The Sarlacc Attack, or how I (sort of) learned to embrace fear

“What’s underlying all of this is fear.“

I took a minute. Let what my therapist said to settle in.

“Shit. You’re right,” I said.

I had just finished recounting the Sarlacc attack race to Amanda, not quite grasping why I was so upset about the whole thing. I mean, I was pissed at my body, and ultimately, my performance, but I wasn’t catching onto what was behind all of that. 

Okay, let me back up.

I’d been on two medications for Migraine for 3 1/2 weeks: Nortriptyline and Propranolol. The two meds came with a host of side effects: fatigue, dizziness, exacerbated Raynaud’s, low heart rate, and constipation. And I was just sort of dealing with it. I tried to be flexible. I tried to trust this would help my Migraine headaches (and the dizziness and fatigue I also experience).

When my doctor prescribed them, I very clearly told her that as an athlete, I didn’t want the side effects to jeopardize my training. I asked what I could expect during a race. 

“You won’t know until you try,“ she shrugged.

It was an easy, shitty answer, and I took the chance anyway.

And then I found out the hard way what would happen to take both medications during a race.

We showed up to the race about an hour before the start. Jackky and I snagged a quick warm-up before every racer (yes, everyone started at the same time) was funneled into the start pin. I didn’t know where best to line up (with the pros, the women, or somewhere in between?). 

So I pulled up next to my friends, Marc, Kevin, and Mike. Jackky soon joined our little group. The whistle blew and everyone and their mom were off. I knew I’d burn matches keeping up with the front pack, but I also wanted some gap as we entered the single track.

I figured I’d recover on the downhill as I normally do.

My head started pounding, which it typically does, so I kept riding. I started pulling back a little as I felt the fatigue set in. We started descending a twisty, sandy hill. More men caught up to me.

Then we had a hill that I’d normally be able to grind up—maybe I’d have to get out of the saddle. I couldn’t ride up it. I had to walk, and that was a challenge in itself. It was the first time I had ever not had enough power to get me up a hill. And then the dizziness set in to the point where I had to lean on my bike at the top of the hill and stop moving and close my eyes.

As Kevin and Jackky pedaled by, they asked how I was, and all I could think to say, was, “My medication is fucking me up.“ They kept going. I got back on my bike, convincing myself I was fine. Maybe I just needed a gel. More water. More flow mix.

I sucked the gel out of the packet as I caught up to Jackky and Kevin down the road. I sipped on water and Flow mix. I pedaled to the next climb as the volunteers shouted, “Yay! The first woman!“ My ego was too fragile to take a DNF knowing that, so I kept spinning my legs. I started on the next climb. My head squeezed and vibrated. It felt like it was spinning on top of my neck.

I was losing power, and I felt like I was going to pass out. I got off the bike again. I took slow, deep breaths. I leaned against my bike for support because I couldn’t hold myself up on my own. I questioned if I was bonking. I ran through everything I did the day before, the morning of, and what I’d done the 5 miles into the race thus far. 

It wasn’t a bonk. It was worse. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. And it scared the shit out of me.

No one I knew was around. My phone didn’t have service. We were (kind of) in the middle of nowhere, like, help was not coming quickly.

More and more people passed me. I tried walking my bike and could barely muster the strength to push it uphill. I debated riding back down to the aid station, getting a ride back to the starting line, taking the DNF. Because there was no fucking way in hell I’d make it the rest of the 28 miles and 3,000-something feet of elevation.

Then I saw Jackky.

He jumped off his bike to check on me. He knew something was wrong. I didn’t look like myself, Jackky told me. I said I thought it was my medicine fucking with me. It was the only logical conclusion I could come up with. I had done everything else right to prepare for this race.

After making sure I was Okay, Jackky grabbed my hand and said, “Come on, you’ve got this. We’ll go at our own pace.“ My stomach dropped. My shoulders fell. I stared at the ground. I’ve never given up like that before. Or at least that’s what it felt like I was doing. I was letting my body and the drugs win. I was no longer racing. I gave up racing for a win and instead, riding to finish the course. 

And then I whispered to myself, “Death before DNF.“ The stupid thing I joked about with my roadie friends. I figured I’d finish this ride or die trying. Not literally dying. My life is more precious than a 50K bike race. But with Jackky riding next to me, I felt a little less scared about what was going on with my body. We started riding at our own pace, which is when I started noticing my pedals hitting anything they got close to. We realized I didn’t have enough air in my suspension either.

So there I was: I couldn’t trust my body, I couldn’t trust my bike, and I had no idea what the terrain was like because we couldn’t manage to preview the course beforehand. It was a triple whammy for someone with anxiety—someone who very much relies on structure and predictability. There were so many things out of my control that I felt incredibly vulnerable. In a sense, I became reliant on Jackky, trusting he’d take care of me, something I don’t do well. I struggle to accept help, even when I clearly fucking need it. It didn’t help that the course felt like a mishmash of trails stitched together to be able to call this race a 50K.

Between the dizziness and the pedal strikes, Jackky and I tried to look at this as an adventure. Just a day out riding together.

It’s easy to forget the weight and importance of someone’s presence when you’re scared.

When we’re faced with fear we have three choices: fight, flight, or freeze (or a combination of the three because nothing’s simple). When we’re by ourselves, it’s easy to pick our default. I’m not sure which one I would’ve chosen if I was alone. I know I was scared because I didn’t know what was going on—with anything. My body was behaving in a way I had never seen it do before. I wasn’t sure if I was making things worse by continuing on or if all this was just in my head, and I was being a baby.

My bike wasn’t operating like its normal self. I never knew if I was going to bottom out on a drop, strike a pedal against a short rock, or lose control altogether.

And the course made both of these things worse. There were dried-out river beds with miles of deep sand. Steep down hills, covered in dust, and ripped to pieces with ravines deep enough to suck both the bike and you down into it. And single track that was just a continual washboard.

Sometimes, I think I would’ve gone back to the first aid station had I not seen Jackky. I feared what would happen to me by myself. He unknowingly gave me the permission to go at my own pace, without judgment or criticism. It allowed me to feel the fear and ride anyway.

It’s not often you get these opportunities and races to accept what your body signaling to you, embrace, fear and shame and disappointment, and still decide to continue on with the adventure with your best friend.