Somewhere Tonight

By Vanessa Mayo

Somewhere tonight, an adult BMX racer is loading bikes into a car or a bike rack after a long day at the track. 

Tomorrow morning, they'll go back to work. Back to bills. Back to laundry, deadlines, sore muscles, family responsibilities, doctor appointments, aging parents, struggling relationships, and the thousand other things adulthood piles onto our shoulders. 

And yet, for a few minutes on that track, none of it existed. 

That's the part people don't always understand about adult BMX racers. 

Some of us found BMX as kids and came back to it. 

Some of us didn't start until our 30s, 40s, or beyond. 

Some race with their kids. 

Some show up completely alone. 

But we all carry things onto that gate most people never see. 

Financial stress. Work obligations. Kid schedules. Chronic pain. Anxiety. Depression. Health battles.  Fear. Self-doubt. 

 Some of us are fighting battles far bigger than the main event. 

I've battled cancer. Struggled with depression and anxiety. 

Have multiple autoimmune diseases that are constantly trying to destroy me. 

I've spent years trying to become stronger and faster while also being terrified of being out of control at that speed. 

I've fallen and gotten hurt with nobody there to tell me what I did wrong or how to avoid it next time. 

I've heard: 

"Maybe you can do better than third this time." 

Even when I was racing phenomenal women who could absolutely fly. 

Sometimes nobody comes to watch. Sometimes nobody cheers. 

Sometimes the people closest to us don't even understand why we keep doing this. 

And then there's the sting of: 

"Well... you only won because you were the only one in your class." 

But here's the thing people miss: 

We still showed up. We showed up tired. We showed up scared. We showed up doubting ourselves. 

We showed up after work, after hard seasons of life, after losses, after setbacks, after surgeries, after heartbreak. 

And we still clipped in and rolled up to the gate. 

Because BMX gives some of us something, we can't find anywhere else. 

Freedom. Focus. Connections. Joy. Peace. 

For a few laps, the noise in our heads finally gets quiet. 

And while there may not always be crowds cheering for us, there are people at the track who matter more than they probably realize. 

The volunteers who get us lined up, keep us fed, run the races, and make sure we're okay after a crash. 

The women racers waiting at the finish line with fist bumps and encouragement. 

The kids in the staging told us about their bikes, their school, and the trick they almost landed. 

The little girls who absolutely smoke us on the track, then smile and say: 

"Just pedal really hard you'll be fine." 

I wonder if they know how much those moments mean. 

Because they do matter. 

More than trophies. More than the podium. More than the points. 

BMX reminded us that we were still alive. 

Still capable of growing. Still capable of joy. 

Still capable of becoming something more than the hard things we survived. 

So, if you see an adult racer out there trying their best, encourage them. 

You have no idea what it took for them to even get to the gate. 

And to every adult BMX racer wondering if they belong: 

YOU DO. 

We'll see you at the next race!