Darkness surrounds me. There’s a smell of moisture in the air, and the only noise I hear is the sound of my bike moving slowly up a gravel road toward the edge of the world. I am riding toward the end of an island—Tierra del Fuego—a place touched by few and known by even fewer. And I am inspired. On the horizon, I see traces of the sun rising. The sun brings hope for a new day, a race finished, and a decision made.
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When you’ve been living in a place for ages, it’s easy to overlook its charm. Growing up just a couple of hours outside Emporia and spending most of my life in Kansas, I couldn’t fathom why people would travel from far and wide to race on seemingly dull and unchanging roads. But then, amid a grueling nearly 25-hour journey, a realization hit me like a lightning bolt. As I pedaled along the ridge, the undulating emerald hills stretched for miles while ominous thunderclouds loomed above—a quintessential Kansas storm rolling in to welcome me back. There was nothing to do but smile and hope it wasn’t too harsh. Soon, a refreshing 30-minute drizzle came to my rescue, and I found myself grateful for the momentary respite from the heat and electrified by the surrounding beauty.
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