From Scarcity to Abundance
They asked me to write for them, and then told me I wrote about the wrong topic.
Someone from an online platform contacted me on Instagram and asked me to write an article for their platform. I missed the first message, and my Instagram inbox is full of messages that so often go directly to my “requests” inbox, where they get lost. He reached out again in April, and I sent a pitch their way shortly thereafter. They said they’d “greenlit” my article and that there was “no deadline.” I decided that a before the end of the year deadline was placed in my calendar as I had a few other gigs that paid more and thus became a priority— as he reiterated many times that there was no deadline. I’d pitched that I’d write about “mountain biking” centered around my perception of the scarcity mindset and how operating from an abundance mindset could change things.
I’d had peculiar gut feelings that this wouldn’t be a good fit; however, I went forward with the pitch because I wanted to bring in some extra cash to pay this month’s mortgage. My last update with them was that “I would start working on it in late fall.” Things were still greenlit. So I was fucking annoyed when I woke up this morning to an overly wordy email explaining that they didn’t have “room” for my article in their content lineup. I mean, it’s probably due to the fact I criticize colonization or other things in the essay. Or maybe it just sucks. Or, maybe I catfished them? Haha, I feel like the one true thing in all of this is that I try to make it pretty clear— I have a lot of strong opinions, and I race in bikepacking races for a job.
They said that it wasn’t in line with their “theme” or “brand” or whatever, but they reached out to me to write an article, and I did not seek them out. It seems like a ploy to get me to put a lot of work into an essay only to say, “kidding.” I told them what I was going to write about. I am pretty sure it’s clear that: one— I am a native woman; two—I race in mountain bike-specific bikepacking events; and three—bikepacking is my career. So the rejection email, wordy and defensive in tone, blamed me for submitting photos that “differ from the style and approach we’re focusing on recently, where imagery is drawn from a single session.” As well as to say my piece doesn’t have a "place in our content calendar.”
He’d offered zero guidelines for photos to accompany the piece and only offered to pay the minimum price I accept for writing— leaving the images to accompany the piece uncompensated. If there were a better budget, I would submit better pictures, for which I would pay Eszter or Corey, or any of the other pros who have snapped my photo, for commercial use of the images. But I refuse to reach out to my friends who are photographers and use pictures for pieces I am hired to write unless they are compensated. Duh.
The whole process was another frustrating waste of time and a dangling carrot of some financial security that was not actually “greenlit.” When, from the get-go, my gut was apprehensive. This is not the first time this has happened—and I am going to work to prevent this kinda thing from happening anymore.
The positive is that now I have to publish it here. Thank you, miigwech. To those who contribute each month. It’s meant a fucking lot to me and it gives me the freedom to write about things that I think matter when the gatekeepers of these privileged sports don’t want to publish the words. It helps me with practice so that, hopefully, this skill I practice (wordsmith) can, someday, allow these words to travel further. It also feels incredibly punk-rock and like a kinda “fuck you” not to turn and just sell to someone else and to give to my grassroots supporters instead. So this is for you.
And maybe someday I will expand upon it to make it better. But for now, here’s the second draft—only edited by me. Usually, I get at least one more editor to look at the piece before it’s published because I miss many of my mistakes.
My Body Remembers: From Scarcity to Abundance
Alexandera Houchin, an ultra-endurance mountain bike racer, reflects on how her perception of abundance had shifted her perspective of winning.
I’m an athlete. It’s been the perfect self-identifier for me to use if I am trying to define the nuanced emotions I have about the way the world works. We compete; there’s only room for one winner, and those with the most resources will almost always prevail. I belong to the community of people who find meaning in pedaling their mountain bikes for days on end, over mountains, across deserts, and through blustery plains—we are ultra-endurance bikepack racers. Among my favorite races are trail races like the Arizona Trail Race or the Colorado Trail Race; they are grueling tests of physical endurance and mental fortitude. It’s in these races where mountain bike skills are both tested and built.
As athletes of an invisible sport, of a sport in which there are no prize purses, we pursue the win for ourselves, for bragging rights–or at least that’s what it looks like on the surface. What else is left to compete for if there is no money, little opportunity for fame, and lists of uncontrollable variables that inevitably impact one’s results? After all these years of competing in long-distance bikepacking, I have learned that many of the most significant takeaways after completing a race lie not in what others perceive of my accomplishment but in how my commitment to the finish line revealed a more profound truth about who I was and the role I have in this life.
The evolving and contemporary culture of ultra-endurance bikepacking is increasingly influenced by the fastest known time (FKT) culture of ultra-running, which often feels driven by individualism. It turns a celebration of personal accomplishments into a race for glory, ego, and sponsorship. At times, it seems almost impossible to remember the grassroots events organized amongst friends who agreed to race each other across sunrises and sunsets. Ungoverned, unsanctioned, almost anything goes in the world of ultra-endurance mountain bike racing. You can sleep as much or as little as you please, you can stay in as many hotels as your wallet allows, you can use the most expensive, lightweight gear, and hell, get sponsored and ride your components into the ground. But at its core, ultra-endurance racing is about pushing the limits of physical and mental endurance.
Dissonance
I am not just an athlete. I am an Indigenous woman, and that context shapes how I engage with the world of sport. Growing up, I was surrounded by subtle messages that reinforced a scarcity mindset: if another woman succeeded, that success came at my expense. If she was faster, more intelligent, or more athletic, what was the point of trying? This was the air I breathed—one where success is finite, and others’ achievements diminish my potential.
This mindset is deeply entrenched in contemporary society, where competition is often framed as a zero-sum game. If she wins, then I lose. If they get sponsored, I will not. If I don’t cross the finish line first, then I have somehow failed. However, deep within me, I carry a blood memory, a knowing in my bones; I know that our gifts are not meant to be hoarded but shared. Abundance, not scarcity, is the foundation of real success. There is enough room for everyone to thrive and true prosperity is not measured by one’s wealth but by the richness of the community.
The residue of colonization, the narrative of scarcity, seeps through all corners of contemporary sport. As hours stretch into days during long races, the mind and body blur together in a haze of effort, and it’s easy to step into the trap of believing that there is only one way to succeed—through domination, through winning at all costs. These are fears created by a scarcity mindset. This mindset is rooted in the belief that the limited availability of success promotes the pursuit of individual glory. Ultimately, this mindset utilizes fear– the fear of losing, the fear of inadequacy, the fear of being forgotten or dismissed to drive people to the podium. The pressure to perform can turn the joy of competition into isolating and anxiety-ridden efforts. So often, “failure” (not winning) becomes evidence of personal deficit instead of systemic inequities. Athletes, including myself, have gone to the brink in the pursuit of the win, neglecting self-care, personal relationships, and even well-being in the quest for victory.
The abundance mindset is not about disregarding competition; it’s about seeing the competition as an invitation to connect, to engage with our rivals in a way that lifts all of us. This mindset shift is challenging because colonization has left a deep mark on the structure of competitive sports today. Rooted in ideals of subjugation and division, sports often established hierarchies of power and privilege based on constructed boundaries and external conditions. Individual achievement is more important than collective progress. This eventually ends up pitting athletes against each other, not in pursuit of physical excellence, but out of fear of losing one’s place in the proverbial pecking order. Adopting the abundance mindset invites new ways of looking at competition–what if our competitors weren’t obstacles to overcome but catalysts for growth? In a world shaped by abundance mindsets, we don’t measure success solely on the win but by the impact we have on those competing alongside us.
What if we reframed the story of the first-place finish? Instead of simply celebrating the victor, what if we told the story of how the chasing racers pushed the leader to dig deeper to reach a new level of performance, to break a record? The truth is, the winner can’t win without competition. Without those chasing, without the challenge, there would be no performance to celebrate. In the context of ultra-endurance racing, I believe a first-place finish is a shared effort—each person pushing each other to be their best. Each competitor serves as a mirror for her challengers to reflect on their individual abilities and potential.
In a world obsessed with podiums, FKTs, and an individual’s victory, I’ve come to realize that success isn’t solely about crossing the finish line first. It’s not really about the result. It’s about the journey and the people who embark on it alongside us. It’s about showing up fully: not just to the start line, but to the community we build that surrounds the sport we love. I believe true success is found in how we use our gifts and privilege to elevate others.
Leaving behind the scarcity mindset that shaped contemporary Western society and adopting an abundance mindset where there is more to gain than victory allows us to let our guard down. We don’t compete to win at the expense of others.
What if we compete to raise each other up, to pull ourselves up, to create a space where people thrive, to push the bounds of what we perceive as possible in our respective sports? I dream of a world enshrouded in abundance where success is measured not by who crosses the finish line first but by how we use our relationships and bounty to challenge each other to be our absolute best. In this dream world, competition no longer exists as a pathway to individual glory but instead becomes a collective effort that guides us to unlock our collective untapped potential. I believe that true victory lies in the strength of our communities and in the ways we relate to our competitors.
Well said.
You have put into words, what I have felt, but didn't have your talent to express.
Well written and so thoughtful! Thank you for being one of the riders who lifts me up. Abundance mindset… pondering how to keep that mindset in all parts of my life.