Today was the day. The Cypress Challenge.
A 12-kilometer ride, 700 meters of climbing, and a race I wasn’t totally sure I was ready for.
I parked, got my gear sorted, tried to settle my nerves. I’ve been training, sure—but that question kept echoing: Did I do enough? You never really know until you’re out there.
Before the climb even started, I had to descend. And honestly? That part freaked me out.
I hadn’t practiced much. Thirty minutes of descending wasn’t something I’d ever done, and I really felt it in my hands—worried that I’d pull the brakes too hard and go over the handlebars, or just lose control and go careening off the road.
I kept coming back to this piece of advice I heard once—that descending is all mental. And if you want to enjoy it, just say it out loud: I love descending!
So I did. Over and over, like a mantra.
Then a deer crossed the road in front of me. And you know, from that point on, I did love descending.
The start line park was beautiful that morning—clear views of the water and UBC. Hard to believe I’d been riding over there just a week ago.
Around me, riders were quietly doing their own prep. I had some cramping from the descent, so I used the time to walk it off and stretch.
Now, all that was left was to wait for the race to begin.
I lined up at the back of the under-one-hour group.
It felt ambitious.
I’ve never done a timed hill climb like this before, but something in me wanted to see what was possible. Worst case, I’d blow up. Best case? I’d surprise myself.
When the race started, I settled into a pace that felt manageable.
Not easy, not hard—just steady.
I reminded myself: it’s a long climb. No need to burn out early.
The first half went by smoother than I expected.
But after that midpoint sign? Everything changed.
My legs started screaming. The road felt longer. The crowd thinned out.
I just kept chipping away. This was the part I wasn’t sure if I was prepared for.
So I stopped thinking about the finish.
I picked a rider ahead of me and just… followed.
Not racing them—just borrowing their rhythm.
It gave my mind something to hold onto while my body kept grinding.
I kept glancing down at my new bike computer.
I’ve got my watch, but this was different.
Just like those Form swim goggles I used in my last swim race—something about seeing numbers helps me get through the pain.
Weirdly, watching the distance barely tick forward made it easier.
I wasn’t moving fast. But I was moving.
And somehow, I made it!
Gun time: 59:59.
I laughed when I saw it. One second to spare.
I have a knack for coming really close to the wire with my finishes—having completed a few run races with just a second over the minute. I don’t really know what this says about me. But I don’t mind it.
Getting to the top felt incredible.
Not just because it was hard. Not just because I hit the time.
But because it reminded me: this is only the beginning.
There’s a whole world of rides, challenges, and climbs ahead.
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