The holidays are always a happy time for me. I love the break, Christmas trees, a big dinner, seeing people, New Year’s celebrations—all of it. This year was especially great having rekindled my deep love of riding and falling off the deep end. I met my goal, exceeded it really.

Yet something was picking at me in the background. I should be super happy, but I wasn’t as happy about it as I thought I would be. After six months of extreme effort and dedication and consistency, I got to this point… this point like, no shit dude, this isn’t an achievement, this is getting back to normal from where you were. The realization that I was pretty far gone, but in the way a frog boils in water.

There aren’t any excuses. I had a fresh Yeti SB140 sitting here all built up, ready to go. The weather wasn’t terrible by most standards—we live in Austin, it’s nice almost all year (except I guess July/August, but whatever). I should be chomping at the bit to rock this new steed.

But I woke up Monday with dread deep in me. I knew that I had to get back on the bike, keep going. I even set rad goals for this year. The dread was self-doubt.

It’s like looking at the giant climb in front of you and you already ate all your Gu and you’ve got half a water bottle left and your legs hurt and you’re like, fucking really? This was me thinking about getting back to weeks of running a load of 400 TSS. That’s like two or three rides of a couple hours each, say 12–20 miles each, 1,200 feet or so of climbing, ~1,000 calories output, give or take. I love mountain biking, but dude, that shit is hard, and hurts.

Stick with me, I’ll get to the takeaway here. I won’t try to make you feel sorry for me.

Tuesday came. Time was on the calendar. I gave myself a pass and did ~120 TSS. The bike wasn’t quite right yet and my bleed of the back brake sucked, leaving me with mostly only front brakes for the ride. I got through it, but kept it short.

Then Thursday I upped the game to >200 TSS. Big push, big pace, pushed hard. And as I sit here now I’m limping due to some situation with my knee. Fuuuuucccck.

Body is revolting, brain is not helping. I’m feeling 54.

really fml really? fml right now

I know if you’re reading this, you are a rider, or are married to one. It’s moments like this where we give up, where we just say it’s too much, where we find reasons. Things taper, and goals aren’t met. We make excuses. From July to now I hadn’t felt this way—it was riding the wave. And now I sit here between sets, mentally cramping, physically hurting, going dude… fuuuck.

It’s funny about riding. Everyone thinks it’s extreme or so physical, but in reality it’s such a mind fuck. There was this moment on Thursday’s ride—I was riding the endorphin rush, heart rate in the 150s (for me that’s audibly huffing and puffing). I was definitely under cardiac drift (where you can’t recover fast enough anymore and your day is ending fast, tick tock), and I was blowing giant wads of snot out of my nostrils.

Come on man, figure out a way to get your head right here dude. You are halfway. You got yourself here, and you have to get yourself home. Not to my house, but to home being Telluride in July. You are in January and about to fuck yourself.

Deep breath. Slow and steady. Keep turning the pedals. Is this a life lesson right now? What is happening? My head spins back to a tweet I saw. It was basically a combination of Confucius’s “It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop,” and Vince Lombardi’s “Winners never quit and quitters never win.”

And that sounds all inspirational and shit and awesome if you are a social media influencer. We know I am not. The cold fucking reality is, I wanted to.

So I turned left. No, serious. I just turned and took another fucking lap. Already half-broken, man about to throw his bike, and I said: fucking reboot, get a downhill in and start over. Isn’t this what we do when we give our kids a timeout?

This part of the trail is along the lake. The crew knows it—twisty, rocky. Jump onto the concrete manhole cover, crush the baby-head section, zooming, lean in, find the traction. Wide bars, loads of leverage and grip. Fox shocks ripping. Cooling effect of the speed. Speed.

left turn turn left, go downhill, go

If you remember riding in the ’90s, one thing that you’ll remember is that bikes are not quiet. Modern MTB rigs are dead fucking silent. All you hear are tires on dirt, you can hear your grip, the whiz of the freewheel, and your own breathing. It’s something. You can think. You can process.

Relax into what I know, what my body knows. Just FUCKING RIDE. This new rig is siiiiiiick.

It’s another left turn to start heading up. I turn and I know I am out of juice, but no matter—just keep pushing, not too hard, steady. I am no longer thinking about giving anything up. That ship sailed. This is the most fun thing ever. Gratitude, even with toasted legs.

I’ll see y’all on Sunday boys. Let’s ride.