So. Much. Nothing.

I left the hotel in Pinedale at 2 a.m. The sky was ink-black, and a tailwind pushed me toward the Great Basin. My K-Lite carved a white tunnel into the road ahead. I yelled into the dark: “I’M STRONG!” and then burst into tears. I slapped my face to stay awake. There was no time to nap, though I would several times that morning; I could not stay awake despite the proper sleep inside last night. The heat would come soon though.

The Tour Divide is a 4,400-kilometre, self-supported bikepacking race from Banff, Canada, to the Mexican border at Antelope Wells, New Mexico. It travels mostly on dirt and gravel through remote terrain, climbing more than 60,000 meters. It’s one of the most iconic, legendary races in our self-supported ultra bikepacking scene.

I came to see what I was capable of, calling it the experiment—so it would be open, nothing to lose, right? I have the privilege of support from brands, my partner, and a team to dedicate my time. I had trained hard, hired a coach, I said no to events and income from my art. The Divide was the first of three in my 2025 plan. My idea was attempting the Triple Crown: Tour Divide, Colorado Trail Race, and Arizona Trail Race, all in one calendar year. Only a few women have ever done it.

This was supposed to be the year everything clicked. Be more than just that arty weirdo girl that rides bikes pretty oke.

I. Hope, Early and Fragile

I pushed hard out of Banff. My back felt sore, the kind you can feel on a first day, the body in shock, but I didn’t stop. At 11 p.m. I rolled into Fernie, a big first milestone, and ordered burgers, fries, and hot chocolate in McDonald’s. Something familiar I knew how to handle. I took it to my hotel room, showered, and lay in bed, blissful. This is how every day should end, I thought. I was already longing for sleep. Still, it felt good—early effort rewarded.

On day two, the struggle began: bushes hanging over the trail clawing at me, another wall of trail to push my bike up. Madeit over the pass and felt relieved, flew down the trail and crossed the U.S. border feeling dumb for getting frustrated so early.

That evening I rode with Seb, a French rider who brought with him a little book. The book was made by his daughters and every day he got to read a page. We camped together in the woods. Although Whitefish was our goal, I hit a limit and thought it was best to set up camp. Aware of bears nearby, we acted accordingly—packing all our food in dry bags and swinging it into a tree.

The first few days offered flashes of joy: descending into Lima at sunrise, wildflowers in forest tunnels, architecture in tiny towns. Dotwatchers singing from cars, yelling inspiring things and bringing overall stoke. I’d dip my shirt in creeks just to cool off, trying to focus on small magic moments. Meanwhile, my appetite wasn’t great and neither was my ability to eat, which was worrying. Food is fuel.

By Whitefish, Montana, I already felt like something was slipping. The race leaders had made a big gap. Ana was way ahead though I still had Alexandra close by Gillian and Karen behind me. Should I have ridden harder? Was I already too far behind?

II. The Spiral

By day five, leaving Helena, I was sad. Deeply sad. The first days I was gagging, unable to eat much. The cost of the race, financially, physically, emotionally, pressed on me. I was constantly calculating distances, resupply, and budget. How much food could I afford today? Could I find a place to sleep? Would anyone even let me in? Would I have 4G to organize something for myself?

That same morning I woke up with a black tongue. It shocked me. I had never seen this, not on myself or heard of it in ultra cycling. A quick panic Google search told me dehydration or fungus. I asked my coach if he had ever seen this in his athletes. Lucky me, I woke up in a town and in the big supermarkets they have pharmacists. When I explained the situation, the pharmacist asked me if I might have used Pepto-Bismol for stomach lining. I did indeed since my stomach was upset and eating was a problem. So that was the culprit. Harmless. That sort of small relief—“I’m not dying”—became its own kind of victory.

I started to cry more. A relief, the anxiety, some shame, so much to question and so much time to think. But only when I was alone. Whenever I saw another rider, I switched it off, put on a joyful face, told a funny story, made them laugh. It’s easier tobring joy to others than to find it in yourself. I wish sometimes I would be better at this.

Day nine. I found out Gillian and Karen had overtaken me. That crushed me. I was trying so hard, and suddenly, I felt like I’d lost. It wasn’t just being passed. It was the realization that this wasn’t going to be the race I’d dreamed of. I had trained so hard. So many people were watching my dot. I wanted to make everyone proud. I wanted to make myself proud. Instead, I felt like a failure. Like I had let down my partner, my family, everyone who believed in me, not just by not being faster, but in a bigger context as everything in my life was shaped around this race.

III. Beauty That Hurts

There were moments that pierced through.

The storm before Gila. Thunder and lightning cracking overhead. It was terrifying and beautiful. I had many moments during the race where I wished for weather, just to have exciting things happen, something catastrophic to deal with. The scent of pine near the Tetons was incredible. The smell of my own sweat, day after day, became bearable. Descending toward the Colorado River at sunset, burnt orange light on canyon walls, made me cry, but for a different reason: it was just so vast, so magnificent, the kind of mind-bog-gling beauty I love so much and wish to see more of when I’m racing.

And there were people. Joe Nation at the gas station in Lima, his smile and calm energy. Alexandra, who gave me a giant hug in WiseRiver. Doug, who emailed me after the race to tell I was strong. Coming from him, that really stuck.

And then there was Christa.

I was descending towards Glenwood and had just passed through the ghost town Silver Creek, New Mexico, after Glenwood resuplly my mission was to make it to Silver City that night. Christa flagged me down from the side of the road. “I’m your trail angel!” she shouted. I sighed. I didn’t want to stop, I had this brief thought of “just leave me alone lady, I’m on a mission!”. But I did.

She welcomed me into her air-conditioned car. She was 76, radiant, living in that near-ghost town Silver Creek. She handed me a sandwich, the best sandwich of my life and started talking. She’d moved to live with her sister in Silvercreek to not be alone while rasing her two kids. She carried on and told me her son died tragically at 19, something that still keeps her up at night. She told me about the gummies that help her sleep. We laughed, we laughed despite the sadness, we laughed bacause of carrying on and because of the gummies that help her sleep. She gave me cookies and water. I left with tears in my eyes and something lighter in my chest.

Sometimes, kindness lands harder than pain.

IV. The Reckoning

I often thought I’m done, but I’m almost there, just a few more days. Every morning started with tears. My body ached in new places: knees, back, ankle. I coughed up blood from all the dust. I was sleep-deprived and dehydrated. I lost a pannier. I ate Snickers for dinner.

My brakes started crying too—literally squealing.

And yet, I kept riding.

Day 15: I reached out to my parents and a few close friends. I stood on a mountain, watching the sunset over New Mexico, and I just knew I couldn’t carry it all alone anymore. The shame, the exhaustion, the grief of falling short.

So I asked for help. As I have been told many times, it’s okay to ask for help. People love to help.

V. The Finish

The final day I felt fast. Which might have been the Red Bull or the fact that I could smell the finish, or both, it was good. I was leapfrogging with Doug and Nate, we had fun chasing eachother pushing the pace. After the last rocky stretch of CDT trail, I hit pavement. Final 40 kilometres of it. I blasted my “Crying on the Dancefloor” playlist one more time and pushed through a mild headwind. My knees burned. My back screamed. My brakes wailed.

A rainbow appeared on my left. Then, the fence. Steel, massive, unnatural. The U.S.-Mexico border. I took my headphones out soaking it all in. I had decided earlier not to take a photo at the fence, the gate. That wasn’t the image I wanted. I wanted the road behind me.

The 4,400 kilometres. The struggle. The stillness. The storm.

Wade was there. A friend I rarely see, but one who feels like home. He handed me fruit—just like he’d promised. I didn’t cry. I think I had one little tear in those last kilometres and thought to myself, perhaps all the tears were meant for the trail, out there on the road. And now it’s done.

VI. After

I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. But I still don’t know if I have the mind for another. The Tour Divide broke me in ways I didn’t expect. Post-traumatic stress is real. These raw, real adventures—they take things from you. And they give things, too.

I’m calm now. For a while, at least. I don’t want to race. Not right now. I might finally get back to my studio, turn all this into art.

I don’t know what’s next and I’m pretty sure nobody does.