Confessions of a fallen QOM

Reflections from a washed up Strava Queen on the juxtaposition of jealousy and joy on the bike

Imagine for a moment that it’s a Tuesday evening, and you’re rolling into the driveway after a golden hour ride. You hit “end ride” on your watch. You feel a sense of relief, but it doesn’t last for long. Maybe it’s the dirt unibrow coating your face or the chamois that you’re ready to get the heck off, but a sense of urgency surges through you, all the way down to your moon-dust stained socks.

You need to check Strava.

Refresh. Refresh. Sorry, Strava is taking longer than normal. Refresh.

As your activities page is loading, you inhale with anticipation, hopeful for that dopamine release that will ensue as soon as you see it. The crown. A QOM.

But, you receive no coronation. You are not the Queen of the Mountain, not today at least. You deflate like a slowly leaking rear tire.

You’re not good enough, you’re not fast enough.

You made it to the top ten, and receive a measly little crown, but it’s not enough to bring you off that ledge into un petit spiral. You take a look at the other ladies in the top ten, and your blood boils. Of course it’s her. It’s always her. She’s the fastest. I will never be good enough. I’m not enough.

All of a sudden, these women in the top ten of a little segment on Strava are your opponents. You live in a small mountain town, so you know and are at least acquainted with all of these women. Most are friends, but on the Strava leader board they’re frenemies. You have plans to ride with one of these women next week, and you make a mental note that you need to redeem yourself on this ride, show them that you’re fast enough to hang. That you’re worthy of their acceptance. You need to be faster, better. It’s a competition, after all, and there isn’t enough room at the top for all of us to succeed, right?

I honestly felt this way for a long time. I am embarrassed by the toxic perspective I possessed for a while. I let myself believe that there’s not enough space for all women to progress and succeed in the outdoors. That if someone climbs more than me, whatever I have done is now deemed useless and insufficient.

When I started getting better at mountain biking while living in Colorado, I downloaded Strava. I don’t really remember what made me get the app, but I was hooked immediately. One summer, when I was living in Aspen, I made the arbitrary goal of mountain biking at least 50 miles a week. During lunch breaks I’d pedal up Smuggler Mountain as quickly as I could in the July heat, desperately trying to squeeze in some miles before my 30 minutes were up. While friends were grabbing drinks or playing tennis or going for hikes after work, I’d go for a solo vision quest up Hunter’s Creek, battling baby heads and working to meet my goal, alone.

I am not saying you shouldn’t set athletic goals. I think it’s important to set a high bar for yourself and see just how far you can go. I believe that we don’t grow when we’re comfortable, and its important to dip your toes into the struggle a little bit at times. I do think it was unhealthy that I turned down 90% of invites to hang out with friends if I was at 44 miles for the week and needed to get to 50 to feel like I wasn’t falling behind.

When I moved back to Summit County after that whirlwind summer in Aspen, I realized I was a strong rider. People told me so, at least. And so I raised the bar again, and made myself ride at least 100 miles a week the following summer, even while working full time. That summer without a doubt helped me grow exponentially as a rider and pushed me to go out for longer and more technical adventures, but it felt like everyday’s ride was an obstacle to complete. I woke up most days with a rush of anxiety, almost like an addict needing their next hit. I needed to feel like I was doing enough everyday in order to feel comfortable in my body. And yet, it was never enough. If I rode 3,000 feet one day, I’d feel like it was enough for maybe 4 minutes but would go back to brooding, thinking about how I could get even more vert and mileage next time. Because hitting that number would finally make me feel satisfied…

Sure, riding brought me joy and community, but it was darker than that for me. There was such a juxtaposition between contentment and the collapse of my self worth. I needed to prove that I was capable to someone, since I couldn’t believe it myself. I started cross country racing and, spoiler alert, that didn’t help with my need for external validation. Not at all. When I podiumed my first race, I was addicted to that feeling. Even if these were casual beer-league Wednesday night races to bring the community together, I treated it as though it were the World Cup. It became my end all be all connection to my self worth.

Between the racing and Strava, these talented riders in the community became my enemies. I needed to defeat them in order to sleep at night. And, sometimes I did. But sometimes I didn’t, and it would destroy me. I think that if I weren't on Strava comparing myself to them I’d probably would have formed authentic, deep relationships with these women. But, the wall was built and I wouldn’t let myself get too close with anyone who I deemed competition.

It wasn’t until I moved from a small ski town to Bellingham, WA that I was forced to face these demons head on. I went from feeling like a big fish in a small pond to a phytoplankton in an immeasurably big sea. Bellingham is bike town, USA, (sorry Bentonville) and I quickly realized that I was not as good as I thought I was. Bellingham is stacked with pros and locals that operate at an incredibly high caliber in every discipline of riding. I consider myself a competent rider, but of course I am not on the same level as the top tier in this town. I now realize that that is 100% fine, and incredibly normal. I desperately needed to get over myself.

There were tantrums and tears during those first few months of riding on Galbraith Mountain. Coming from XC speed-oriented kitty litter Colorado, my insecurities were exposed immediately on the feature-heavy trails here. Eventually, I became more comfortable on drops and jumps, but it took a lot of exposure therapy and my partner being my hype man to convince me that I was a good rider again. I still have my doubts at times, especially when I’m among the seriously good riders that Bellingham produces and procures.

I am happy to report that I have a lot better of a relationship with riding, Strava, and other athletic women now. Probably better than I ever have since starting riding.

Strava slowly eroded my relationship with sport, like a secret loamer in town that eventually becomes overly ridden and rutted. And yet, I’m still on it, uploading my every move, waiting for you to validate me. While it is invaluable to see progress made over time on a trail, the app has led to endless comparison. To be honest, I stopped looking at other people’s Strava activities, and that has helped me compare myself less. If you’re friends with me on Strava and wonder why I never give kudos, that’s why. I’d rather chat with my riding and skiing pals and ask what they’ve been up to, and hear about their adventures in a longer format than just the vert and mileage. But sometimes when I catch a glimpse of what other people are doing, I need to talk myself down again. I remember that we’re all on our own journeys. Just because one person is able to accomplish a massive day in the mountains doesn’t mean that my pursuits are worthless. Rather, maybe seeing what this person is doing can inspire me to grow and progress at my own pace. I’ve needed to retrain my brain to feel joy for others in their pursuits, rather than sink into my hole of jealousy.

I have slowly shifted towards a healthier mentality that has allowed me to form deeper, more authentic friendships with bad ass ladies, on and off the bike. I have finally come to recognize that riding is about connection, not competition. To be blunt, I am still plagued with this toxic, competitive mentality every now and then. There are some days where that fire in me lights up, the fire I have tried over and over again to bury and drown but it won’t let up. You need to be better than them, that little voice says.

But, then I remember that it’s lonely at the top. It’s more fun to rip down trails and let out a “yeeewwwww!” and “woop!” with friends and celebrate this ridiculously fun sport. To feel pure elation. To progress in a way that is solely your own experience. To feel connection to my body and bike, and the earth beneath my tires. I remember that I’m ridiculously lucky to be able to use my body in this way, to climb up steep roads and single track, to skid around in the dirt, to creep down vertical rocks, my pals in tow or leading the way. I value shared experiences in the mountains much more than my solo pursuits these days.

Ripping around in the woods with friends builds deeper friendships and long lasting bonds than doing the same activity in solitude. Maybe you’ve all known this for a while now, but it has taken me some time to recognize my “why” on the bike. What keeps me riding now isn’t the arbitrary goals of a specific mileage or vertical feet climbed, but the stories told over some cold bevvies about the little triumphs overcame, the new feature that has been haunting a friend finally conquered, laughing over anything and everything. It’s about the simple joy of having friends who understand that these outdoor experiences are what bring us closer to ourselves and to others, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

This silly little app doesn’t have space for the multitudes of experiences one has on their bike. The joy. The giggles. That puckering moment on a rock roll you’ve never done. The bug that gets in your eye. The sigh of relief let out at the top of a stout climb. The high fives at the bottom. At the end of the day, we’re just playing in the dirt.

I’ll give kudos to that.