The Anguishes of Patience
- fourthquarter
- Jul 9, 2018
- 7 min read
Updated: Aug 1, 2018
Kelsey Urban
July 9, 2018
When I planned my 2018 season 10 months ago, today, July 2nd was circled in red pen. It was one of the days that represents the reason I wake up in the morning, ready. It would be the day that many of the world’s top cyclists would board planes from hundreds of different states, countries, & backgrounds to come together for the second round of World Cup mountain bike races the following weekend. I would be one of them.
Ever since my toes skimmed the water of mountain biking, World Cup racing has been its heart. These races are the epitome of the sport. The names called out through the auditorium are the sport’s infamous legends; the athletes worshipped by the cycling world. These courses are the most grueling and relentless that can possibly be packed into 5km laps. They are designed for physical and mental suffering; no one crosses the finish line without fighting a battle.

To get to this start line, you have to be the best. The best at suffering, the best at being tough, the best at being confident. You have to be the right balance of easy-going and high-maintenance. You have to be picky about your pancake mix but be ready to eat powdered eggs. You have to know the difference between 22psi and 23psi but be ready to gauge your tire pressure by feel and call it good. Grit, perseverance, focus and sacrifice are not characteristics; they are your construction. There is not a single athlete who makes it to these events by chance. Pinning on a number plate is a lifestyle built out of sacrifice, and, at the risk of sounding cliché, blood, sweat and tears. The stakes are the highest, and the pressure can be smothering. However, the minute the gun blows, the suffocating anticipation evaporates and the “point” of it all becomes impossible to miss. The passion is contagious, the rawness electrifying.
I fell in love with cycling for the adrenaline, but I remain in love with cycling for another reason. When racing, I have an hour and a half to live the way I strive to every day: fearlessly. Racing is about pushing yourself past any preconceived notion you have of your limit. A 90-minute race is a rollercoaster of emotion: there are a million battles bookending the heartbreak and triumph. There is doubt and despair but there is also confidence and hope.
Off the bike, I have a list of attributes I can pin to myself the same way I recognize my face in the mirror. I am tough. I am confident. I don’t bruise. I am fearless. But when I race, I am vulnerable. Every breath is a fight in itself, and riding as the bold racer I aspire to be can feel nearly impossible. At times, pulling off an effort that I can smile about after I cross the line seems unimaginable. However, then racing forces me to sift through layers in my heart I didn’t know I had and further tear my muscles to pieces. And to love that 90 minutes enough to devote every day to it.
As odd as it is, there is a whole world of endurance athletes who feel the same way, some of whom have become my best friends. So today, my best friends board planes to chase their dreams. And when I looked at the calendar 10 months ago, I knew I was going to be one of them. I knew it like you know it has rained the night before by the way the air tastes and the color of the light. You don’t even have to see the puddles to know. But I am writing this today on a different plane. And not by choice. After the first World Cup trip this season, I did not qualify for the second one. Despite the fact that I am making real progress with the health condition I have been battling for the past four years and despite the fact that I am still usually able to perform as one of the top U23 women in the United States with this health condition, I was not seen as a viable candidate for this second trip. Which does more than just sting, but I understand.
So today, I am not flying to Italy for the fifth World Cup of 2018 and I will not be in Andorra for the sixth World Cup. So as some of my best friends, those I have spent the past five years working with toward a common goal, pushing each other to new heights, board planes to race this weekend, I am flying to Baltimore, Maryland, to meet with a new doctor.
At this point, this isn’t a story I’m necessarily ready to tell or really have the words for. If I were to try and describe this in one word it would be anger. Or frustration. Or hopelessness. But it could also be gratitude. Or confidence. Or passion.
Long story short, one year into my cycling career I started blacking out during my races, experiencing symptoms like dizziness and feelings of removal. Needless to say, these symptoms make riding to one’s potential and racing on a world-class stage difficult. So, we sought help. What started out as a visit to my primary doctor turned into visits to UCSF and then to Stanford and then to New York and then to Texas, and as the flights added up, so did the diagnoses. Every doctor had a different explanation and every doctor admitted my symptoms were a little unusual. From medication trials and strange diets to MRIs, CT scans and EKG’s - we did it all. In the beginning, I would leave each visit bursting with hope, convinced we had found a solution. Then I would line up to race, and be more symptomatic than ever, doing everything I could just to drag myself over the finish line. As the appointments collected tallies, I left little pieces of my heart all over the world, and hope became harder and harder to stumble on.
But this year, this season, has been different. I have been meeting with some new doctors who have propelled me forward. I have found a medication that has given me some relief. I understand certain triggers. Today, I am flying to see yet another renowned doctor, this time a specialist in the right field who I hope will give me more tools. For the first time, I have been making progress. That doesn’t mean this battle is over yet, but it means I am closer.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t have days where I wake up feeling drained of hope. Like I have been swimming with 300-pound weights strapped on, prolonging drowning, prolonging suffering. My fight seems naïve and the mountain climb, never ending. On these days, I am drained. I am sick of my own sob story, of saying the same thing after every race. Of pouring my heart and soul and every ounce of my being in this sport to have it spit back in my face.
So why am I still in it? Because I have other days. The days when I wake up with a fire burning through my chest, with such ferocity it scares me. It leaves no room for doubt. I have belief rooted in me, in a place so deep, sometimes it hides in the shadows. But it never, ever leaves. It destroys the heartache. And on those days, I know I have it in my soul. I know I can be at the top of these races if I can survive this a little longer. I am starving. And I know I will fight this until it’s over, and I have won. The embers in my gut are sparking, ready to ignite at any second. Whether they finally burn tomorrow or in a month or in a year, you can make damn sure you will feel their glow. This is me, doing what I love.

And on the in-between days, I know racing is about the fight. It is about finding your limit and then beating your head against a wall until it shatters. Racing is about failing, your biggest worry unravelling, and then picking yourself off the ground to do it again the next chance you have. Racing is not defined by your paper results of success. Racing is about the way you pick yourself up; not how long you can stand in the top, bathing in the glory. And on these days, I have knowledge. I know I will swallow a hell of a lot more before I walk away from the reason my heart beats. And when the belief feels dusty, I know I have my proof in the data and my resilience. I know that this pulses through my veins and that my happiest place is on the start line. I know I will push through the shattering until the healing is complete. I don’t know what this doctor will tell me. What if he tells me I will never overcome this? For a split second, I think I would drop racing, but then I, it doesn’t (really) matter. This is the reason my heart beats.
But not every day is race day, not every day feels desolate and not every day is bursting with hope. And so, most days are just about soaking in all the beauty that I have. I am (always working on) finding gratitude, patience, and peace.

Luckily, there are a million things that make that easier. I wake up most mornings breathing easy. The dry Colorado wind rustles through the RV that is home this summer, carrying songs of the river and mountain peaks- the stories of rhythm and unsolicited grace. I can feel the passion rumbling through my blood, as sure as the river’s flow, the steady mountain peaks. I know that my day training will be well spent. I know that every pedal stroke, every drop of sweat, every heartache will be repaid with enough patience. But mostly, I focus on finding love in every moment. And sometimes that means remembering I am more than just a cyclist. And sometimes it means defining myself as a cyclist. Either way, I try to love as deeply as I can. The type of love that will make whatever outcome, wherever I end up in 15 years, worth this. Regardless of my obstacles, the biggest blessing I could have is love and I am so grateful to know the reason my heart beats. That knowledge means that despite it all, I am in the right place.

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