The Sun Is Going To Come Up | By Alise Willoughby The Sun Is Going To Come Up by Alise Willoughby

Alise Willoughby

U.S. Olympian, BMX Cycling TEAM TOYOTA ATHLETE JULY 25, 2024

The sun is going to come up

PHOTOS BY TAYLOR BAUCOM/The Players' Tribune

BY ALISE WILLOUGHBY

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The Sun Is Going to Come Up

By Alise Willoughby

RAFAEL NADAL

I was so young, and everything was so new. Every sensation. Every feeling. When you are 18, you have an extra battery that carries you on.

“

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By Anthony Joshua

Four quick beeps. That’s how it all begins.

BEEP! BEEP!! BEEP!!! BEEEEEEEP!!!! I’ve heard them thousands of times. Maybe millions. I hear them in my dreams sometimes. Or while I’m sitting around waiting for a flight. For so much of my life, they’ve been the soundtrack. Just four simple beeps. BEEP! BEEP!! BEEP!!! BEEEEEEEP!!!! As loud as can be. Right into my ear. Then a gate drop, and … I’m off. The beeps mark the beginning of each race. And the onset of the noise — fans yelling, parents clapping, the sounds of the tires on the track. But the thing that not a lot of people know about BMX racing is that … before those beeps? Before the rider announcements and the “Watch the gate” stuff? Before you pull up on the handlebars and take off down that hill? Before the yelling and the speed of it all? There is just…. Silence. It is the quietest moment imaginable. At least for me. When I’m walking my bike up that ramp that leads to the starting gate, I don’t hear anything at all. My mind is focused on what I’ve been through, and the people who are meaningful to me. And at this point, at 33, now that I’ve lived through some stuff, those quiet moments right before a race, they’ve gotten deeper. Early on, like when I was 14 and made my first international racing trip to Paris with my mom back in 2005, I’d be up on that starting hill solely thinking about my technique, or how to make sure I hit a certain jump on the course just right to maintain my speed. That’s all I really had to pull from. All I’d lived. Racing was my entire focus. Now, though? It’s the voices. In my mind, I hear my husband, Sam — his tips, and advice, and encouragement. I hear family members and friends telling me they’re proud of me, and that they have my back. And, more than anything else, I hear my mom’s voice. Clear as day. She’s telling me she loves me. And that she’s proud of me. And then it’s usually just her saying some corny, over-the-top inspirational thing. “The sky’s the limit!” or “Challenge is opportunity!” Mom stuff. Totally. In my head it’s just her being like…. “Fly like the wind, grasshopper.” Then, a few seconds later, it’s the four beeps, and I do my thing on the track. And then, before you even totally know what happened … it’s all over. In the blink of an eye. Like it or not. Win or lose. The end. You don’t really think about it in the moment. When everything’s happening and you’ve got so much to occupy your mind. There’s not really time to appreciate everything as it’s taking place. Because it’s over so fast.

When I was growing up in St. Cloud, Minnesota, my mom was always my biggest cheerleader. She did it all for me and my two older brothers. She’d shuttle me to dance practice or gymnastics on school days. Then on weekends she’d be out there with me at the gas station car wash fundraiser or bake sale, just talking with everyone and laughing and making sure everyone felt welcomed. No matter the event or gathering, she would always be trying to squeeze in one more conversation, or game, or hug. Whether it was a recital, or a school event, or a family birthday party, she had to say goodbye to everyone. It became what she was known for. People would be like: “Oh wait, wait, we can’t leave yet. We didn’t get a hug from Cheryl.”

And when it came to sports, my mom never put limits on me. As long as I tried my best and stayed safe, she’d never tell me no. There was no bubble wrapping of me going on. It was always like, “Yeah, sure. Give it a try!” So that’s how I was able to be out on the BMX track for the first time at the age of six. My brothers are older than me by eight and 11 years, so I was always the little kid tagging along with the older boys in the neighborhood. I had my dance and gymnastics friends that I played dolls with, and put glitter in our hair and all that, but I’d also be playing in the dirt and hanging out with the 15-year-olds riding these big jumps. It’d blow my mind to see them go that high. BMX was my brother’s idea initially, but I was definitely up for it. And Mom, God bless her, she was just like, “Why not?!?” Back then I had this little pink and green $50 bike that my brothers were always tinkering with and adding stuff to. When they’d use it for jumping off ramps into lakes with their buddies, there wasn’t really much I could do to stop them. But they’d always fix it up for me and have it back ready to ride. The first time I went to the track, we piled into our minivan for the one-hour drive — my mom at the wheel, and me in the back with my brother and his cool teenage friends. I felt so biiiiiig. But then we got out of the van, and I walked up to the starting gate and looked down that gigantic hill. It was like being on the top of a mountain. I was terrified. It was like: Nope. This is NOT happening. I just completely chickened out. I remember my dad not being all that bummed when he heard. I mean, Tuesday night golf league was scheduled at the same time, and it was a trial BMX membership period, so after my epic fail, he figured he could at least get the membership money back and keep golfing on Tuesday nights, right? Mom put an end to that idea real quick. “Give her some time,” she said. “She can do it!”

So the next week, we went back to the track, and I did do it. I’d seen all the trophies my brothers had won, and the opportunity to have one of my own was just too good to pass up. I made it down that hill just fine. Then, at one point, I took a bit of a spill, and I remember wanting more than anything to just sit there and cry. But there’s this screaming coming from the other side of the fence. It was my brother: “Come on! Get up!! You can still win a trophy if you hurry!!!” That was all it took. He said the magic word. TROPHY I heard that and it was like: OK. Snap out of it. Let’s go get that thing! After the race, when they handed the little trophy to me, it was the greatest feeling in the world. I didn’t let go of that thing the whole way home. I just stared at the tiny gold biker on the top and grinned a never-ending grin. Six-year-old Alise wouldn’t have traded that thing for a million dollars.

By the time I headed over to Paris to race as a teenager eight years later, I’d competed hundreds of times, all over the country. I’d heard so many beeps by then. And won a lot of trophies. My dad had to stay back and work, and my brothers were a lot older by then and not as into the racing scene anymore. So it was just me and my mom in Paris. We had an absolute blast. It’s hilarious to think back on now, because we were definitely the stereotypical tacky American tourists the entire time. And we loved every minute of it. It was like Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, double-decker buses, eating baguettes, all of it. I literally bought a souvenir shirt with the word “PARIS” written on the front in big capital letters … and wore it while walking around Paris. There may have been berets. It was way, way over-the-top, and, you know what…. I regret nothing. We had the absolute best time. A few months later, I turned pro and started traveling much more to race. That’s when Sam, my future husband, entered the picture. We met when we were 15. Two BMX riders. In Brazil. Faces full of dirt. So glamorous, right? Sam grew up in Australia and had some BMX DVDs as a kid that I was in. So he actually knew who I was, and, depending on who you ask, he maybe already had a crush on me. He MySpaced me after Brazil. We met up a few years later at the World Championships in China. Traded jerseys. Had awkward high-schooler talk, since I was an outgoing All-American girl, and he was a more quiet and focused Aussie until I got him out of his shell. He moved to the States by himself just after his 17th birthday and ended up at our place in Minnesota for some of that time. You know, the typical stuff. Standard love story stuff you hear all the time. Sam walked around our house in his skimpy undies, and wore a stopwatch around his neck, and was ridiculously regimented with his hydration and stretching schedule. It was quite surprising at first. Especially for my dad!

Less than a year later, in April of 2013, my entire world got turned upside down. Sam and I were at an event in Southern California and my parents texted me one of those messages where you get it and it’s like … Hmmm, this is not your normal text. It was something like, “Hey, when you guys get back, we want to talk to you about something.” Ooof. Why do parents write texts like that?!?!? Anyway, of course, Sam and I were both racking our brains trying to think about what they might be wanting to tell us. You worry about so many different possibilities. Your mind goes to all sorts of places. Horrible places. Also some good ones, though, too. Like: “What if they want to tell us Dad got a big promotion, or that they won $100,000 on a pull-tab?” I don’t think either of us in a million years thought it was going to be…. “Mom’s got cancer.”

You literally lose your breath when you hear something like that. Those words. You hear them and … you can’t breathe at first. And, in this case, it actually somehow got even worse from there. “The cancer, it’s pretty advanced at this point.” It turned out that Mom had noticed a small lump near her armpit and asked to have it checked out. It came back that she had Stage 4 melanoma cancer, and it looked like it was spreading throughout her body. So Mom and Dad, they’re telling us all this. Laying it all out. And Sam and I are just sitting there, phone on the table, speakerphone engaged, listening to the words being spoken, in total shock. Mom, I mean, of course … she said all the right things. She did the best she could — told us she was ready to fight this with all she had, that she was going to beat it. And you could tell that she meant it. She was ready. She really was optimistic. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. My mom had always been my everything — everyone’s everything — and now, out of nowhere, there was the very real possibility that, I mean … that something really bad might happen in the near future. I cried so much. Sam, too. In so many ways, and on so many levels, it just didn’t seem fair. Mom was always the positive one, the helper, the person everyone looked to for inspiration and support. I remember my dad being like: “Damnit, I’m the one who does all the wrong things. I’m the one who you could easily see this happening to. Not your mom…. “It definitely shouldn’t be Mom.” But it was Mom, and for a while there it actually seemed like cancer had met its match. Or at least she made us all feel like she had everything under control, that it was only a matter of time before she got all better. The whole optimism thing, all her positive thinking, all that stuff really was front-and-center during the chemo treatment. When she said, “Everything’s gonna be just fine,” and told you not to worry? I’m not gonna lie, sometimes I really did believe her. One hundred percent. And at first, aside from a little weight gain, you would’ve never known what was going on. She was still the exact same person, same energy, carrying her light with her everywhere she went. Of course, Mom wanted me to keep racing while she was doing the chemo. And anytime I tried to push back it was always like: “Don’t be ridiculous. Go ride. Come on now. You think I’m going somewhere? No way. You’re stuck with me!” So I’d go ride. And I’d crash. A lot. I definitely wasn’t present and focused like I usually am. I wasn’t all there. So I crashed. Again and again. I bit it so hard at this one race in California that October that I really messed up my shoulder. At that point it was like: Enough is enough. I’m going back to Minnesota. I need to be with Mom.

I’m so glad I decided to do that, too, because things spiraled fast from there. We celebrated her birthday on December 19 with tons of friends and family at a restaurant in St. Cloud, and she looked great at that point. She had a beautiful wig on, and that trademark smile lit up the room just like always. She was so happy, so full of life. But a few weeks later, I knew something had taken a turn. Her favorite singer had always been Pink. So when I found out she was going to be playing a concert in Minneapolis in January, it was like: This is PERFECT! When I said we should go, she was just like — and this must have been so hard to do, so hard to tell me — she just said…. “Oh honey, that sounds great. I’d love that. But. I just. I don’t think I can do it, Alise.” Less than a week later, the doctors told us the cancer had spread to her liver, and that there wasn’t much more they could do. That same day, I was supposed to leave for the season-opening race in Reno. And, of course, I was like: “No way I’m leaving. I’m not going. Absolutely not!” Mom would have none of it. “You need to go do what you love. I’ll be OK. Go race. I can watch. Please, for me.” I was in no shape to compete. But I went. And the whole flight out to Reno I bawled the entire time. All alone on that plane, writing in my journal, crying my eyes out. I was an absolute mess. But when I got there…. Mom was watching, you know what I mean? I had to make something happen. I won both days of the event. I don’t even know how, but I did. It was meant to be. As soon as it was over, she called me. “That was awesome! I’m so excited!! I am so proud of you, Alise!!!” Two days later, she was gone.

I made it home just in time to say my last goodbye. Mom died on January 14, 2014. The wake was held three days later, on my 23rd birthday. I had thought about skipping the season after she passed, but a few months later, I was back on the track in England at the first World Cup event of the year. I knew she would’ve wanted me to keep racing. (I could actually even hear her, in my head, telling me to keep racing.) I flew overseas, and in my first big race without Mom around, my foot came unclipped at the start, so I was hesitant on the first jump and landed wrong. I broke my tibial plateau at the top of my shin, right below my knee, and needed screws put in to stabilize my leg. At that point, to be honest with you, I almost called it quits. I just remember rehabbing and being on crutches and trying to potty train our new puppy, Mila, in our three-story condo. Sam’s away racing. The dog is pooping everywhere. My leg hurts like crazy. And it was just like: What are you doing? Why are you doing this to yourself? It’s just sports. Real life is going on all around you, and this is what you’re doing? Hurting yourself. Over and over again? But, in the end, I knew Mom wouldn’t want me to quit. She’d want me to get even better.

I busted my butt, rehabbed like a maniac, medaled at the World Championships that summer, and then went on the best hot streak of my racing career. When Rio 2016 came around two years later, I knew my mom would have a front row seat from above. I felt like I was carrying her along with me — her legacy, her spirit, her energy. I wanted to make her proud. So, to earn a medal in Rio and see the flag raised? To have Sam and my family there? To know that my mom was looking down, with that big, friendly grin on her face? Closing my eyes on the podium and hearing her tell me she loved me…. I mean, it was bittersweet. But there was definitely a lot of sweet in there, for sure. I felt like maybe someone had hit the pause button on all the sadness and heartbreak. And it was so wonderful to have that run of positive experiences. But this isn’t the movies, you know what I mean? Life isn’t usually cut-and-dried that way. Like … You had a bunch of bad, so now you get the good! The bad? That’s done. It’s in the rearview mirror. I wish. But, yeah, once again it all started with one of those completely out-of-nowhere, unexpected, “Oh, that doesn’t sound good”–type phone calls. And let me just pause for a second to say: Man, do those things suck.

I’d just gotten back home from Rio. Late Summer of 2016. I was actually on my way to a Twins game, to be honored on the field. I’m walking into the stadium when I notice my phone buzzing. I had spoken to Sam a bit earlier, as he was headed to the track back in San Diego to do some training. So I knew it wasn’t him and didn’t pick up at first. But then it was another phone buzz immediately. It was a repeat call from the track operator of the track where Sam was riding. I pick up, and he tells me Sam’s had a really bad crash. The way his voice was wavering … after what happened with my mom, I was like … my mind immediately went to: Oh my gosh, is Sam gone? That second — or half second, or whatever it was — between when he told me Sam had crashed and then let me know his condition … it seemed like it lasted five days. But he eventually told me Sam was alive, and breathing fine, but that he couldn’t move anything from his chest down. They were going to be airlifting him to the hospital. I asked him to hold the phone up to Sam, and I told him I would be there as soon as I could. I remember I kept saying everything would be OK. But I was scared as hell.

I booked a flight immediately, but Sam went into surgery without me or any of his family around — his family had to come all the way from Australia, so they obviously took a bit longer to get there. I can only imagine how long that trip across the world felt. It was heartbreaking. I just wanted to get to him, you know what I mean? And be there for him. And hold him. He’d proposed to me a few months earlier, and we were set to be married in April, and when I finally arrived … the moment I got there, he looked at me and said: “You’re not marrying me. You’re not marrying a vegetable.” It was the saddest thing I’d ever heard. I guess he felt like he didn’t want to be a burden to me, or whatever. But, obviously, I wasn’t having it. I tried to be as strong as I possibly could be for him in that moment, even though all I wanted to do the entire time was cry. I remember squeezing his hand, and touching his arm, and it just being like ... nothing. Everything seemed unreal. It was like: This is Sam Willoughby! He’s basically Superman. No matter what the prognosis was, or the bad news the doctors were telling us, it was always like: You know who this is, right? He’s not your average patient. His whole life, he’s exceeded what anybody said he would be. So obviously he’s gonna just do that again. But the feeling never came back. And it was tough on him. To go from being a gold medal favorite at an Olympic Games to not being able to brush your teeth in a month’s span? That hits you right in the face.

Racing kind of fell away for me at that point. Real life hit, and it was like, racing … obviously I still cared about it, but it wasn’t the priority. It was all about Sam. And after my mom got sick, my whole thing had been like: Well, I still have Sam. We’re still strong together. So his injury hit me hard, too. Nothing about that time was easy. He’s so proud, and has always been so self-sufficient. It was difficult for him to accept help. And if you’re the person trying to help, as much as you know that, and try to be understanding, it can still get to you sometimes. You’re not proud of it, you don’t want it to happen, but … you’re human, right? I remember this one time, I absolutely snapped on him. Like: “I’m on your team, man! Can’t you see that? Can you just stop making things more difficult and just work with me here? I’m trying to help!” Sam was so gung-ho about walking again, and not being a burden. And I remember just screaming out: “Shut up, with all that! Enough!” Things turned for us when I told him about how my dad said to me that if he could have my mom back, in any way — in a wheelchair, at the hospital, whatever — he’d take that in a second. That hit home. It really helped for him to hear that and realize that he was still important. That he wasn’t a burden. And, from there, we got together and talked a ton about what would come next for us. Ultimately we landed on the perfect idea.

This was right around the spring of 2017, and I’d been talking a lot about calling it quits again at that point. It was like: Everything’s falling apart all over again. Mom’s gone. Sam’s paralyzed. I’m crashing in races again all of a sudden. Hurting myself. So it’s like…. For what? And Sam, he’s the one who brought me back around. But he was also like, “If you’re going to keep doing this, you need to be all in. Otherwise it’s dangerous. That’s when you get hurt.” He was so good at driving home that point, and making sure I stayed focused on what was most important. His big thing has always been: “You’re battle tested, Alise. There’s nothing you haven’t seen at this point. Nothing that can hold you back.” And this is someone who, not too long ago … he was the best in the world at this sport. So at some point, it just hit us. Sam would be my coach. A few months after we made the decision, in July of 2017, I’d finish first at the World Championships in Rock Hill, South Carolina. My first Worlds gold medal. On U.S. soil. It was a dream come true. At the time, I couldn’t have imagined anything better. But then, a couple months later, on New Year’s Eve, Sam became my husband, and he stood up at our wedding. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will ever beat that moment.

So we had our fairy tale ending. We absolutely could have rode off into the sunset and never done anything else in the sport and it still would’ve been a great story. But we definitely didn’t see it that way. Neither of us. It just seemed like there was more left to do, you know what I mean? I went on to have an undefeated 2018 season on U.S. soil, won another World Championship in 2019, won back-to-back World Cup races to open my 2020 season, with a couple more U.S. titles in there. Sam and I were such a force as a team. It definitely felt like an Olympic gold was within reach at Tokyo 2020. I put a lot of weight on that race. But when I got over to Japan, what can I tell you: It just wasn't my day. I took that defeat super hard. Got really down. But I have to give it to Sam again. Because he pulled me out of it. He really, really did. He made sure to get me around friends and family — people who loved and appreciated me for the person I am, not for how I did on the track. We got in our Toyota RAV4 and drove all around the country meeting up with all my people, my circle, and it really helped me to realize like … that’s all the validation I need. Initially, I’d waffled about doing that trip — packed, and then unpacked, the car like three different times — but it was the best thing possible for me. I felt so much love the entire time. And Sam and I had lots of talk time in the car. Figuring out all of the world’s problems together, and, yeah, just getting to ... look at the seven years prior and talk through everything, and come to grips with how hard it’d all been, and how resilient we’d been to make it through fairly intact. The thing I remember most, the thing Sam said, and continues to say to this day, that really helped me learn to embrace every moment, and take things in stride, and appreciate the ups-and-downs in life was him just looking me in the eye and telling me, “The sun is going to come up tomorrow.” Win or lose, triumph or tragedy, the sun will still come up. As much as Tokyo was a disappointment, the sun still came up the next day. That result wasn’t who I am. It didn’t define me. At the end of the day, I’m still me. Alise. The person. And, no matter what I do…. The sun will still come up. And the coolest thing is, now I realize … my reason for keeping this thing going, for sticking it out through everything … it wasn’t about Tokyo at all. It was something else. Something more personal and meaningful.

Paris. The 2024 Summer Olympic Games. The exact place where it all started for me internationally. The city where me and my mom had more fun than any mother-daughter team in the history of the world. I almost can’t believe it’s happening. If you would have told six-year-old Alise, the little girl who was scared to go down that big starting hill, that at 33 she’d be going to her fourth Olympic Games? And doing it as the reigning world champion in her sport? She would never have believed you. Not in a million years. She would’ve been like: “I’m just a little girl from St. Cloud, Minnesota, where it snows half the year. What kind of fantasy land are you talking about?” But this is real. Somehow. I’m actually on my way to France for the opportunity of a lifetime. And I could not be more grateful. I can promise you this: You won’t be able to catch me without a smile on my face in Paris. The smile will be a testament to all the support and love that I’ve felt over the years from so many special people in my life. And, more than anything, it’ll also be for Mom. No doubt about it. It’ll be that big, trademark smile that I got from her. I know my mom will be there with me in Paris. Along for the ride. And you know what else: She’s gonna be so proud of me. Not because I’m good at riding a bike, or because of how I will race. But rather because I’m doing everything I can to live my life the way she did — trying to lift people up, always being there for my family, bringing smiles to people’s faces, and making sure everyone I come in contact with knows that they are special. It’s funny, when you’re a kid growing up, you always say: I will NOT end up like my parents. I am NOT going to be like that. No way! I know I did. I remember being young and seeing all the things my mom would do, the lengths that she’d go to, and being like, “You are so ridiculous!” But then … I don’t know what it is, but one day you look up and you realize: Oh my gosh … I’m her.

Almost every day, I have these moments where I’m like: What would Cheryl do? Or, What would Cheryl say right now? It’s like; How can I put a smile on someone else's face? And make sure no one feels left out? When I see that little kid walk up, no matter how tired or stressed I might be, I have a really hard time turning away from that because I’m like: You got to bring everybody in, Alise, make them feel welcome. That’s what Mom taught you by example. She was just the best person, you know what I mean? I loved her with all my heart. And I miss her so much. Sometimes … I don’t know if other people out there have experienced this, but there are random times when ... she was always the first person I’d call when something important happened, and so I’ll have this big piece of news and go to call her, and I momentarily forget, and then it’s like … Oh yeah, that call doesn’t go through anymore. It’s sad, obviously. But, at the same time, at this point I kind of know exactly how she’d respond anyway. I can hear it in my mind. Plain as day. And that’s really cool. I just wish I could give her a hug, too. I’d give anything in the world to hug my mom in Paris again. But you know what, at the same time … there are two things I know for sure. First: The sun is going to come up tomorrow. And second: My mom absolutely knows how much I love her. She is so much a part of who I am, now more than ever. My dad probably notices it the most. And I don’t think he even knows it, but when Sam and I got married, on our wedding day, he said something to me that is the greatest compliment I’ve ever received. Something that moved me deep inside, and that I will never forget. It will stick with me forever. He said, “You remind me so much of your mom.”

ALISE WILLOUGHBY

The way his voice was wavering … after what happened with my mom, I was like … my mind immediately went to: Oh my gosh, is Sam gone?

“

ALISE WILLOUGHBY

At the end of the day, I’m still me. Alise. The person. And, no matter what I do…. The sun will still come up.

“

ALISE WILLOUGHBY

It was Mom, and for a while there it actually seemed like cancer had met its match.

“

But before long, we all fell in love with him, and he and my mom became great friends. They’d go and grab coffee together and talk for hours while I was at school. They were two peas in a pod. By the time London 2012 rolled around in the summer of that year, it was a given that Sam would be going. He’d just won Worlds and was ranked No. 1 overall. Me, though? That was a different story. I’d had some injuries — including a brutal LCL and hamstring blowout that required knee surgery — the year before, so I really had to grind to make the team. It didn’t look great there for a while, but my mom … she basically just willed me to do what I needed to do to make it to the Olympic Games. She kept telling me how much she believed in me. Over and over. That she knew I could recover from the injuries and be better than ever. Then, I kind of just did what she said I would do. It didn’t end up how I’d hoped out on the track in London, but just battling through the injuries to be in that position felt like a huge win. Plus, my mom and my whole family were over there and got to see me on the world’s biggest stage. And Sam came home with a silver medal. There was a lot to be proud of. And, for both me and Sam, it seemed like nothing would be able to stop us going forward. The future was so bright right then.

ALISE WILLOUGHBY

We met when we were 15. Two BMX riders. In Brazil. Faces full of dirt. So glamorous, right?

“

Four quick beeps. That’s how it all begins.