“10 seconds!” a stout race official hollered at the staring line. Only ten seconds until my first mountain bike race was to begin. This had to be the longest ten seconds I have ever experienced. My hands were visibly shaking as they were tightly gripping my handlebars. The fact that I was drowning in the expectations of my bike-crazy brother and parents certainly did not help my nerves. “Go!” the stout man shouted. Off I went! I gave those first couple minutes everything I had. Soon, however I came to the devastating realization that I could not breathe. This was not the uncomfortable feeling you get when you workout hard, no, I legitimately could not breathe. I pulled out of the race in an effort to catch my breath. Facing the heckles of unknowing onlookers was profoundly humiliating. Before I knew it, I was being rushed to a pharmacy to snatch an inhaler that could save my oxygen-deprived lungs. Many races in the beginning of my racing career tragically had a similar ending. While my first mountain bike races seemed discouraging, merciless, and painful, they bred an unexplainable zeal for racing deep within me.

While this was my first mountain bike race, I was certainly not a newbie to the racing scene. For as long as I can remember, we had been driving across the west to odd ski resorts, scorching deserts and rugged backwoods. For a while, I grudgingly followed along to these races. I felt that my biked obsessed family was pulling me into the very sport that I did not want any part of. Despite feeling as if I was being hauled to these venues against my will, I decided that I might as well try racing since I was going to the races. I deeply regretted this decision during my first couple of races. Even before this decision, however, I decided to start training. While my training was far from consistent, it was, to my bewilderment, a blast. The training was motivating in the sense that I was constantly able to see improvements. Of course, within the first couple weeks of real training, I pulled the gun way too soon and decided to race. The morning before that first race was absolutely miserable. The high expectations combined with the lack of solid preparation left me feeling incredibly nauseous.

My warm-up, or freak-out which what it actually was, only left me feeling less confident and more anxious. Yet, as I described earlier, I made it to the starting line. To this day, I still cannot exactly pinpoint the whole scenario. This was a terrifying experience and it all seems like a fog. I do recall, however, blasting off the starting line faster than I had ever gone in my lifetime. Due to the cheers of my brother and parents on the sidelines, combined with the screams of strangers, I sustained this pace for several minutes. Soon enough, however, my lungs went into an excruciating spasm. When those on the sidelines watched tears fill up my eyes and saw me gasping for air, they merely assumed that I was a wimp. My dad, a doctor, knew better. He picked me up and rushed me away, because he knew this was asthma. When I gained an inhaler and finally caught my breath, I was humiliated. “How could you not even finish your first race?” I questioned myself. I had never been so humiliated in my life. As I went back to the venue I kept my head down. I knew that my family and friends would be immensely disappointed. My whole demeanor changed when I walked up, however. It was as if a welcome party had been put on for my return. My brother ran up and said, “Way to fight! You are going to kill it next time!”. The funny thing is I believed him.

Race after race, the same thing happened. I would have to learn to control myself and not bolt off the staring line. Finally, I finished and won a race. I cannot describe the joy I felt after accomplishing this milestone. This was only the beginning. Both physically and mentally, mountain biking posed a challenge unlike any other I had faced before. I had been bitten by the biking bug and would have to keep a consistent training plan going. I can think back to numerous times that I thought quitting was the only option. I am overjoyed that I kept pushing. In slow time, I came to love competition. This was a major change as I had previously viewed racing as a mere nerve fest. It is crazy to think that this experience happened six years ago, yet the sport seems to grow more challenging each day. This is certainly not an easy sport, but there is no better feeling than the satisfaction of finishing a race. To think that almost every weekend, I am able to experience this satisfaction is beyond phenomenal. I am so pleased that I ignored the discouraging and upsetting thoughts that I had towards racing, and continued to pursue this passion. Racing has improved my medical condition while granting me confidence; I would never take any of these experiences back.

Every time I line up to the starting line, I smile when I reminisce back to what that seemingly unmotivated child overcame. During each pedal stroke, I feel the joy and pain that pushing myself brings. I have attended two Junior Olympic Camps and several national races. I have also competed in several 12 and 24-hour races. Within the past two years, I have come to adore Cyclocross racing as well and have won two State Championship titles. I am grateful for every trial that was thrown my way. If it were not for the first several races, I do not believe that I would be where I am today. During each race I consider the beautiful outcome that continuing to push brings. Just as the famous Charles Swindoll quote goes, “Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.”