As the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ hammers out from the loudspeakers, I can’t help but feel like a big kid on a grand adventure. Around me, all the Americans have their helmets off, their hands on their hearts. Ahead of us lies more hours of gravel racing than we even dare to guess at. As the national anthem dies down, whoops and cheers of “America” punctuate the hush. Racing on the US gravel scene hadn’t been in my career plan – I’m a fish out of water, an idiot abroad – but standing on the start line, it feels just right.
I’d stepped away from full-time road racing at the end of the 2022 season. My WorldTour dream hadn’t worked out, in the familiar way: a spell of racing for development teams, a series of injuries, and finally the acceptance that I was not quite good enough to make it. But I knew I had to keep racing. Across the Atlantic glowed the embers that could reignite my riding career – I didn’t need a team, I just needed a gravel bike and a plane ticket.
