Butt-Puckered & Grateful: Life Lessons from a Late-Blooming Mountain Biker

By Dr. Rachel Popelka

Learning to mountain bike at the ripe old age of 29 taught me something: mountain biking and life have a lot in common. They both can be equally thrilling and terrifying. If you’re doing either of them “right,” there will be moments when your stomach will drop, your palms will sweat, and you will start questioning your life choices.

There you are, barreling down the side of a mountain—wide-eyed, white-knuckled, and butt puckered—while your primal brain is screaming, “STOP!” But if you can manage to relax, breathe, and hold on loosely (but don’t let go), you might just make it over the drops, around the hairpin turns, and use the momentum of your downward spiral—err, joy ride—to fuel your next big climb.

Big climbs lead to magical views. And magical views? They lead to even more ridiculous downhills. Like most near-death experiences, the downhills are what make the best stories. Here’s one of mine—the series of unconnected “downhills” that eventually led me to expedition adventure racing.

In 2020, I unknowingly peaked from my last big “descent” (a story for another day). I’d just “accidentally” run my first 50K, had my eyes on 50 miles, and was high on life. I was living in Santa Cruz, California, as a traveling physical therapist—paying off student loans, chasing sunsets, and feeling unstoppable.

Then COVID hit. Over the span of a few weeks, I lost my job, my housing, and my sense of direction (because apparently, healthcare workers weren’t “essential”). I went from the California coast to my parents’ cabin in North Dakota. 

Quarantined in the smallest town in the USA to be split by a county line (seriously, Google it), I broke up with my boyfriend, got back together with him, decided I needed a dog, and waited for a text from my recruiter that never came. My big climb had turned into a downhill disaster, ending with me moving back home with my parents. I had no job, no housing, and no identity. 

Like most rock-bottom moments, you’re faced with a choice: make camp at the bottom or use that momentum to power up an even steeper climb into the unknown. This particular climb started slowly as I scraped by with odd jobs, making enough to support my new puppy and both of our big appetites. Even when life stabilized, depression lingered. I felt like I was always teetering on another summit, convinced another terrifying descent was around the corner.

Like a mountain biker clinging to the mantra, “I’m almost there”, I clung to my identity as an ultra runner, rehabbing injury after injury while healing my gut issues from college. Somewhere along the journey, running had lost its sparkle—maybe because I was in Roswell, NM (not exactly a trail mecca)—but more likely because I was battling my own self-worth and identity.

Then I stumbled across Eco-Challenge. I was inspired by “the bonk heard round the world,” the Macy clan doing “one last big race,” and the mid-pack women who looked just like me. If they could do it, why couldn’t I? Right there, I set my next big goal: finish an expedition adventure race before I die.

There was just one problem. Actually, four: I’d never mountain biked. Never whitewater rafted. Still had punches left on my first climbing gym punch card. And I couldn’t read a map without Siri shouting out the turn-by-turns. It was time to double down and hire a coach. My first conversation with Travis happened as I drove to Northern California for a new PT travel assignment. “What are your goals?” he asked.

Two years earlier, I’d run my first 5K after years of thinking my body was genetically incapable of running. I had smashed through so many glass ceilings and limiting beliefs that setting an “ultimate goal” felt pointless. My potential felt infinite, and I didn’t want to cap it yet again.

“I want to finish an expedition adventure race,” I declared, “I just don’t know if this is a one-year or ten-year goal.” 

I was sitting at the bottom of the biggest climb of my life, determined to see what the view was at the top, no matter how long it took. 

Fast forward a year. I’d devoured Squiggly Lines, borrowed my niece’s hardtail, and completed my first adventure race—solo—because I didn’t know anyone in the community (finding teammates might be the hardest part of this sport). I finished with less than 60 seconds to spare, a full passport, and a renewed determination to keep climbing. 

A year of training and pushing down doubt later, Team Supernova and I hallucinated, bonked, and giggled our way through Expedition Canada. We got short-coursed—though according to Garmin our “short course” was about 100 miles longer than the full course estimate. Since then, I’ve finished another expedition race (this time the full course!) and countless other running and shorter adventure races.

Sometimes, when I pause to eat a snack and look back at the trails life has led me down, I’m grateful for the harrowing downhills—and even the crashes. Not just because they make great stories at parties, but because they’ve led me to adventures I couldn’t have dreamed of at the start of my ride.

So the next time you find yourself barreling down the mountain of life, gripping the handlebars of a death machine, keep your shoulders down, butt back, eyes on the trail, and yell “FREE SPEED!” into the void. Because if you can ride down, you sure as hell can climb back up.

About The Author: Dr. Rachel Popelka is a physical therapist, endurance coach, and adventure athlete based out of Wisconsin—though you’ll usually find her somewhere in the mountains of the western U.S., chasing trails and new challenges with her dog Odin. When she’s not racing, coaching, or helping other athletes stay strong and injury-free, she’s probably baking trail snacks or reading a good book.

Follow her adventures and training tips on Instagram @thetrailsidedoc,  Facebook Rachel Popelka, and her free Skool Recovery Courses at https://www.skool.com/thetrailsidedoc/about?ref=3a2d687ec3864781abf83d67649412eb