This June, Meaghan Hackinen set out to compete in the Tour Divide. While no stranger to big rides or bikepacking races, this would be Meaghan’s longest off-pavement adventure yet. After a neck-and-neck race with Ana Jager, Meaghan reached Antelope Wells in a time of 15 days and 23 hours, winning the 2024 women’s division (7th overall) and setting the fastest women’s time for a grand depart.

In this reflective essay, Meaghan weaves together snapshots from her experience while exploring the invaluable but less visible support network that helped her achieve this Tour Divide win. 

Supporting photographs from Seth DuBois, Alexandera Houchin, and Megan Dunn

Seth DuBois’ editorial imagery took place on a pre-TD shoot with Meghan

Cowbells greeted me in Salida, Colorado.

“Go Meaghan!”
“First place Tour Divide female!”
“Wooooooo!”

Flanked by mountain peaks, I exhaled gratitude for the comparatively short paved climb separating me from the dozen cheering strangers on a hilltop. Like clockwork, thunderclouds were brewing in the late afternoon sky. I swallowed back emotion while outwardly grinning as the cowbells clamored toward crescendo. This wasn’t my first encounter with dotwatchers, nor was this the first time their boisterous enthusiasm had triggered waterworks.

Eleven days and 1,782 miles into the Tour Divide, I struggled with emotional regulation. While I avoided getting upset with the (sometimes literal) bumps in the road, surprise encounters still tugged at my heartstrings. Beginning with a raucous cheering squad on the outskirts of Fernie, BC, I was ceaselessly amazed by how much the wider community cared about a grassroots event like the Tour Divide.

A gust of wind ripped at the rain jacket conveniently velcroed to my aerobars; ominous clouds grew darker by the minute. After starting in Silverthorne with a haul over Boreas Pass (11,466 feet), my goal was to press on past Marshall Pass (10,853 feet) to bivy down in the blip-on-a-map town of Sargents. Later, in the mountain foothills when the brimming clouds finally unleashed, I reached for my rain jacket while mentally conjuring those dotwatchers in Salida. Though they had long since dispersed into their dry, comfortable homes, their stoke lingered: fueling my fire as I navigated through headwinds and hammering rainfall, until finally, the clouds dispersed. When at last I reached the summit, it was just me and the soft brush of conifers under a star-flecked sky – the perfect way to cap off another wild day racing the Tour Divide.

From Transam To Tour Divide

I signed up for the 2024 Tour Divide because I wanted an adventure. That’s the simple explanation. The idea had been kicking around in my head since the spring of 2021 when I purchased a used Salsa Cutthroat. At first glance, I knew the Cutthroat – which I named Amelia, after the American aviation pioneer, Amelia Earhart – would take me places. Once I saw the race route stenciled into the downtube, the seed to compete was firmly planted.

Yet it wasn’t until recently that I shored up the confidence to get my name on the roster. Despite years of touring and bikepack racing on tarmac, I harbored fears about straying from the beaten path. Basic statistics – 2,745 miles on gravel, dirt, and trail accumulating nearly 200,000 feet of vertical gain – were intimidating enough. Factor in that the Tour Divide (which roughly follows the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, crisscrossing the Continental Divide from Banff, Alberta to Antelope Wells, New Mexico) challenges riders with inclement weather, limited resupply, plus potential wildlife encounters, and I was fittingly intimidated.

But little by little, I pedaled farther from my comfort zone – racking up experience (and a few wins) along the way. When the end of 2023 drew near, the legendary Divide ranked high on my 2024 wish list.

However, I knew from past events like the Trans Am and Transcontinental that I couldn’t tackle another massive race on my own. For me to be competitive in the world’s longest off-pavement bike race, I would have to rally my loved ones to create a support network to see me through the extensive training and preparations in the months to come. Though one of the defining features of self-supported racing is that competitors must go alone, it is no exaggeration to say that I would not have made it to the start line – much less reached the finish – without the generous support of my parents, partner, coach, and greater bikepacking community.

Grand Depart

The annual grand depart of the Divide kicks off on the second Friday of June. My host, Penny, served up loaded oats and coffee before we set off toward Banff’s iconic YMCA.
“Before I lose you in the crowd, I want to wish you luck. You’ve got this,” Penny said, leaning in for a quick embrace.

Backdropped by dramatic Rocky Mountain peaks, the crowd intensified as kitted-up bikepack racers rolled in and others dropped by to witness the celebratory send-off. Clear skies held the promise of a crisp, sunny day – the perfect morning to set out on an absurdly long bike ride. Crazy Larry was expectedly over-the-top in his role as unofficial ringleader and hypeman; the energy was palpable.

It turned out that I knew more than a few faces in the crowd. Amid the flurry of hugs and well wishes, I spotted 2023 race winner Ulrich “Uba” Bartholmoes and vlogger Ryan Van Duzer recording updates on their phones. After a final goodbye to my parents (who drove me out to Banff) and their teddy bear of a dog, Sadie, I lined up among the other third wave starters for our 7:15 am departure. Soon, we were off: tires tracking south toward the Spray River Trail and untold adventure.

While amplified in scale, that morning’s sendoff exhibited the same strong sense of community that has, in my mind, come to define the sport of bikepack racing. I have been the lucky recipient of the community’s goodwill on more occasions than I can count. My Banff host, Penny, reached out on Instagram to invite me to stay with her before we had met in person – this wasn’t the first time I’ve accepted an invitation to stay in a stranger’s home. In another instance this spring, a pair of volunteers got me out of a bind by transporting me to the startline of Ozark Gravel Doom once I discovered my driver’s license had expired while trying to rent a car at the Bentonville, AR, airport.

From start-line vibes to finish-line beers, the tight-knit community is part of what makes bikepacking races a memorable experience for everyone and keeps me coming back for more.

Galton Pass

After a gloriously sunny (but physically demanding) first day in Canada, winter storms rolled in near the US border – the weather gods must have missed the memo about summer solstice being just around the corner. Despite my methodically chosen kit and stash of HotShots hand warmers in my frame bag, I knew that keeping myself warm and dry would be a challenge. The first onslaught of stormy weather arrived just after an outrageously steep feature known as “The Wall” en route to Galton Pass. Still in early hyper-competitive race mode (and fearful of being passed), I put off layering up until I was already cold, and suffered on the frigid descent. As I waited for my fingers to regain sensation under the restroom tap at the Rooseville border crossing, I vowed to race smarter. I had both the gear and the experience – I just needed to use my head.

Much of that recent experience comes from riding with my partner, James, a gregarious Portlander I met at a bar on the eve of my first ultra-distance bike race, the Trans Am, seven years ago. Although we reside on different sides of the Canada-US border, our shared passion for exploring on two wheels helps us navigate the distance.

I’ve come to rely on James as an adventure buddy, training partner, and confidant. Riding together generally means pushing the pace, and getting outside regardless of the weather. As an admittedly fair-weather cyclist myself – I’ll take indoor interval training over embracing the elements any day – I find myself easily frustrated by the dreary conditions of his Pacific Northwest hometown.

Once this spring on what was supposed to be a big day out in Forest Park (an urban hillside park west of downtown Portland), I forced us to loop back early because I couldn’t handle being wet and cold any longer. This, of course, was entirely on me: despite the typically dismal spring forecast, I still failed to dress appropriately. Back at his place, James bundled me in blankets and pressed a cup of hot chocolate into my hands.

“Tomorrow, let’s go shopping to get you better gloves,” he’d said.

I nodded agreement from my cocoon of bed covers: grateful to be with someone who acknowledged my weaknesses without rubbing them in my face.

Several months later, alone and shivering in an empty restroom at the Canada-US border, my glove system had gone through several iterations. Back on the farm roads, I reflected on other training rides with James until my confidence rose. Sure, I slipped up on Galton Pass – but I could control what happened next.

Take Care of Your Body and Your Bike

After surviving the gauntlet of winter storms in Montana, my derailleur hanger snapped on the rough descent from Union Pass, Wyoming. Sage advice from my coach, Peta, echoed in my ear:

“Take care of your body and your bike. You’ll need both to cross the finish line.”

Easier said than done: it proved challenging enough to stay on top of routine personal hygiene, let alone carve out time for bike maintenance. By the end of the first day, poor Amelia was encrusted with mud. And despite my best efforts to hose her down, things only got worse. I burned through brake pads and ran out of lube – but learned that chamois butter does wonders as a temporary fix.

Looking down at my grimy, busted drivetrain, I couldn’t escape the guilt. I’d let Peta down.

From our first coaching conversation over WhatsApp, I knew that Peta believed in me. The impact of having someone so firmly in my corner cannot be underestimated: whenever I doubted myself, she boosted me up; whenever I slacked, she pointed out the consequences. Without Peta’s guidance and encouragement, I might have backed out before Christmas and decided it was too much effort and expense for a gamble.

Bike repair is not my strong suit. A fear of breaking things combined with a lack of patience holds me back. In preparation for the Tour Divide, Peta finally convinced me to address the gaps, and helpfully provided a checklist of repair skills to learn: first through YouTube videos, and then in actual practice. When I achieved competency, I could tick the box and move on to the next item.

That was the idea, anyways. In haste, I may have stretched the truth about my proficiency in one or two (okay, several) skills, marking them off before I finished fast-forwarding to the video credits.

Yet I remained hopefully optimistic as I dug through my downtube bag for the spare hanger on the dusty trail: far worse mechanicals have plagued Divide riders, from taco’d wheels to sheared-off crank arms. Surely I could manage this. Fifteen minutes later, I was back in action. Careening down the rocky doubletrack with a new derailleur hanger toward the stark, desert landscape of the Great Basin.

Lowest of Lows

I hit my Marianas Trench of lows on the first of three technical Continental Divide Trail (CDT) segments in New Mexico. Prior in the race, tears had only spilled in the aftermath of joy: ephemeral sunsets, encounters with dotwatchers, and awe-inspiring passes. But a mile into the recent CDT addition, I was unraveling – pointlessly lamenting the departure from Colorado’s champagne gravel – and pulled out my phone to confirm the route. When I learned that I had nineteen more miles of trail to go – How did I not know this? – my insides flip-flopped in dread.

“This is fine,” I told myself as I shoved aside thoughts of second-place woman, Ana Jager, gaining ground. “Just do your best and ride within your limits.”

Not a trail rider at the best of times, my fear ratcheted up another notch as the woods parted to reveal a canyon that the trail precariously skirted around. I dismounted to walk my bike until I descended into a fertile valley and conditions felt safe enough to ride again.

Yet in my overfatigued state, balancing my bike on this sliver of trail proved to be an impossible dream. Soon, I was passed by Czech rider Tomáš Fabián. When I attempted to chase, my front tire connected with an embedded boulder that launched me into the slopeside bushes. Shaken, I let Tomáš pull away and resigned myself to hiking the remaining CDT section. All the while, my Garmin inReach was abuzz with notifications from my mom:

You’re doing great!
Everyone is slowing down on the trail.
Keep on moving, Meg!

My parents are my biggest cheerleaders. Though they’ve followed past events, their commitment to the Divide was commendable: they memorized the palmares of all the key players, became members of several Facebook groups, and started each day with the morning sermon of Josh Ibbett’s YouTube updates. While their personal investment surprised me, it also made complete sense. I live at home, so they have a front row seat to my training. For the past eight months, I had spoken of nothing else.

Since I don’t pay rent, in addition to being my number one cheerleaders, my parents are also my biggest sponsors. In exchange, I cover the cost of our family Spotify account and dogsit on the rare occasion they travel without Sadie. It’s a sweet deal, I know.

But closeness also has its challenges: my mom worries during long training rides, especially when I’m alone in the bush. During a final three-day shakeout ride in May, I accidentally let my inReach die in an area without cell reception. Exhausted from the rough terrain and unrelenting rain, I didn’t notice (or perhaps care) that my device had powered down. When I finally got around to charging it, I was hit with the delayed barrage of increasingly concerned messages.

Meanwhile, my dad was waiting to intercept me down the trail at a road crossing: he’d driven over two hours to check on me at my mom’s request. My immediate reaction was frustration, my second, guilt.

I did a better job of keeping my inReach charged on the Tour Divide, but concerns still sprang up: during one of Josh’s updates, someone speculated that my puffy face could be a symptom of potentially serious rhabdomyolysis. My dad spiraled down an internet rabbit hole researching symptoms; my mom, meanwhile, found Ted King’s 2023 announcement that he DNF’ed due to rhabdo. My inReach began to buzz:

What color is your urine?
Do you have muscle pain?
Call your dad. It’s important.

While there were times like the rhabdo scare that I found my mom’s messages intolerably annoying, on the whole, I appreciated them. I anticipating the cheerful morning check-ins and congratulatory notes as I inched over the last climb of the day around midnight. My mom wrote: Now find yourself somewhere to sleep!

During that first frustrating CDT section in New Mexico when I was walking my bike through a pasture littered with cow patties – feeling sorry for myself after losing position to Tomáš – my mom wrote: Don’t make yourself out to be a victim. Remember: you chose to do this.

Those were just the words I needed to hear to hop back on the bike again.

The Homestretch

To onlookers, New Mexico may signal the beginning of the end – the homestretch before the finish – but for me, New Mexico is where the wheels finally fell off. Starting with the CDT section, things tumbled downhill: torturous washboard, punchy pitches, and afternoon electrical storms followed by peanut butter death mud. Some instances were simply ridiculous – plastering my nose with Band-Aids to protect it from burning and devouring six ice cream sandwiches before bed – but there were scary moments as well, like the time I narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a swerving pickup truck by veering into the ditch, or when a frisky rancher grabbed my ass.

But, by some small miracle, I was still achieving progress forward. When I found myself hurting, emotionally or physically, I circled back to the advice that 2023 second-place finisher (and 2024 winner) Justinas Levieka bestowed back in Banff:

“Just look up,” he’d said. “Look at the mountains, the clouds, the stars. Just look up and you’ll feel better.”

The final stretch from Silver City to Antelope Wells proved the ultimate test. After trading the air-conditioned sanctuary of McDonald’s for the desert’s scorching afternoon heat, evening ushered in a string of electrical storms. I found refuge in an abandoned building, trying not to laugh as I donned my rain gear for what I truly, sincerely hoped would be the last time. Aside from day one, it had rained every single day of the Divide. James would be proud at how far I’d come from the ill-prepared wimp I once was, I thought to myself.

When the lightning quit, I headed back out into the rain, which lingered until I reached the closed store in Hachita around midnight. Tomáš, who I’d been leapfrogging since Silver City, caught me while I refilled my bottles, but I no longer had the capacity to care. I just wanted to finish. I was first to leave, but we regrouped again on the final CDT stretch after separately navigating six challenging miles of flooded farm road.

“Did you hear the frogs?” Tomáš asked as we pushed our bikes up the steep rutted doubletrack.

Tour Divide Support Network

I did – the noise was deafening. And as I sometimes pedaled, sometimes waded through the mucky shin-deep water, I came to enjoy the company of their reptilian chorus, their beady eyes peering up from the murky depths. Though admittedly absurd, I envisioned the frog as dotwatchers – all cheering me on as I knew my family, friends, and others were doing just then from disparate parts of the globe.

A mile or so before the trail reached the highway, I clipped a turn too tight and took a teddy bear cholla, or jumping cactus, to the shin. Tomáš rounded the bend just in time to catch me extracting the prickly menace with my multi-tool and toothbrush. The spines didn’t come out easily.

When we finally reached the pavement, I invited Tomáš to sprint for the border, but he just laughed and said it would be fun to finish together. So we got to know each other as we pedaled the remaining thirty miles side by side, arriving at Antelope Wells amidst a pastel sunrise in a time of 15 days and 23 hours. To my surprised delight, former women’s Tour Divide winner and single speed record holder Alexandera Houchin was there to greet us, as well as a dot watcher named Jill who has driven three hours from Bisbee, Arizona. We snapped a few photos, and then dug into a breakfast of cheeseburgers, watermelon, and champagne.

This unexpected finishers’ gathering encapsulates the off-stage support that I’d been leaning into long before day one rolled out from Banff. While racing the Divide was my dream, it took a community to make that wild dream a reality. Even in the most remote sections of the Great Basin, I felt far from alone: in my imagination, I could always recall previous conversations, encounters, and experiences when I needed a boost.

That might sound crazy. But then again, you’ve got to be a little nuts to race 2,700 miles down the spine of the continent. I’m beyond grateful for everyone in my life who supported this beautiful adventure.