At 5:00 AM, the harsh buzz of my phone alarm shakes me awake. The temptation to hit snooze is real, especially knowing the comfort of 15 more minutes in bed. But I remind myself of the reward: another episode of The Sopranos, my new trainer session companion. I shimmy into my bibs and socks, letting the compression stir some circulation. My spare bike is already set up on the trainer, making it easy to slide on my shoes, swing a leg over, and press play. Last winter, I binged Six Feet Under, diving into its poignant storytelling of a family funeral home swirling in chaos. The characters were so maddeningly flawed that they became magnetic, drawing me into their world episode after episode. This winter, The Sopranos has muscled its way onto my training regimen, using classic Mafia tactics—charm and intimidation. Widely acclaimed as one of the greatest shows ever made, it was simply a show I couldn’t refuse. Tony’s relentless pursuit of control in a chaotic world feels familiar. Each episode is a reminder that life is often a balancing act between ambition and the forces that threaten to unravel it.

This season, my training setup has shifted along with my location. After years of snowy Colorado winters, I’m now navigating the not-so-snowy but still bitterly cold winters of Arkansas. In Colorado, the snow muffled everything, a peaceful silence that mirrored my focus. Here, the frost-coated mornings feel harsher, louder, as if the world is daring me to prove my commitment. Pre-dawn trainer sessions remain a non-negotiable, especially with my new full-time job at TC Screenprinting. We partner with NICA to merchandise for 14 different leagues across the country, which kept me traveling non-stop this fall—Idaho, Wisconsin, Missouri, Delaware, and more. The whirlwind of work also marked the beginning of my longest off-season break in years: five weeks completely off the bike. It felt strange to let go, but I knew I needed to reset both mentally and physically to start a proper fitness build for 2025.

Yet, in the quiet moments between work and training, doubts about the future crept in, slowly eroding the clarity I had fought so hard to maintain. After all, the world feels like it’s burning—constant suffering, endless pain, headlines filled with violence and tragedy, and uncertainty at every turn. In times like these, the question often arises: How can I justify this life of voluntary suffering when there are so many facing hardships far greater than my own? How do I reconcile the pain I endure for something as seemingly trivial as racing a bike, when entire communities are struggling to survive, when the world itself feels as though it’s unraveling? The truth is, it often feels hollow. Sharing race results on social media, posting about victories and setbacks, starts to feel trite, almost absurd—a desperate shout into a void that doesn’t seem to care. Does anyone really care about my race result, about the miles I’ve conquered or the podiums I’ve stood on, when the world is consumed by conflict, violence, and instability? The world is unraveling, and here I am, chasing finish lines. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that the structure of training and racing, even in the face of these looming, dark human struggles, is something I desperately need for my mental health—it provides a framework, a sense of purpose, in a world that often feels chaotic and out of control.

These existential doubts have spilled over into my views on racing itself, causing me to question the very foundation of the lifestyle I’ve built around it. There’s the constant financial instability that comes with chasing this dream. It’s a grind of scraping by, living month to month, and relying heavily on the support of my girlfriend, Heather, to make ends meet. While I do my best to contribute, there’s no denying the weight of it. I’ve taken on freelance web design work to bridge gaps, but even then, the reality remains harsh and unrelenting. No health insurance, no safety net, and always the nagging thought that one bad crash, one serious injury, could shatter all this work in an instant. There’s no real backup plan. I’ve sacrificed the stability of a traditional career path for a passion that keeps me on the edge. While the rewards can be sweet, the cost is steep. It’s a heavy tax on my body, pushing it beyond its limits every season. The toll it takes on my social life is undeniable—friendships suffer, relationships strain, and I often find myself isolated, consumed by the race calendar. And then there’s the toll on my bank account, where months of uncertainty often feel like a balancing act between passion and practicality. At times, it feels like everything is in jeopardy, and I question if the pursuit is truly worth the sacrifice.

Still, when I take a step back to reflect on 2024 as a whole, it’s clear that this has been one of my best seasons yet. Five wins and three DNFs might seem like an uneven balance, but in the context of gravel racing, it’s more than I could have hoped for. The DNFs often loom large in my mind, overshadowing the victories, and maybe that’s because my main goal for 2024 was Unbound XL, which ended in a crash that left me with a concussion. But I know deep down that those setbacks are just part of the journey. Gravel racing is inherently unpredictable—mechanical issues can strike without warning, weather conditions can turn brutal, and the courses are often punishing in ways you can’t fully anticipate. These factors are always lurking in the background, waiting to disrupt even the most well-prepared rider. Yet, when I look back at my wins, especially at moments like my triumph at Gravel Worlds’ Long Voyage, I see something more than just luck or circumstance. I see the growth, the mental fortitude, and the unwavering determination that defined this season. That race—300 miles of rolling Nebraska farmlands, completed in just under 16 hours—was without a doubt one of my proudest achievements. I had prepared for months mentally, physically, and logistically. When I crossed the finish line hours earlier than the race organizers had expected, I couldn’t help but appreciate their surprise. Being severely underestimated is a position I’ve come to enjoy—it’s where I thrive. But this wasn’t the only time in 2024 that I had caught race promoters off guard. Back in May, at the Rule of 3 Ultra, I had done the same thing—arriving at the finish line well ahead of expectations. It’s in moments like these—when I defy expectations and exceed what others thought possible—that I find the most satisfaction. Every time I surprise myself and those around me, it strengthens my belief that, no matter how unpredictable this sport is, I’m capable of rising to the challenge and pushing through.

Of course, triumph is never without its disillusionments. On the Gravel Worlds podium, I looked forward to claiming the legendary champion’s jersey and a rusty cutlass, iconic symbols of the event. Instead, what I won was a simple metal trophy. It stung—not because I race for prizes, but because it felt like a metaphor for the sport itself. The countless hours of training, the mental and physical sacrifices, the heart and soul I pour into this—it all led to this moment, yet here I was, holding a small, cold metal trinket. Does anyone else see the worth in what I’m doing? These moments make me question my purpose, the endless grind, and the truth behind why I give a damn. Yet, even with all the uncertainty, the selfish, exhilarating rush of victory remains unmatched. It’s the high that pulls me back in, reminding me why I keep racing, why I keep pushing myself past every limit, every doubt. That feeling of triumph, though fleeting, is like a drug, and it keeps calling me back, no matter how often it leaves me questioning what it’s all for.

Deep down, I don’t just want to be good at this sport—I want to be great. Not in some mythical, unattainable ‘Tour de France’ kind of way, but in the deeply personal sense of knowing I’ve pushed myself to the outermost limits of my athletic potential. Greatness, for me, isn’t measured by Instagram followers or wins; it’s about the satisfaction of fully committing to the process, the raw pursuit of excellence. It’s about knowing that I didn’t hold back, that I gave everything I had, leaving no stone unturned. When a race plan comes together flawlessly—the pacing, the strategy, the preparation—it’s pure dopamine coursing through my veins, a kind of euphoria that’s impossible to replicate anywhere else. It’s a testament to the work I’ve put in, a reminder of why I endure the endless grind.

In the moments when the struggle feels overwhelming, I find myself clinging to the belief that the next breakthrough is just around the corner. It’s this faith, this relentless optimism, that keeps me going when the doubts start creeping. Even on the days when the grind feels pointless and exhausting, the thought that all this effort will one day culminate in an extraordinary performance drives me forward. That’s what fuels me—the unshakable conviction that every pedal stroke, every ounce of effort, every small sacrifice is building toward something greater. It’s not just about the destination; it’s about proving to myself, again and again, that the journey is worth it.

Deep down, I don’t just want to be good at this sport—I want to be great. Not in some fantastical “Tour de France” way, but in knowing I’ve pushed every limit of my athletic potential. When a race plan comes together flawlessly, it’s pure dopamine. In the tough moments, when I’m ready to give up, I cling to the belief that the next breakthrough is just around the corner. That’s what drives me forward: the faith that the grind is worth it.

This off-season, as I do every year, I granted myself a brief Rumspringa—a two-week reprieve to indulge in old bad habits, though I stayed far from the more dangerous extremes that once threatened to consume me. It’s always an interesting experiment, a kind of controlled chaos that offers a glimpse into a life I’ve largely left behind. What strikes me most is how foreign those indulgences now feel, like slipping into a version of myself that no longer quite fits.

These detours serve a purpose. They’re not simply about rebellion or nostalgia; they’re a way to reset, to remind myself of the delicate balance between structure and chaos that defines my life. Stepping off the path, even briefly, allows me to see it more clearly when I return. It’s as though these moments of excess amplify the clarity that follows, sharpening my focus and rekindling my drive. They ground me in my choices, forcing me to acknowledge both the sacrifices I’ve made and the rewards that come with them. As the haze of indulgence fades, what remains is a renewed sense of purpose—a readiness to embrace the grind of the months ahead with the discipline and determination that have become my compass.

As I look toward 2025, the question of whether to continue racing feels heavier than ever, pressing against the very foundation of who I’ve become. The idea of “retiring from bike racing” (Jesus Christ) would mean stepping away from something that has profoundly shaped my identity. This sport isn’t just a passion; it’s a framework through which I’ve come to understand myself, a lens that refracts the challenges and triumphs of life into something deeply personal. Yet, continuing down this path means embracing all the sacrifices that come with it—the relentless grind, the financial uncertainty, the wear and tear on both body and mind. Each season demands a recommitment, a willingness to dive headlong into the all-consuming pursuit of excellence, even as the weight of those choices grows heavier.

Still, there’s an undeniable magic to this life that’s hard to put into words. It’s in the incredible experiences that I know would have been out of reach without racing, like seeing parts of the world that once existed only in my daydreams. I went to Europe for the first time in my life because of racing bikes for Rodeo—a trip I’d been dreaming about for as long as I can remember. The cobblestone streets, ancient churches, the rolling countryside, the history seeping from every corner—it all felt like a gift that cycling had handed me, proof of the doors this sport can open.

Beyond the experiences, there’s the satisfaction that comes from giving it my all, from knowing I’ve poured every ounce of myself into something that truly matters to me. And then there’s the indescribable rush of crossing the finish line first, a fleeting moment of pure triumph that somehow makes all the pain, sacrifice, and doubt feel worth it. Those moments are rare, but they’re powerful, electric, and impossible to replicate. They tether me to this sport, even as I wrestle with its demands.

Choosing to continue isn’t just about chasing victories or the next big adventure—it’s about holding onto something that makes me feel most alive. But the question lingers, always lurking at the edges of my thoughts: how long can I keep walking this tightrope of ambition and sacrifice? Each season demands more—more focus, more grit, more from every part of my life—and I wonder when the balance will finally tip. For now, though, the answer feels clear enough. I’ll keep racing, keep pushing, and keep chasing that feeling, even as I know the day may come when I’ll have to say goodbye to it all. Until then, the grind continues, and with it, the hope that those rare, electric moments of triumph will make it all worth it.