The Human Experience: Voices of Resilience.
I’ve dealt with autoimmune issues for most of my life and have been open about my experiences, hoping to find answers in the community when doctors couldn't. Along the way, I’ve met some incredible people facing similar challenges. So, when I was diagnosed with MS, I continued to share my story, especially during the development of Distance to Empty.
As an athlete, I feel fortunate to have a community and sponsors who believe in me, my story, and DTE. When I shared my diagnosis, I had no idea if I’d ever return to high-level racing or produce results again. It would’ve been easy for my sponsors to walk away, but not a single one did. Their support speaks volumes about why I chose to work with them. Because of their belief in me, I continue to share my story, and this openness has encouraged many others to share theirs with me. It’s a powerful reminder that we’re never really alone, and hearing from others who keep pushing forward can be incredibly uplifting.
At Distance to Empty, storytelling has always been a key part of our mission. We want to introduce a new segment called The Human Experience: Voices of Resilience. The first story is about MS and the strength found in community. I’ve had the privilege of meeting two community members with MS, and they’ve graciously shared their stories with me. Like my own, recalling their diagnoses can be emotional—it brings up fear and uncertainty. I’m incredibly grateful that they’ve taken the time to open up, allowing me to share their stories with all of you.
My journey with MS has become less about winning races and more about showing up, challenging myself, and paving the way for others. We all face something that holds us back, and by simply showing up, I hope to inspire others to keep pushing through. Sometimes, making yourself vulnerable is the key to finding the community you need.
Story 1: MS, Finding Strength In Community
"There are multiple spinal cord lesions and a lesion in the cervicomedullary junction. This, in combination with the intracranial findings, may satisfy McDonald criteria for multiple sclerosis."
Those stark words from an MRI report on April 11, 2023, changed the course of my life.
I guess I should introduce myself before getting too far ahead. I’m TC Clark, a 46-year-old recreational gravel cyclist and aspiring mountain biker. I live in Parker, CO, with my wife, daughter, and three dogs. Like many, I found cycling during COVID when other activities were off the table. What started as casual rides on an old mountain bike quickly turned into a passion. After waiting eight months for a new gravel bike, I entered my first gravel event in May 2022. I was hooked, and by the end of that year, cycling had become more than just a hobby.
The summer and fall of 2022 brought more events and a growing love for the sport. But in November, I started experiencing severe headaches that stretched on for days, then weeks. By early 2023, the headaches subsided, only to be replaced by something more alarming—on February 1, I woke up with diminished vision in my left eye. What started as optic nerve inflammation soon led to a series of CT scans and MRIs. And that’s when I received the preliminary diagnosis: Multiple Sclerosis.
There are no words to fully describe the crushing weight of that news. For me, this wasn’t the first time I had been exposed to MS. I had watched the disease impact my mother throughout my childhood, slowly stealing her health and tearing at the fabric of our family. For years, I lived under a cloud, haunted by the thought: *What if I’m destined for the same fate?*
In April 2023, that fear became my reality, and I faced a choice: give up or dig in and fight for whatever life had in store for me. Life has a way of teaching you lessons when you least expect them. For years, I let the anger, shame, and disappointment of watching my mother battle MS shape who I was. Then, in 2021, I lost my father, and the grief left no room for more emotional walls. Thankfully, I found a counselor who helped reframe my trauma and set me on a path of healing. What had been a source of pain in my youth became the forge that prepared me for the challenges ahead.
Spring and summer of 2023 were filled with uncertainty as I began an aggressive medical treatment. My confidence on the bike took a hit. Still, I pushed forward, completing a 30-mile event in Steamboat, CO. Crossing that finish line brought a wave of relief and pride in simply getting there. But in October, I faced one of the most physically brutal challenges yet at a 40-mile race in Trinidad, CO. Unprepared and beaten down by the heat, I cramped up just four miles from the finish and had to drop out. A friend had to come pick me up, and as I licked my wounds, I began to seriously question if I should continue cycling at all.
Then, by what felt like divine intervention, I crossed paths with Starla and Gino in the campground where we were all staying. What began as small talk about the day’s struggles soon turned into a deeper conversation. Starla and I discovered we had both been diagnosed with MS around the same time. She introduced me to Distance to Empty, and I immediately felt a sense of community and purpose. That chance encounter gave me the encouragement I needed to keep pushing forward on my cycling journey.
Since my diagnosis, life has taken on a new level of intensity. I can no longer afford to put things off for later in life. New experiences and creating memories with friends and family have become my top priority. My bikes have become essential tools for making some of those memories and help me live in the moment. These machines, built of carbon and alloy, are now my weapons in the fight against an insidious disease. They not only help me build physical strength and resilience but also symbolize freedom and joy. For me, cycling serves a dual purpose: it’s a tool in my physical treatment plan and a spiritual quest to keep riding.
Throughout my recent journey in cycling and health, my faith and the tribe around me have provided the most encouragement and cultivated my strength. Family and friends—both longtime and new—have gathered by my side, bolstering my resolve to face the challenges ahead. My wife and daughter are my cornerstones, and with their support, no climb feels too steep.
We can’t control the obstacles life throws at us, but we can control how we respond. Let’s keep doing the hard things, no matter the odds. In the words of Dylan Thomas, "Do not go gentle into that good night."
LFG.