. We must give ourselves the grace to take space. Maybe it’s two days, maybe it’s two months. Knowing just how much space and when to take it is not easy. Actually, it’s absurdly and frustratingly difficult to know. Often, it’s not even a choice you get to make. I’m still learning this, and it takes real Buddha-level self-awareness and presence to be honest about what you need, whatever that means for me (or you) in that moment. But just like pedaling and all other bike things, it comes with practice.  

 
If you would like to contribute to Sule’s memorial fund, please visit the GoFundMe page. All proceeds will go to support his family.