As a reader who has followed through “The Art of the Comeback 2025” series (and now into 2026), you’ve felt the raw ups and downs with me: the gut-punch disappointment of facing diminished power numbers, the quiet thrill of rediscovering winter group riding in Tucson, the unexpected power gains from simply riding regulary again, and the slow, sometimes painful acceptance that this phase of life calls for something gentler, something truer to who I am now. Progress has been real—rapid early gains in endurance, power outputs creeping back toward old highs, long hard rides followed by quick recovery that echo my prime years.
Those improvements stirred something deep: ambition. I started dreaming of multi-day events, the kind that once defined me, that demanded serious preparation, commitment, and a fire I thought might still burn hot. The thought of tackling something big again—perhaps a Haute Route revival or a challenging stage race—filled me with a familiar excitement.
That momentum led me to a decision I’d been circling for a while, one laced with nostalgia and hope: formal coaching. For over a decade in my racing days, I lived for structured training plans. I was the athlete who followed every session to the letter—intervals that left me gasping, recovery rides that felt like penance, nutrition protocols that ruled my days—all executed with precision because I believed that’s what it took to be great.
The accountability of reporting to a coach was a lifeline, turning potential off-days into focused efforts and keeping me honest when motivation wavered. Two months ago, I decided to give it another shot—hire a coach, get a tailored plan, and bring more rigor to my training. I invested about $700 over those two months, hoping it to reignite the fire, sharpen my edge, and push me toward those ambitious multi-day goals I’d been dreaming about, goals that felt like a bridge back to the man I used to be.
What happened instead was a revelation—a quiet, profound one—and the reason this will go down as the best $700 I’ve ever spent.
I signed up for CTS coaching. Almost immediately, something shifted inside me. The moment I felt accountable not just to myself but to a coach—logging rides meticulously, hitting prescribed intervals exactly, justifying every session or off-day—the pleasure, that pure, soul-filling pleasure, began to fade. The joyful group rides with friends in Tucson, the freedom of riding purely for the sake of it—all of that started to feel like an obligation, a checkbox on someone else’s plan.
The bike, which had become a source of pure happiness again after a few years of sporadic activity, a place where I felt alive and free, began to feel like a job once more. The spontaneity vanished; every ride carried the weight of expectation, the subtle tension of knowing someone was waiting for my data upload, and with it, a quiet ache of loss.
I quickly realized that coaching belongs to a past chapter of my life. I’m glad I tried it one more time, because the experiment confirmed what I’d been sensing deep down in my heart: structured training and external accountability no longer serve me in the same way. They once gave me purpose, but now they dim the light. Every group ride with my friends brings tremendous joy—easy conversation flowing, shared effort on the climbs with lungs filling with crisp morning air, laughter echoing when someone cracks a joke mid-pull, and the simple, satisfaction of good company under clear blue skies that stretch forever. Long solo rides feel meditative rather than mandatory, a chance to clear the mind, reconnecting with the pure rhythm of the pedals, the steady thump of my heart, and a deep sense of peace.
This realization takes me back to 2007, my first training camp in North Carolina with CTS. The humid air clung to my skin like a second layer, the scent of pine heavy and invigorating as we rolled out each morning. I met my coach Tim Rucker in person there, and on one ride, I got dropped hard on a steep hill—the sting of lactic acid flooding my quads, the burn in my lungs like fire, the frustration and humiliation of watching the group pull away into the distance. Gasping at the back, heart pounding with doubt, I vividly remember asking him: “If I train the way you prescribe while these other guys just keep doing what they’re doing, will I beat them someday?” His answer was immediate and confident: “Absolutely.”
I stuck with it religiously, and he was right. That disciplined approach turned me into a highly trained amateur cyclist—multiple podiums that filled me with exhilaration, victories in tough events that tasted like triumph, completions of some of the most grueling amateur challenges on the planet, from Haute Route stages in the Alps and Rockies to demanding Gran Fondos. I’m proud of it all, deeply proud, and the memories are golden: the thin, cold air at high altitude biting my cheeks, the metallic taste of maximum effort on the final push, the thrill of the descent with wind roaring past like freedom itself, the camaraderie in the peloton that felt like brotherhood, the overwhelming satisfaction of crossing finishes I’d once thought impossible, moments that shaped who I am.
But I’m now in a completely different phase of life and cycling, one that feels gentler, more authentic, and profoundly fulfilling. The drive that once defined me—structure, relentless progress, competition, being the fastest on the mountain—has given way to something richer, something that touches my soul: freedom, friendship, quiet fulfillment, and a deeper appreciation for the ride itself—the sun warming my back like an old friend’s hand, the smooth flow of a perfect corner that brings a smile I can’t suppress, the easy banter that makes miles fly by and hearts connect.
The $700 investement in formal coaching taught me exactly what I needed to know, with clarity: cycling doesn’t have to be about chasing numbers, proving anything to anyone, or adhering to someone else’s plan. It can be about joy, connection, and riding because it feels good—pure and simple, a gift that fills the heart.
I’m grateful for the experiment. It closed a loop, reaffirmed my path with certainty, and freed me to embrace this new chapter fully, without regret or longing for what was. With Tucson winters keeping the legs turning and goals for 2026 gently taking shape (more on those soon), the comeback feels stronger than ever—lighter, happier, truly sustainable, and deeply meaningful.
Thanks for being part of this journey. Your comments and encouragement mean the world—they remind me I’m not riding alone.