No Goal is Arbitrary

The act of endurance mountain biking disguises itself as a way to explore the world, explore one’s own limits, and expand a life experience.  This is bullshit.  The act of endurance mountain biking is simply a distracting way to practice counting.  

Counting miles. 

Counting laps. 

Counting birds (hi Scott). 

Counting calories, watts, heart rate, hills, ounces, grams, the list continues until the silly bike rider returns to their silly life off the bike.  

You, the reader may want to argue.  “It’s soooo much more than that.”  Or, “I don’t count any of that crap.  I ride for fun.”  Before you climb your pedestal of preeminence I need you to recall your last bike ride and list all of the items you counted.  

Back to the essay…

In 2026 I’ve counted some pretty interesting things.  In late February: 9.  9 tacos eaten on the other side of the US/Mexico border as Brian and I crossed over on bike and explored 3 trail networks in Nogales, MX connected by somewhat hectic paved versions of Paperboy. 

Earlier that same month: 12.  12 race laps of the 24 Hours in the Old Pueblo course.  The Sonoran Singletrack Sensation becomes less sensational as the miles pile on, then terrible, and then the most sensational thing ever.  A bonus of counting is that the relationship with accumulating numbers frequently mirrors the evolution (degradation?) of one’s self or mindset or sanity.  

In January: 46.  46 course marking arrows from the Ol’ Tucson 10er event.  While racing the previous day I counted many things, but the arrows showing the way not one of them.  Winning the solo division of the race proved challenging both physically and mentally.  It takes a lot of grit to stay locked in for 10 hours of pedaling.  However volunteering to clean the course of markings, also solo because why deflate the ego and admit you’d take the help, offered the second most challenging emotional battle in recent memory.  10 hours couldn’t break me but that final mile of course sweep almost sent me over the edge.  

We count.  We play games with numbers.  We can multiply them and divide.  We can break a route down to the number of climbs.  Then, after removing the descents and deleting the easy flat sections of connector trail, and then accounting for the fresh legs available on the first 2 climbs, that 100 mile course is really just 2 climbs.  And those are only 4 miles and 6 miles respectively.  So actually the Leadville 100 is really the Leadville 10.  No big deal.  

See counting is an effective endurance mountain biking exercise.  Have I convinced you?

Now that we are on the same team let’s make the gentle transition from the verb “counting” to its next logical progression, “goal setting”.  For that is what we are trying to do with numbers.  We are trying to associate a number with an outcome, either realized or in the near future.  We desire this outcome.  We yearn for it because with its realization we find change.  Perhaps manifested as the joy of an aid station in the middle of the desert.  The feeling of accomplishment at the top of the absurdly steep hill in Costa Rica.  The opportunity to eat another package of gummy goo delivering the appropriate amount of calories for the upcoming hour.  When our counting goal is realized we get something.  Isn’t that exactly what a goal is?

So counting is goal setting.  And setting goals helps us measure progress.  Oh we are getting somewhere…

I forgot to count something this year.  Something that should’ve really been top-of-mind.  In March: 1.  1 closed, metal gate in Cape Town, South Africa.  A gate that I had ridden around 2 times in previous visits (one of these visits being just the day before) but had not accounted for on the free-spirited, Red Bull-fueled ride just before sunset on March 14th.  That damn gate came up so fast that I couldn’t react.  I couldn’t count a damn thing.  All I could do was brace for the most violent impact of my life.     

And now I am counting new things…

During the early days of rehab, after ACL reconstruction surgery, I was counting steps.  Then stairs.  Then squats.  The idea for this essay came just a few days ago as I was counting laps in the pool.  Yep, I’ve recently become a swimmer.  And while counting those laps it dawned on me that I am not broken.  I am not on the sidelines.  I am not waiting for the day I can return to the MTB.  No.  I am the same person.  Pursuing the same numbers albeit in a new setting.  Today I counted to 80.  Came up for air.  And smiled.  A proud beaming grin specific to that specific moment and important to just 1 person out of 8 billion.  

There are no arbitrary goals.  Our sport, endurance MTB, looks silly to nearly everyone else.  So what?  Our pursuit of dusty miles in an empty forest could be a waste of time for your neighbor but as you count each passing number, each conquered climb, a shift occurs in your soul.  Your neighbor cannot see it.  But those close to you can.  They see it when you return to life off the bike and have a brighter glow.  A friendlier smile.  A more helpful hand.  They know that counting those gummy candies alone in the desert, seeing those goals realized, inspire you to be inspiring.  

Smile to your neighbor as he laughs at your too-tight pink socks (they’re aero bro) and keep on counting.  Today it may be miles or laps.  Tomorrow it could be steps or breaths.  None of them are arbitrary.