Somewhere along the way, weekends became about early alarms, strong coffee, and two bikes leaning against the wall by the door. One of us was already hopelessly in love with the sport; the other came for the company and stayed for the sunrises.
Race day was its own kind of magic — nerves, then noise, then a laurel on the helmet and a medal that weighed almost nothing. But the photo we kept wasn’t of the finish line. It was of the two of us, grinning, sweaty, already planning the next one.
Turns out the best part of any race is who’s waiting at the end.