How Sending a Massive Drop Made Me a Better Trail Runner

Earlier this summer, I posted a video of myself sending a big drop in Avoriaz. A totally normal thing to do on vacation—except it was also one week before the Trail Running 100k World Finals.

You can imagine the response. My DMs filled up fast.

“You’re reckless!”
“You’ll ruin your race!”
“It’s not worth it!”

Spoiler alert: I finished sixth in a time that would’ve won or podiumed in most other years. So maybe it wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

For those who don’t know me yet: I’m Lotti Brinks, 29, based in Boise, Idaho. I’m a professional trail runner specializing in long-distance races from 50K to 100 miles, and I race all over the world. This year alone, competition took me across the U.S., New Zealand, Italy, France, Switzerland, and Spain.

On two wheels, I’m newer to the game. I ride mostly enduro and downhill and started lining up for bike races this year, including Big Mountain Enduro and the Northwest Cup. When I’m not racing, I’m chasing laps at Bogus Basin or Tamarack—or getting happily humbled in European bike parks.

Let’s rewind

I’ve been a runner forever, and a pro since 2021. Running is steady. Predictable. A long conversation with your own lungs. Progress comes slowly, in polite little increments—tiny breadcrumbs your body hands you after enough discipline and patience.

Then, two years ago, I found gravity mountain biking.

Suddenly progress wasn’t measured in percentages. It was measured in heart rate spikes and “I can’t believe I just did that” moments. It was immediate, skill-based, and visceral. Instead of nudging a ceiling upward, I was knocking entire walls down.

And I was hooked.

Most people assume mountain biking drains me or puts my run training at risk. But it doesn’t hit me the way running does. It sharpens me. Pulls me fully into the present. When I’m on my bike, there’s no room for pacing charts or race predictions—my entire brain funnels into one line choice.

If you ride, you know that feeling. Standing at the top of a feature while the rest of the world disappears. It’s not calm or meditative. It’s loud, spicy, and a little terrifying. But it works.

Fear, reframed

As I got more comfortable on bigger features, I started noticing something familiar: the feeling before dropping into something scary is the exact same feeling I get on an elite start line.

Heart climbing into my throat. Brain whispering dramatic nonsense. That suspended moment before commitment.

Mountain biking taught me how to work with that feeling instead of resisting it. Running taught me discipline. Biking taught me decisiveness. Together, they’ve made me braver in both sports.

So no—sending that 15-foot drop wasn’t reckless. It was rehearsal. Training myself to commit when it mattered most.

But yes, risk is real

I’m writing this with a fractured wrist thanks to an overly enthusiastic send last week. Gravity biking comes with consequences, and I’m not pretending otherwise.

But for me, the risks and failures aren’t pointless. They’re part of learning, staying humble, and remembering that progress isn’t linear. You think you’re hot stuff until you walk up to a feature that looked tiny on Instagram and realize it’s actually the size of a building. (Humbling. Every time.)

So why would a professional trail runner choose a high-risk hobby like mountain biking?

Because it makes me braver.
Because it clears the mental clutter.
Because surprising myself never gets old.
And because joy is wildly underrated as a performance tool.

Running is my career—and I love it. But biking is the balance that keeps the system alive. As long as I can clip in, chase lines, and occasionally send something that makes strangers gasp, I’m not stopping.

Wrist brace included.

Follow my adventures at @lotti_brinks