I remember the summer of 2018 by two things: the sweat that rolled down my legs during peak August heat, and one photograph.

The photo was of a gaggle of bikepackers struggling up a mountain pass in a whiteout blizzard. In Kyrgyzstan at 12,000 feet in the Tian Shan mountains, people weren’t just on the edge of hypothermia, they were doing something I never imagine people did. They were racing bikes, over very long distances, in a part of the world I’ve loved for as long as I can remember. The photo was documenting something called the Silk Road Mountain Race (SRMR).

From there, I leapt into bikepacking like a booger gleefully flicked across a table by a five-year old child. There was a $200 hardtail bike purchase off of Craigslist. And then a batch of fall and wintery trips where I packed all-cotton-everything, lugged around a large broken solar panel, and carried a bag of celery for “electrolytes.” Perhaps best of all, I registered for a five day Enduro race thinking that Enduro equaled endurance. Enduro is bike-speak for hurling yourself downhill while wearing lots of padding, all while saying “brap brap.”

In November 2019, when the Silk Road Mountain Race opened registration for its third edition, I was one of the first to sign up. But a few months later, the world locked down in a global pandemic and I was diagnosed with malaria, dengue fever, and ovarian cancer.

While undergoing treatment during intense social isolation, training took on a new role in my life. Previously, it was a center of my curiosity. In 2020, it became a form of survival. In lieu of Googling cancer diagnoses, I obsessed over bikes and gear and packing, preparing for a world where I didn’t have to go to the hospital every day; where I could stay out for a long time and have everything I needed. It became a symbol of my freedom. 

That’s when I found Chumba bikes, and a group of people who believed that even when I was bald, frail, and broken, I was an athlete who would one day race the Silk Road. With great seriousness, they built me a Stella Ti bike that could take on anything I threw at it. I’ve now spent the last three years doing just that. I raced half of the 2021 Silk Road Mountain Race. I’ve logged hundreds of miles in Colorado’s San Juans. I’ve ridden the first 300 miles of the Arizona Trail, and another 300 on the Baja Divide. I’ve competed in the Crested Butte Loopy Loops and scratched the surface of Cedar Mesa and Bears Ears. And while I write this, I’m on a plane headed to Kyrgyzstan to try and complete the 2023 SRMR.

Through all of it, the most common question I’ve gotten is WHY? Why the Silk Road? Why racing? I’m not a competitive person, my slogan is far not fast, and I tend to nap, snack, and swim about as much as I ride. So what’s with this race? 

Here are a few of my answers:

• The SRMR is nuts. As suggested by the first photo that hooked me, the climate is varying and unpredictable, the distances (1,200 miles) and ascents (100,000+ feet) are big considering there are time restraints. Training is required. Sleep is required. Knowing thyself is essential.

• The SRMR is remote. There are limited resupplies, sometimes they’re out of stock, sometimes they’re closed, sometimes they don’t exist. Preparation and packing is an art form.

• The Silk Road is the epicenter of human-powered travel. Sure, 150 cyclists show up thinking they’re impressive for pedaling hundreds of miles by bike. But we are flecks of light compared to the 2,000 year history of nomads moving culture, livestock, traditions, and languages across the land. This race, more than any other I’ve found, is an entryway into being humbled by all of that. These traditions and this way of life surrounds you while you ride, which essentially means, if you think you’re tough, wait until a two-year old human gallops next to you bare back, and then cackles about how he has a horse and you have a flat before leaving you in his dust.

• Compared to a solo or friends ride through Kyrgyzstan, the SRMR attracts 100+ bonkers adventurers from all of the world, who I can’t really imagine meeting any other way. I found some of my best friends during the 2021 edition. I’m in my late 30’s. I didn’t realize you get to meet best friends your whole life. This race woke me up to that. There’s a WhatsApp group this year for all the women racers, they’re from Eastern Europe, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Canada, the UK, all over. We’re using Google translate to make jokes. My understanding of races in North America or Europe is that they include predominately North Americans or Europeans. The Silk Road belongs to Central Asia, and it attracts people from all over.

• Generic adventurers remain welcome. Seriousness is trending upward in the bikepacking world. And that happens as a sport matures. But I love how many people still show up with a bike they’re borrowing from their uncle, a 1989 Schwin, a tandem made of bamboo, an old trek with pillows strapped to the front…the start line feels like a circus of the best kind, where pros, mountaineers, hobbyists, anti-perfectionists, and anyone interested in shooting their shot can come and give it a try.

• You have to want it. There are many hoops to make it to the start-line in Kyrgyzstan. The traveling logistics, doctors notes, permits, gear, shuttle arrangements, evacuation insurance and so forth is not exactly casual. So the stakes feel real. If you’re going to put in all of this work to make it happen, you have to get out there and ride, test your gear, see it through even when you’re riddled with self doubt. You’ve made it so far. Just go one more step. And then another. And another.

• I’ve always said my bike is a bridge. It’s a gateway to better knowing my ever-changing self, to better understanding the shape of the earth, to connecting with other people and cultures. My relationship with training for this race has changed as I have changed. In the beginning, it was fascination for a far-off place. Then it became a way to isolate on my own terms, not because of cancer or the pandemic, but because of something I chose for myself. And now, I see it as a way to love. Because I’ve talked about it, almost obsessively for YEARS, the number of people who have stepped up to help me with my bike, my dogs, my gear, my training, my health, and my mind is staggering. A nest of love surrounds me in this, so much so, that if I think about it for too long I have to remind myself to breathe. What started as one photo of bikers in a blizzard has turned into a giant snow globe of love I take with me, because from the solitude of preparing for a self-supported race in a place many people don’t think about often, I’ve learned how to let people in and take them with me. 

• Catherine Jaffee, #teamchumbausa @naturevert