The Truth and Tragedy of MORIAH WILSON

For a few short, electric years, she took gravel racing by storm. Then she was gone forever

- ROWAN MOORE GERETY

THERE'S A VIDEO OF MORIAH WILSON FROM AUGUST 1, 2021, AT Rooted Vermont, the only race where her family got to watch her compete professionally. It's six seconds long, taken through a car window.

Moriah charges across a forested hillside from right to left, fast enough that it's hard to make out she's climbing. Her jersey flashes green and white, a blur of gravel beneath her. In the background, an unbroken canopy of maple, birch, and evergreen. A thick blond braid falls from her helmet like a rope. Moriah's limbs are splayed over the bike frame, legs pumping. As races go, it had been a rocky day: She'd lost her chain, gotten a flat, and nearly missed a turn, falling well behind the leading women. Now, she was battling back toward the front. Each time race vehicles pulled ahead of the pack and waited for it to pass, here came Moriah, overtaking another rider.

The video was taken by a woman she'd never met. Caitlin Cash worked as a project manager for a tech company in Austin, Texas. But a year into the pandemic, she and a group of friends had bought an old inn together in East Burke, a tiny town in Vermont's Northeast Kingdom, about 45 minutes from the Canadian border.

The Kingdom Trails, a network of a hundred miles of singletrack, was just across the street. For Cash, who raced on weekends and had a close circle of cycling friends, the inn was one more way to integrate her passion for biking into the routines of her life. That weekend at Rooted, she was pitching in to help the organizers with social media.

As she watched Moriah race, she was moved to tears. Subtly, a bit mysteriously, but undeniably, Moriah was smiling through the grueling effort. Who is she? Cash wondered. So much poise, so much grace, so much grit.