What Mile 200 Taught Me About Grit, Grace, and the Sunrise
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It was 6:00 AM when it happened. The canyon was still. The kind of stillness that follows a long, grueling night on the bike. I was pedaling through the final hours of the 24 Hours in the Canyon ride in Palo Duro Canyon near Amarillo, Texas. My legs ached. My body was drained. My mind floated somewhere between focus and fatigue.
Then, the first light of dawn crept over the canyon walls—soft, golden, sacred.
Just as the sun rose about 18 hours into the ride, my odometer ticked past 200 miles.
And I cried.
Not from pain—though there was plenty of that. Not even from exhaustion—though I was completely spent. I cried because that number, 200, meant more than distance. It represented every early morning ride. Every evening I forced myself onto the saddle when I could’ve rested. Every ache, every doubt, every mental battle I had quietly won.
That moment was the culmination of a year’s worth of commitment to a ride that tested every fiber of who I am.
You don’t ride 200 miles by accident.
You earn it.
You earn it in silence, over time, without applause. You earn it in wind, in cold, in moments when no one sees you pushing forward. You earn it with grit and consistency—when it's uncomfortable, when it hurts, and when quitting would be easier.
And then, one morning, the sun comes up, and something shifts inside you. Not a breakdown, but a release. The emotion of it all—the months of effort, the hidden victories—hits you in that stillness. At mile 200, I wasn’t just tired. I was transformed. The distance hadn’t just taken me through a canyon—it had taken me deeper into who I really am.
That feeling has never left me.
d been unprovoked attacks on police, and you could feel the tension in town. When I finished my ride and went to grab something to eat, the atmosphere was heavy. People were guarded. Suspicious. Everyone seemed on edge.This rechargeable bike light set kept me visible and confident even during my longest rides.
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But while I was on the bike that day, none of that existed. The road was peaceful. The air was still. It was just me and the ride. For those few hours, everything was simple again. Balanced. Safe.
Even now, years later, I carry it into every hard ride. When the wind fights me, when the climbs feel impossible, when I question why I’m still out here pushing the pedals—I remember the sunrise. I remember how it felt when everything came together: grit, grace, and golden light.
I believe we all have a mile 200 moment waiting for us. A point where the training, the discipline, the persistence all come together and whisper: This is who you are. This is what you can do.
And once you’ve felt that…
You don’t forget.
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