I broke ahead of the pack of cyclists pushing through the desert wind. We were in stage 3 of the 2019 United Arab Emirates Tour, a seven-stage road race through the dunes and cities of the UAE. My job in this stage was to get into a breakaway to protect a teammate who had pulled ahead and was competing for the tour’s intermediate sprint jersey.
My teammate finished the stage with the most points in the intermediate sprint category and got to wear the jersey in the next stage of the tour. We repeated the feat together in stage 5, and he eventually achieved the second-best overall intermediate sprint score. I felt good about my role in his success and about my performance. I headed back to the United States to prepare for a race in Italy a couple of weeks later.
Shortly after I got home, however, I received an email from my team manager informing me I wouldn’t be competing in Italy. Racers had been required to weigh in before and after every stage of the UAE Tour, and — despite my performance — he believed I was too heavy to race. I’m 5 feet 4 inches tall and had weighed in at 125 pounds.
I was gutted. Was it time for me to step away from pro cycling?
A Difficult Start
My relationship with cycling goes back to my roots in Canberra, Australia, where I started competing in club races at age 11. I was small and unathletic, but I loved it. I dreamed of becoming a professional cyclist.
That dream was put to the test when I became seriously ill at the age of 13. We later recognized the symptoms of type 1 diabetes — unquenchable thirst, excessive urination, weight loss, exhaustion — but at the time my parents didn’t know what was wrong. When I finally went to the hospital, I felt so terrible that I thought I was dying. In fact, I felt so bad that I was OK with dying.
I slipped into a coma for three days. When I woke up, I felt so much better that even when my doctor told me I had diabetes, my first thought was, I’m so happy! I’m not dying!
My mom sat me down and explained that everyone’s got something they need to do to take care of themselves and survive. She can’t function without glasses, she said. My grandfather needed medications for blood pressure and cholesterol. I would have to take insulin, but that didn’t make me different from anyone else.
My doctor told me there wasn’t much that I couldn’t do — but added, “You might not be able to be an astronaut, if that’s what you were hoping for.”
I didn’t want to be an astronaut. I wanted to be a cyclist.
My doctor helped me figure out insulin dosages and treatment schedules. He even gave me his cell number and said, “If you’re ever at a race and you don’t know what to do, just call me, and we’ll figure it out.”
It took time to rebuild my strength after being so sick, but by the time I turned 16, I’d gone from being an average competitor to being at the front of races. After high school, I raced on amateur teams in Italy, and in 2007, at 20, I signed my first contract with a U.S.-based team.
A Heavy Burden
My manager’s decision to sideline me after the UAE Tour was not the first time my weight had been an issue in my career. Although it’s starting to change, the theory in much of the cycling world has long been that lighter racers are more competitive because moving a lighter body requires less energy output. No matter how well you performed, a manager’s advice was always, “Maybe lose another kilo.”
Because I’m short, I was expected to specialize in climbing up hills and encouraged to be as light as possible. Early in my career, I raced at a weight as low as 105 pounds to try to improve my performance. But my physiology isn’t that of a climber: I’m broad-shouldered and my bone structure is not particularly fine. Every race I’ve ever won has been a sprint. And even as a sprinter, I raced at less than 120 pounds for years.
The irony is that I raced on a team composed of athletes with type 1 diabetes; our mission was to demonstrate what people with type 1 can achieve. We were held up as examples of a healthy lifestyle, but I had to do some seriously unhealthy things to keep my weight down. This included severe caloric restriction (a team doctor once advised me to weigh my lettuce-and-carrot salads) and manipulating my hunger hormones through insulin dosages.
I was anything but healthy. Although I was never officially diagnosed with an eating disorder, I developed a toxic relationship with food and a distorted view of my body.
On top of this, I felt disposable to the team: I was only ever worth as much as my last race. If I performed well, I was king of the world. But that could flip from one race to the next.
I was proud of my career, but it had taken its toll. I didn’t have many days off. I missed important family events. I was away from home a lot, and even when I was home, I wasn’t really there because I was exhausted or preoccupied. In short, I wasn’t the best version of myself.
Fortunately, there were people — friends and a few professionals — who encouraged me to take better care of myself. As I matured as a racer and a person, I finally started to listen to them.
After the UAE Tour, I’d had enough. I decided to finish the season and retire. It was time for me to put my health and well-being first.
Part of that transition would entail finding a new way to support myself — letting go of the professional cyclist part of my identity. But I knew the hardest part would be unlearning the thoughts and behaviors I’d adopted around food and eating.
De-Professionalizing
It’s not uncommon for professional athletes to struggle in retirement. We must find new careers, new identities. We have to adopt new lifestyles, discovering ways to spend the extra time and energy we once spent on training.
Some of us have to acknowledge and work through dysfunctional habits and perspectives we developed to maintain elite status. Five years in, I’m proud of the progress I’ve made.
I live in Tulsa, Okla., with my girlfriend, Cassie. She and I met while cycling, and the sport is a big part of our lives. (As we did last fall, we’ll be racing the Life Time Big Sugar Classic this October.) I’ve learned a new trade in auto-body repair and have settled into the rhythm of “normal” life.
Learning to eat without fixating on weight has been my biggest struggle, but I remember my mom’s wisdom: Even though other people can’t see it, there are always things we need to do to take care of ourselves.
With Cassie’s help, I’m taking care of my mental health around food. She understands my thought processes and has helped me shift my thinking. Being able to vocalize my concerns to her — and to close friends I trust — has helped.
It’s taken time, but I’ve learned I can eat regular meals even on days I don’t ride. I’m learning to relax as my body finds its natural weight.
I know my struggle around food will be with me for a long time. But I also know how much better I feel in my body and mind. I don’t have stress around food these days. I can enjoy my passion for training and competing without having it take over my well-being — and I’m excited for whatever comes next.
Fabio’s Top 3 Takeaways
- Build your own team. “Surround yourself with people who care about you and want the best for you.”
- Choose your own metrics. “Control what you can and don’t get beaten down by what you can’t — it’s only a failure if you don’t learn from it.”
- Trust your body. “Your body is good at telling you what it needs. If you’re hungry, eat. If you’re thirsty, drink. If you’re craving a big steak, you probably need it!”
My Turnaround
For more real-life success stories of people who have embraced healthy behaviors and changed their lives, visit our My Turnaround department.
This article originally appeared as “Beyond the Finish Line.”
