Have you seen the HBO1 docuseries The Dark Wizard about renowned (notorious?) adventure athlete Dean Potter2? I finished it last week, and I can’t stop thinking about how clearly it captures a line we walk between the pursuit of a deep, almost spiritual knowledge of ourselves and the strong human desire to be exceptional.

Which is maybe a strange way to announce that I’ve set a goal to do 100,000 feet of climbing on the bike this year. Stay with me.

The series dropped at a time when I’d already been thinking a lot about elevation. On a mountain bike, we climb toward heights and viewpoints that often put us in touch with the sublime. And we work hard to get there—I often complain about how Utah’s trails offer no warm-up and instead shock us immediately into a vertical suffering. Add technical terrain, and pretty quickly we’re wrestling with corners of ourselves we’d rather not visit. The climb breaks us down to build us up, and the rewards are real and great.

And this was the initial impulse behind setting an elevation goal this year. I’m a fan of goals, and anyone who has listened to even a couple episodes of The Art of Mountain Biking has heard me talk about goals as an invitation into a process. At 42, and with kids at a very extracurricular age, speed and distance don’t hold the appeal they once did. But elevation? That feels like something I can do, and it weighs tougher rides more heavily than leisurely ones. But they all count, even those kid-friendly rides with my girls.

But it would be naive to omit the fact that playing with an elevation goal, and thus an elevation metaphor, feels like a tightrope walk. On one side: awe, presence, discipline, the desire to know ourselves and the world more deeply. On the other: ego, comparison, performance, and the desire to be exceptional. And depending on the day, the same practice can pull us (me) in either direction.

Which brings me back to The Dark Wizard. I don’t mean to compare my very normal mountain biking goal to free soloing or BASE jumping or creating my own adventure sport (FreeBASE)—I am not confused about the difference in scale here. But what stayed with me from The Dark Wizard was how the pursuit of aliveness can live so close to the pursuit of significance. How quickly a practice can become an identity. How easily awe can be turned into achievement.

So I’m both intrigued by the metaphor and suspicious of it. One of my favorite books, a human geography book called Space and Place by Yi-Fu Tuan, offers an in-depth discussion of how the notion of elevation is embedded deep in the human psyche.

“’High’ and ‘low,’ the two poles of the vertical axis, are strongly charged words in most languages. Whatever is superior or excellent is elevated, associated with a sense of physical height. Indeed, ‘superior’ is derived from a Latin word meaning ‘higher.’ ‘Excel’ (celsus) is another Latin word for ‘high.’ The Sanskrit brahman is derived from a term meaning ‘height.’ ‘Degree,’ in its literal sense, is a step by which one moves up and down in space. Social status is designated ‘high’ or ‘low’ rather than ‘great’ or ‘small.’ God dwells in heaven... Edwyn Bevan wrote: ‘The idea which regards the sky as the abode of the Supreme Being, or as identical with him, is as universal among mankind as any religious belief can be.’”

He goes onto list how this plays out in architecture (important buildings are often placed on platforms, and upper floors carry prestige and desirability ) and the general worldviews of entire societies. People have a tendency to place themselves above others, superior and closer to god(s).

And yet, elevation also offers perspective—so much so that there’s a name for it. “The Overview Effect” is the name for what many astronauts have described as a shift in perspective upon viewing Earth from space. Many astronauts have reported feeling an increased sense of awe and beauty and a greater sense of connection when viewing Earth as a whole, living system. They also report a shift (for the better) in their sense of self and values. In this context, the perspective that comes with height is something hard-earned and transformative.

Maybe that’s the tension I’m actually interested in: elevation not as dominance, but as perspective.

I suspect that following an elevation goal this year will surface all kinds of paradoxes and fine lines. And a goal that surfaces both suspicion and sense of promise feels like an opportunity for a good wrestle. So, here I am.

My goal is simple: climb 100,000 feet of elevation on the bike in 2026.

I’m taking my Strava data at its word and am basing my starting elevation on that— everything I’ve done so far counts. I’ve already hit a cruising altitude of over 10,000 ft (10,037 to be exact), and I have no idea how difficult or easy this will be. All I know is that it’ll get me outside pursuing the heights, and it’ll get me paying attention, again, to the life lessons I meet on the trail.

Anyone want to join me? Pick your own number, borrow mine, or choose a different kind of goal entirely. I’d love to hear what you’re pursuing this year … and, of course, what it’s teaching you.

Cheers,

Danielle

P.S. I miss this community, so even if you’re not pursuing a goal, please say hi in the comments!

Hi friends,

Ok, this one is actually the last post of the year, as I want to share some quick updates to make sure The Art of Mountain Biking continues to work for you.

At its heart, this platform has always been about building a community around the lessons we learn on (and off) the bike. Over the past year, it’s evolved into a mix of podcast episodes and newsletter posts, and I’m thinking about some bigger storytelling ideas I’m excited to explore in 2025.

To keep things organized and give you more control over what you receive, I’ve segmented content into three categories:

• Podcast: For those who love the interviews and bike-inspired conversations.

• Newsletter: Where I dive into reflections, riding tips, and other musings.

• Special Projects: Big storytelling projects and unique experiments (think: limited series podcasts, long-form explorations of a topic, things like that).

All subscribers are automatically enrolled in each segment, but you can opt out of any that don’t resonate. If you’re here for the podcast only, you can turn off newsletters. If you read via email but listen to the podcast elsewhere (like Spotify or iTunes), you can pause the podcast updates. It’s totally up to you, and I want you to feel good about what lands in your inbox.

Moving forward, I’m thinking instead of two newsletter posts per week, I’ll likely share one newsletter and one podcast episode. Posts will now include a tag that matches their category (Podcast, Newsletter, Special Projects) to make them identifiable.

I know inbox overwhelm is real. And while I love sharing this work with you, I want it to feel like a value-add, not a nuisance. Your time and attention matter, and this adjustment ensures you get only the content you care about most.

I’m so excited to see how The Art of Mountain Biking continues to grow in 2025. If you have feedback or suggestions, feel free to hit reply—I’d love to hear from you.

Have a holiday, everyone! See you next year.
Danielle

Hi friends,

We’d planned to share this as a podcast episode, but—truthfully—we’re a little out of practice. Instead, we’re bringing you this final post of 2024 as a space for reflection.

This year has been challenging for so many, filled with tension, uncertainty, and resilience. We’re living through times that ask us to navigate not just the trail ahead but the complexities of being human in a rapidly changing world. And in moments like this, reflection feels grounding.

For Jamie and me, that reflection often takes the form of a shared tradition: choosing a “word of the year.” It’s a simple practice—one word to act as a guide, a reminder, or even a challenge for the year ahead. Some years, the word feels like a mantra; other years, it’s a lesson that works us in ways we don’t expect.

Words That Worked Us

At the start of 2024, Jamie chose the word “stability.” It seemed like a practical choice, rooted in her desire to find steadiness after years of navigating big transitions. But stability turned out to be anything but straightforward for her.

“This year, I had to redefine stability,” Jamie shared. “It wasn’t just about finding a physical balance after hip surgeries. It became about accepting where I was—learning to sit with stillness and let go of the illusion of control. Stability wasn’t something I achieved through force; it was something I allowed myself to find.”

At the beginning of the year, I chose “express” as my word—a call to lean into authenticity and creative output. It felt like an intuitive choice, though I didn’t fully grasp what it would demand of me. This year stripped away my reliance on other people’s messages and forced me to confront my resistance to speaking in my own voice. What initially felt like a call to freedom ended up being a bit of a crucible, but I do appreciate where I’m at with this concept as the year closes.

I’ve learned that expression doesn’t always mean putting something out into the world. Sometimes, it’s the quieter acts—sitting in discomfort, recognizing deeply held fears, and finding the courage to create despite them. Aaron reminded me recently that while this year didn’t look the way I thought it would, I’ve lived this lesson in ways I can only truly appreciate in hindsight. And, I have created some pieces that I’m truly proud of, as well.

Looking Ahead to 2025

As we look to 2025, we’re carrying these lessons forward. For me, my word for the new year is “excellence.” Not in the sense of external perfection, but as a way of showing up fully and with intention. I want to focus on the details that make a moment, a project, or a relationship meaningful—not just good, but excellent.

Jamie’s word is “sustainability.” It’s about balancing passion with pacing, committing to a rhythm of life that nurtures the things she loves without burning out. For her, sustainability is both a personal and collective commitment—a way of honoring herself and her community by keeping the fire alive without letting it consume her.

Your Turn

We’d love to hear from you. What’s your word for 2025? What theme feels like it could guide your choices, growth, or mindset in the year ahead?

Drop your word in the comments or reply to this email. Let’s share our words, our intentions, and the ways we hope to approach the coming year.

As we wrap up 2024, we’re grateful for this community and the conversations we’ve had together. We’ll return next year with new posts, podcasts, and more opportunities to explore what it means to ride the trails of life with intention. If you’re a paid subscriber or thinking of becoming one, you’ve got time to adjust your subscription before we restart our paid options in the new year.

Here’s to the lessons of 2024 and the possibilities of 2025. Thank you for being part of this ride.

With gratitude,
Danielle

Hi you,

About a year and a half ago, I found myself navigating an unexpected turn in my career when I was caught in the fourth of eight layoffs at a local tech company. Since then, I’ve sent out hundreds (truly) of job applications, balanced freelance work to stay afloat, and kept reminding myself, “The next opportunity is out there.”

And yet for me, the career trail ahead feels uncertain. Is it the rise of AI? A hyper-competitive job market? Election-year unease? Ageism? Or maybe (probably) it’s just the nature of change—unexpected and unrelenting.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about this concept of rotation, the act of turning, particularly in the context of my career. On the bike, a turn can feel seamless when approached with intention, but awkward and unstable when forced. It’s made me think about how, just like on the bike, navigating a turn starts with a small, deliberate shift at the foundation—setting the movement in motion and letting it ripple upward with intention.

If you, like me, are contemplating or navigating a turn in life, here are some lessons the bike can offer on how to approach it with intention and grace.

Rotation Begins with Intention

On the bike, every turn starts with a subtle shift at the feet. It’s not a dramatic, sweeping motion, but a deliberate adjustment that sets everything else into motion. That small movement ripples upward, engaging your knees, hips, and core, aligning your body with the bike and the trail ahead. Without it, you’d either hesitate, wobble, or overcompensate—and lose control.

Stable turns begin with small, intentional shifts. In life, this could include subtle changes in how we approach our work, relationships, or even our perspective. For me, navigating this career turn doesn’t mean forcing drastic action but focusing on the foundations: refining my skills, exploring new opportunities, and staying aligned with what truly matters to me. It’s about planting that initial seed of movement and trusting that it will grow into something larger as I move forward.

Sometimes, the hardest part of a turn isn’t the movement itself but having the courage to start it. That first shift—whether it’s a new project, a bold conversation, or even a decision to pause and reassess—feels uncertain. But I find that once the movement begins, the rest of the turn starts to fall into place.

Looking Through the Turn

Jamie always says, “Your bike follows your eyes,” and I’ve felt this truth over and over again on the trail. When you focus on the rock you’re afraid of hitting, you’re more likely to collide with it. But when you train your gaze to the exit of the turn, your body and bike naturally follow.

In life, our focus works the same way. If we fixate on obstacles—fear of failure, doubt, or what’s outside our control—we get stuck, unable to move forward with clarity or confidence. But when we shift our attention to where we want to go, we create a path toward possibility.

For me, this means resisting the urge to dwell on the limitations of my current situation—what’s not working, the rejections, the shifting landscape of my industry. Instead, I’m focusing on where I want to go: the kind of work I want to create, the connections I want to build, and the skills I want to sharpen.

Looking through the turn doesn’t mean ignoring the terrain entirely; it means acknowledging them without letting them consume your attention. It’s about keeping your vision on the horizon while trusting yourself to navigate the challenges along the way.

Rotation Requires Connection

On the trail, rotation is only effective when your body works as a connected system. Your feet, knees, hips, and core all have to move in harmony, creating a balance that keeps you stable and aligned. If one part of the system is out of sync—if your hips twist too early or your knees don’t follow—it throws everything off.

In life, connection is just as critical. For me, this has meant staying connected to my purpose and values, even as the career path ahead feels unclear. It’s also about leaning on my community—reaching out to friends, colleagues, and mentors who remind me that I’m not navigating this turn alone.

Sometimes, it’s easy to feel like we have to steer everything on our own, but the truth is, we’re not meant to. Just like a well-executed turn on the bike relies on the synergy of multiple parts, navigating life’s turns often requires the support and alignment of those around us.

Staying connected also means tuning in to ourselves—our needs, strengths, and emotions. When we’re disconnected, we risk making reactive, misaligned moves. But when we’re in tune with what matters most, we can navigate even the sharpest turns with intention and grace.

I hope you had a fantastic weekend, and I wish you a happy week ahead. We’ll be posting our last post of the year next week, and it just might be a podcast episode…

Take care,

Danielle

Cue intro music…

Oh, hello.

After a post-Thanksgiving pause to recharge (damn you, tryptophan), we’re back this weekend to dive into rotation, which we covered back in episode 7. This is one of those concepts that sounds simple but took me a solid amount of time—and a lot of trial-and-error reps—to really wrap my head (and hips) around. It’s about more than just turning the bike; it’s about unlocking stability and precision in a way that changes how you move through corners.

Let’s jump in and break it down!1

What Is Rotation?

At its core, rotation is about initiating movement from your feet to guide your bike’s movement through a turn. Rather than relying on the handlebars to steer, rotation (read, turning) starts at the base—your feet—and moves upward through your legs, hips, and core. This technique keeps your center of mass balanced between your wheels, helping you navigate even the loosest or most technical corners with ease.

Jamie explains:
“Rotation starts in your feet. When you twist your feet slightly, your knees shift, your hips follow, and the bike naturally leans into the turn. This alignment is what allows you to maintain traction, speed, and control without forcing the movement.”

It’s fascinating how such a small movement at the feet can have such a profound impact on the entire turn. That initial shift sends a ripple up through your legs, into your hips, and ultimately guides the bike itself. It’s subtle but deliberate, and when done right, it creates a chain reaction that feels natural and controlled.

Think of it like geometry: a slight change at the point of origin—the angle of your feet—may seem insignificant at first, but as that angle travels up through your body, it widens, creating more noticeable movement in your knees, hips, and ultimately the bike. This amplification is what makes such a small adjustment feel so powerful, shaping the way your bike carves through the turn.

Starting at the feet also helps us avoid the tendency to throw our hips or knees around mindlessly in an attempt to force the turn. These big, uncontrolled movements create noise in the system—disrupting your balance, reducing traction, and even increasing the risk of injury. Instead, intentional rotation ensures that every part of your body is working harmoniously to guide the bike through the corner with precision and control.

This concept of starting small and building upward is a game-changer. It’s not about making big, dramatic moves—it’s about precise, intentional shifts at the point of origin that grow into stability, predictability, and, eventually, the confidence to tackle corners with ease.

Techniques for Rotation

1. Active Feet:
Start every turn with a small shift/twist in your feet.

2. Light Hands:
Your handlebars are for balance, not for steering. Keep a soft grip (think “potato chip hands”) to let the bike move naturally beneath you.

3. Look Through the Turn:
Point your eyes toward the exit of the turn. Your body—and bike—will follow.

4. Body Position:
Maintain bike-body separation. Your bike leans into the turn while your body stays upright, centered over the wheels.

Cue It!

Here are some cues to keep in mind while practicing rotation:

• “Lead with your feet.” Remember, rotation starts at the base.

• “Smear the berm.” Use your hips to guide the bike’s lean, and smear the berm with your hips.

• “Look through.” Keep your eyes on the exit, not the obstacle.

Got it? Yes? Cool. No? Comment below.

Cheers,

Danielle

Clarification:

A commenter raised an excellent point about how bikes actually turn, emphasizing that the front wheel pulling the bike out of its straight-line path is what initiates the turn, in line with Newton’s laws of motion. They noted that applying a rotational force at the bottom bracket could cause skidding rather than aiding the turn.

To clarify, the rotation I described isn’t about twisting the bike from the bottom bracket or forcing the frame to pivot. Instead, it’s about how subtle, intentional movements—starting at the feet—align the rider’s body with the bike, helping to guide it smoothly through the turn. This isn’t a literal force but rather a technique that complements the bike’s natural mechanics and keeps the rider balanced and connected.

Thanks for the thoughtful input—it’s always great to dig into the physics and technique of riding!