A Letter to My Best Friend, Fiina Beagle

My Dearest Fiina,

It’s hard to believe this all started back in 2009 when I picked you up from a farm in central Alabama.

You are named Dawson’s Creek Josephine Lillian Potter — a combination of a few of my favorite things from back then: Josephine “Joey” Potter from Dawson’s Creek, and Lillian Potter — Lily, Harry Potter’s mom. But from the very beginning, you have always just been Fiina. Pronounced Fee-nah.

When you were still just a puppy and I was going through a divorce, I fought for you to stay part of my family. I didn’t care about who got what assets or being stuck with a house I couldn’t sell. I just wanted you and Siri, and we would figure it out together. That was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

You’ve been with me over 17 years — that is a third of my life. That’s hard to even wrap my head around.

Siri was here first — I got her back in 2004. Then in 2009, you came along, the pesky little sister entering a house that already had a beagle in it. A few years later, in 2012, Lyla joined the family too, and for a while it was the three of you together as a pack.

Then in 2018, we had to say goodbye to Siri. Even though you were already 9 years old, you had still never been the only beagle in the house. So I waited a couple of years before bringing Indiana into our lives, because I wanted you to have that time — to get all the love for yourself. And I’m really glad you got that.

Then in 2020, Luna the Samoyed came into the picture, followed by Indiana in 2021. Then you became the moderator of the house — making sure things didn’t get too out of hand when Luna and Indiana were flying around like maniacs in their puppy stage.

And then in 2023, we moved home to Michigan, and it was just you and Indiana again. That has been your journey across the country, and now you are here with me in our home — where we belong, surrounded by family and friends in my hometown.

And if I had to guess, I’d say we’ve taken at least a thousand naps together. A thousand times you curled up beside me. A thousand afternoons where I was worn out from work, from a long bike ride, or from a long walk with you — and you fell asleep next to me, usually snoring!

At night, you find your place on my right side, with your head on my shoulder like that was where you were always meant to be. You love to sleep in the bed under the covers, like that was exactly where you belong. And during the day, you always want to be close — pressed up beside me, touching me somehow, as if just being near me makes the world feel safe — for both of us.

Throughout your life, I’ve done everything I could to keep you healthy and happy—including thousands of miles of walks, even into your old age.  And the funny part is, you’ve never really liked leaving the house all that much. But the second you know we are headed back home, suddenly you want to run like the wind. That is always you.

After I ran my last competitive marathon, I ran one more 5km race… and it was with you. You were the only dog in the Rudolph Run, even wearing your own bib number, and of course you went out and set a PR of just under 30 minutes. That memory will always make me smile.

Then when I was taking interferon for my vocal cord issues, and was physically worn down and unable to run for a couple of years, you and I shared the road and trails for a couple thousand miles of walkies. You were my therapist, my sounding board for ideas, and you helped remind me what was important in life.

You also gave me one of the biggest scares of my life back in 2019 when your back legs suddenly gave out. I’ll never forget rushing you to the emergency vet and not knowing what was wrong — it turned out to be a slipped disc in your back. But we got through it, and with time, patience, rest, and a whole lot of love, we nursed you back to health and kept going. After that, there were no more “big jumps,” and I started picking you up more — which you totally loved.

And now, in these later years, you patiently tolerate me wiping away the tears that drain from your eyes. It’s just one of those little things we’ve done together as we’ve grown older.

And of course, you’ve always loved going to Grandma’s house. You watch her so closely while she makes dinner, because you know there’s a good chance she’s going to drop a piece of chicken or misplace some cheese. And somehow, you’re always ready when she does.

You also loved to jump up on the kitchen table. I busted you a few times doing it, and you absolutely knew better. But at the same time, it was so stinking cute that half the time I had to take a picture first before I could even think about scolding you.

You have the most beautiful eyes of any dog I’ve ever seen, with their small pupils and beautiful brown irises. Sometimes they make you look sad, but I know that’s not the case. You just care.

You are not afraid to tell us when you are unhappy. Even when you’re not hurt, you’ll still let out a little yelp just to make sure everyone understands that something is not to your liking.

Before your hearing faded, anytime you heard a siren, you would howl right along with it, and I always liked to think that was your own special way of making sure people heard that the ambulance was coming — like you were helping carry the signal just a little farther. Later on, that sound disappeared for you, but we adjusted. We figured it out. We kept going together.

You aren’t just my best friend. You’re my daughter in every way that matters. And I know to some people that might sound silly. But people who have loved a dog the way I’ve loved you will understand that immediately.

I will never be ready to say goodbye to you. There will never be enough time. No matter how many years we get, it will never feel like enough.  But I also know that we are living on borrowed time these days.  

Even writing these words makes my eyes fill up with tears, because the truth is, I can’t imagine this life without you in it. But I also know that one day, there may come a time when your pain becomes too much, and I will have to do the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I remember when Siri was diagnosed with untreatable cancer. I talked to her and let her know what she was going through, and that I would do everything humanly possible to give her a continued quality of life for as long as possible. And now I will do that with you.

I also remember having to talk to you back then — letting you know that a day would come when we would have to say goodbye to Siri. And now I will have to have that same talk with Indiana, and it breaks my heart.

I don’t know how much longer we have together, and no amount of time will ever feel like enough. But today, you’re here. There are still naps to take, walks to share, and nights with your head on my shoulder. I love you, Fiina, and I’m grateful for every day I get to be your dad.

Love always,
Dad

The Cost of Chasing Elite

The Sacrifice

There is something deeply painful about understanding what it takes to become an elite cyclist. Not admiring it, not talking about it, not posting about it — but truly understanding it.

I’m not writing this because I think I’ve figured it all out. I’m writing it because I’ve spent enough time chasing it to realize how much it actually costs. I don’t think most people fully see this side of it. It has taken years of introspection — tens of thousands of hours riding alone, pushing max heart rate when there is no one there to see you, alone in thought. I’m not even saying that I fully understand it, because I’m still learning what it takes.

And to be honest, once people do understand the sacrifice, many may decide it’s simply not worth it to them — and I understand that. That doesn’t mean they’re settling. It just means they’re being honest about what they want their life to look like.

But let’s start at the beginning.

The Progression

Most people understand how someone goes from beginner to good. You put in time, you learn, you fail, and you repeat, and if you stay with cycling long enough, you will improve. That part still feels fair.

Even the jump from good to great makes sense because it takes more discipline, more focus, and more consistency. But great to elite is different. A lot of people believe elite cycling is simply what happens when you keep riding for a long time. They think if they just keep logging miles, stacking hours, and grinding, elite will eventually arrive, but that is not always true.

You can ride for years and never become elite. You can train more volume than someone else and still not reach their level. You can give a lot and still stay stuck, because time alone does not create elite cyclists. At some point, quantity stops being enough, and that is when the game changes. From there on, it is not just about how much time you spend on the bike — it is about how well you use that time.

The Lifestyle

Elite cycling is not a level — it is a lifestyle.

People think elite is a performance metric — watts, results, podiums — but it is not. It is a way of organizing your entire life around a standard that most people will never understand. It touches everything: your body, your schedule, your relationships, your recovery, your identity. It stops being something you do and becomes something that starts shaping who you are.

That realization strips away excuses and forces a harder question — not can you become elite, but are you willing to live like someone who has chosen it? My dad taught me that anything worth doing is worth doing well. I wasn’t blessed with much natural talent, but I was taught how to work, so the question becomes: are you willing to devote more to this than anything else — and maybe more than anyone else?

Your life starts organizing itself around performance, and that takes obsession.

The Cost

Elite cycling asks things from your body that ordinary life does not. It asks for effort when you are already depleted, asks you to find another gear when your legs are dead, and asks you to keep going when everything in you is telling you to stop. And the fatigue never fully leaves — it just changes form, until you stop questioning it and start accepting it as part of the cost.

But the physical side is only part of it. The mental and emotional toll runs deeper, and elite cycling can make rest feel guilty, stillness feel threatening, and average feel unacceptable. It can make you feel like you are living in a different world than the people around you, because in many ways, you are.

If you choose exceptional, there will be a cost. There always is. And the cost changes you.  Because to become elite, some other part of your life will suffer, and that is why this path can feel haunting. It leaves marks — on your body, your habits, your relationships, and your identity.

The Reality

And once you know what elite requires, you can’t unknow it. That awareness follows you. It’s there when you skip a ride, when you choose comfort, and when you know you could have done more. It doesn’t leave. And once you truly understand what it takes, it becomes painful in a different way, because if you understand what elite cycling demands, then you understand what it demands from you.

The hardest part is not always the work. Sometimes the hardest part is accepting that you know exactly what must be done — that excuses aren't acceptable. That is why this is both a blessing and a curse — a blessing because it gives you access to a version of yourself most people will never meet, an alter ego, some may say.  And that is the curse — because once you understand this, you will never again be fully at peace pretending average is enough.

Maybe this is why I created EPIC. Because he can do what Eric can not.

The Loneliness

And the deeper you go, the lonelier it gets. That might be the hardest part of all.

Being an elite cyclist is lonely — not “alone sometimes” lonely, but truly lonely. Because almost no one really understands you. They may admire your fitness and your results, but they don’t understand you. They don’t understand why you can’t just skip a ride, why you can’t just relax, why your standards are so high, or why your mind never shuts off.

Accepting that level of sacrifice can make you feel deeply misunderstood. The people around you may see discipline, but they don’t always see what is underneath it — the choices you make, the things you say no to, the way your mind is always measuring whether you are doing enough, and the quiet weight that comes with carrying that standard every day. Once you accept what this life requires, you start living in a way that fewer and fewer people truly understand.

That is not a casual way to live.

The Truth

And maybe that is the clearest truth: people want what elite cycling gives, but almost no one wants to endure what it takes to become it.  Because becoming elite doesn’t just ask for your effort. It demands your body, your mind, your emotions, your time, and your life. It takes over everything.

And once you truly understand that, you may decide you don’t want it after all — and that might be the healthiest decision you could make. Chasing this has come at a cost I still don’t fully know how to measure. But if you still want it, be honest about what you are choosing.

You are not choosing a goal.
You are accepting the lifestyle.
You are acknowledging the cost.
You are willing to feel misunderstood.
And more than anything, you are choosing sacrifice.

Because that is what this has always been about.  Not whether you want to be elite.  But whether you are willing to accept the sacrifice that comes with trying to become it.