Standing in the start corral, waiting to be called to the line, my eyes are locked on Clayton and the nerves shoot through my body and down my fingertips. My eyes dart to the side, desperate for confirmation that others are feeling the same way that I do, but I don’t need to see their wide eyes and big exhales to already know that we all feel the same way. Clayton places his hand on my shoulder to pull me back into the moment. It’s time.

Booming on the loud speaker, they call our names and Nationalities, but behind the scenes it’s a scuffle of moving bikes and officially pointing at our numbers and waving us through. We squish up on the starting line, refusing to give even an inch before the race has even begun. Racers from all over the World, in all different National colors, speaking different languages, but we all know the dance of the bike race. In a few short hours, we’ll all be back in this same spot, covered in sweat, and overflowing with stories, the outcome decided.

Two minutes until start booms over the speaker. I take one more scan of the crowd looking for my people in the sea of spectators. My eyes finally land on my mom, holding up her phone, taking a video of the moment with a huge smile on her face. My eyes move over the Clayton giving me a nod. I don’t need to hear him to know what that means. My eyes move back down to my bike, my hands grip the bars, my foot pushes down on the pedal, the whistle blows and we sprint to the first corner. It’s begun.

The first moments of a 6ish hour race are often a bizarre dichotomy of anxious anticipation, patience practiced, and bravery diving into the unknown. The race funneled into smaller streets and sidewalks thinning out the group. Just 15 minutes into the race, the group was already all strung out as we pushed up the first hour long climb. The first vertical feet of about 14,000 that we would tackle on the day.

I wasn’t as far up in the group as I wanted to be, but the pace was hot and the roads were steep, meaning the drafting effect was near zero and I saw the opportunity to pace my own race. Some athletes surged ahead closing gaps quickly, others I could hear breathing as if the race was going to finish any moment. I doubled down on my strategy.

As we crested the top of the first climb, about an hour into the race, I was sitting in the mid-20s and a less experienced version of myself may have panicked, but I knew the best part was about to begin.

I ratcheted up the pace as I saw the body language of the racers around me start to falter. I wasn’t looking at the racer who was ahead, I was looking at the dots in the distance, those were the riders I was chasing. One by one I executed pass after pass. I made passes on the uphills and on the downhills. I passed riders who tried to hang on my wheel and others who were clearly at the end of their rope for the day. At this point, I had reached flow. It felt like absolutely nothing could throw me off my game. Even a bee getting stuck under my helmet strap around 2 hours into the race and a bee sting that caused pain and swelling all down my chin and neck. For me, each and every obstacle was just a part of the story of my epic day.

With each passing feedzone Clayton would tell me the time to the next significant group or place up ahead and what started as bigger numbers and higher places and by hour 4, Clayton yelled, “You’re in 10^th, you can see 9^th just ahead!”

Right before the longest and hardest climb of the day, I was desperate for water. When I finally got to the feed zone I grabbed the bottle and chugged a bunch, but it wasn’t water. I had already taken in too many carbs at this point and I needed the water on this climb to wash it down. It was a very simple and very easy mix up but the consequences were bigger than I thought. Since I had already maxed out my carbs for this moment in the race, my gut would struggle to process more, but with the sultry heat of the stagnant air in the 25-30% gradient climb, I had to drink the fluids and my gut revolted. I started feeling chills, then dizzy, and feverish until finally I vomited. Not once, not twice, but several times, aggressively.

“Come on, Hannah. You’ve come too far” was my thought as I swerved a bit across the steep road, looking at a few of the riders who had re-passed me during this obstacle. I stole a quick glance behind, my first look back of the entire day and it woke something up in me. I refuse to go backwards. “Just stay in it. Just stay close enough so that when this passes, you’re ready.”

That piece is important; “When this passes…” because all hard moments pass and the belief that better is on the other side is what drives us.

And it did pass. At the next feed zone, I got water, my gut reset and I charged ahead. I actually made it back up to 12^th place and could see 10^th and 11^th just ahead up the next few climbs, but time was running out. I committed to pushing through each corner and every summit regardless of whether or not it earned me another position because as I came up to the finish, ultimately crossing the line in 13^th place, I felt like I had won my day. I had stayed grounded in my plan, found flow in the effort, pushed passed my limits, overcome adversity, and came out the other side. To me, that’s the perfect day on the bike.