Pinyons and Pines 2026: Somewhere between Racing and Finding Myself

I find the duality of bikepacking racing fascinating.

Even the words themselves feel contradictory. Bikepacking suggests slowing down, discovering places, taking the long way simply because it exists. Racing means urgency, pressure, going faster than those around you (or at least trying to). I know and love both worlds separately, but I’m still learning how to make them coexist. Not just strategically or logistically, but emotionally too.

For me, racing comes with the rush of pushing myself really hard and executing a perfect plan, one that I trained for and practiced with discipline. It’s less about the route and more about the athletic performance. And although mountain bike racing may sound like an individual sport, when you think about it, on race day there’s support everywhere: from the crew, the spectators, and the energy coming from the other participants around you.

Bikepacking, on the other hand, is an invitation to wander and slow down enough to notice where you are. The route and places become central to the experience and there’s only so much that can be planned. There’s a strong community to begin with, but once you’re out there, far from everything, there’s a deep loneliness to it. Nobody to fix things for you. Nobody to manage your wellbeing except yourself. You’re left to confront your thoughts head-on.

Both are completely different experiences and I’m still learning how to balance those two worlds.

How much do I want to sacrifice for speed?

How much do I want to enjoy the route?

Where is the line between racing and simply surviving?

Pinyons and Pines is a 400(ish)-mile mountain bike route that starts and finishes in Flagstaff, Northern Arizona. Every year the course changes and there’s a Grand Depart in May where around 70 people roll out together on the same day. Some definitely show up to race. Others are curious to see what they’re capable of. Some simply want to complete the loop. There are as many ambitions and reasons for being there as there are personalities. What we all share is the thirst for adventure and the willingness to embrace discomfort by taking on a really hard challenge.

This year’s edition took me on an emotional rollercoaster from the very beginning.

Actually, it started before the start line. I grabbed my helmet to put it on my head and realized the fit system was broken. Well… it would have to do. Then my rear rack decided it wasn’t happy with the load I had packed onto it and started bending and buzzing my tire. On top of that, one of the water bottles I had stashed in the front packs leaked all over my down jacket. Within the first 50 miles, I was already stopped on the side of the trail, unpacking and repacking everything, trying to make the system work. Adapt, solve problems and keep going. One of the many things I love about bikepacking.

Mentally, the theme for this ride became clear early on: Nothing lasts forever. Pain is temporary. And so is comfort.

There were moments when I felt incredible, completely in flow, loving every trail, every climb, every mile of Arizona’s rugged beauty. Then, sometimes less than an hour later, the heat would become unbearable and some part of my body would hurt so much that I wondered why I was even doing this to myself. At times I wanted to quit entirely. Then somehow I’d feel good again. Nothing lasts forever.

This rollercoaster was certainly amplified by the lack of sleep. I had a plan to sleep about three hours each night but that didn’t work out. Even the night before the race, I couldn’t sleep, too stressed and anxious about the whole racing thing. The first night, I found a quiet place to bivy. I cleaned myself up, brushed my teeth, even changed into a clean t-shirt and underwear, hoping comfort would help me fall asleep faster. I laid there awake for two hours, not being able to sleep despite having spent 18 hours on the bike. Eventually, I gave up and got rolling again.

The second night wasn’t much different. After 40 hours of riding with barely any shut-eye, I was so exhausted I thought sleep would come instantly, but again I spent two hours lying on the ground and maybe slept twenty minutes total. At that point, I wanted nothing more than to pull out of the race and disappear into a bed somewhere. Around 11 p.m., I left the trail and rode into Prescott. I was completely worn down, disappointed in myself and felt lost in my quest. This was the end of the ride for me. I stayed at a hotel with my husband, and by doing so, forfeited the race. But after six hours of real sleep, a shower and a pep talk from my ever-supportive husband, I woke up with a clearer mind and feeling ready to go again. I could no longer claim a result, but I could still try to complete the route. So I rode back to the trail I had left the night before and started pedaling, at least for a few more miles. Then a few more, and a few more.

That night, instead of wasting my time trying to fall asleep, I decided I would simply ride until my body forced me to stop. Unexpectedly, it became one of my favorite moments of the entire race. Usually, I don’t like riding at night so much. But this time, it felt so peaceful. Almost like meditation. The desert was quiet. The sky was full of stars. There was nobody around. No pressure. No expectations. Just me, the bike, and the trail ahead.

I rode all night until sunrise.

After a short nap (probably too short!), the smell of the finish line became too strong to ignore and unfortunately, my stubborn brain took over completely: I am finishing this today. Nothing else mattered, just get back to Flagstaff. In my rush to finish, I neglected my nutrition and hydration, which were already challenging enough on this course. Resupply options were limited, and I’m realizing that growing up in Europe did not prepare me to survive on American gas station food. To be fair, the first three days actually went pretty well. We even got a delicious meal DoorDashed to a trailhead in Prescott — my friend Ian’s genius idea, not mine. But by the final day, I was clearly under-fueled, and it had a huge impact on my mindset. Negative thoughts started creeping in and I slowed way down, my brain consuming too much energy overthinking and spiraling. The finish line still sat 80 miles away — not exactly close — and the entire day became a battle against my own mind.

I knew I was making bad decisions, but I was also completely past the point of being rational about it and caring. Stubborn.

Thankfully, another rider, Mike, caught up with me with about 25 miles to go. He literally pulled me out of my misery, distracting me with his stories and taking me closer to the finish by setting a pace that was actually getting us somewhere. We finished together, physically and mentally fatigued from all the miles and lack of sleep, but so proud of what we had just accomplished. After four days and three nights, we were back in Flagstaff where it had all started. The loop was closed and we had ridden the entirety of it ourselves. The whole damn thing.

Earlier that day, I had called my coach Joy while I was deep in that downward spiral. She reminded me that sometimes things don’t go according to the original plan, and we just need to let it go because there’s probably another plan unfolding instead, one we’ll understand later.

While I’m still processing everything this race taught me, I know she’s right. There’s something bigger here than a finish time or a result. Officially, Pinyons and Pines isn’t a race. In fact, it’s far more than that. It’s a gateway to a parallel world for people who, like me, love long stupid rides. An opportunity to meet, connect, share some miles and experience a moment in time that will stay with us forever. For me, this event is part of my personal journey. A brutally honest life teacher that exposes every weakness, every doubt, every bad habit, but also every hidden strength.

I don’t know if I’m truly a bikepacking racer yet. I still have so many questions and so much work to do, like dialing in my gas station nutrition, managing my emotions better and learning how to calm my nervous system enough to actually sleep and recover.

But I do know that I can rely on a strong body and mind to carry me and all my gear pretty far, even with a huge backpack on my shoulders (iykyk). Most importantly, I know that I love long, difficult rides. I love being out there and pushing myself.

And because I’m stubborn as hell, I'll probably keep trying, so that maybe one day I can crack the bikepacking+racing code.

Thank you for reading. Cheers!