What Mile 200 Taught Me About Grit, Grace, and the Sunrise
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 acci...
