The Weight I Was Carrying and Why I Removed the Scoreboard.

Part 2 of a Personal Wellness Series by Jamie Gruttadauria

Before the bike became a habit, before consistency or structure or momentum, there was a stretch of life that quietly changed me.

It wasn’t one moment. It wasn’t one decision. It was a season.

A season shaped by loss, uncertainty, and a kind of emotional weight that doesn’t always have a clear name. I was still showing up. Still working. Still doing what needed to be done. But internally, I was operating in survival mode.

There were people close to me that we lost — one followed by another.

The first was a longtime friend, someone I grew up with, someone who had been part of my life since we were kids. Losing him was jarring in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it — the sudden realization that someone tied to your earliest memories is just… gone. It forces you to confront time, fragility, and how little control you really have.

Not long after, we lost my father-in-law during the pandemic.

He wasn’t just family. He was a major father figure in my life. I had known him since I was seventeen years old, from the very beginning of my relationship with my wife. He was steady, grounded, and carried a work ethic that showed up in everything he did. He believed deeply in work before play.

Those values became foundational for me over time. They shaped how I approach responsibility, commitment, and showing up — not just in business, but as a husband, a father, and in how I care for my own health and well-being. So much of who I am today can be traced back to the life lessons he modeled, and I carry a deep gratitude for that. Losing him in that moment — when the world already felt upside down — felt like losing an anchor.

At the same time, business was anything but stable. The pandemic created extreme highs and real lows, often back-to-back. Wins didn’t feel secure. Losses felt heavier. There was no clear sense of what was coming next, only the constant pressure to adapt, react, and keep moving forward.

That combination — personal loss layered on top of professional uncertainty — shaped my mindset more than I realized at the time.

From the outside, it probably looked like effort. From the inside, it felt like endurance.

When Putting Yourself Last Becomes Normal

Somewhere in that stretch, I stopped paying attention to myself. Wellness became optional. Rest became negotiable. Movement became something I’d “get back to later.”

I told myself it was temporary — just a hard season, just something to push through. But the truth was, that season kept going. And the longer it went, the more disconnected I felt from my own body.

The signs were there:

• low energy that never fully returned

• mental fog that followed me everywhere

• a sense that I was always behind, even when I was moving

I wasn’t just tired. I was worn down. And when you live like that long enough, you start to forget what feeling good even feels like.

Why the Bike Mattered More Than Fitness

That’s why getting back on the bike mattered the way it did. It wasn’t about training. It wasn’t about performance. It wasn’t about becoming “a cyclist” again.

It was the first thing I did that felt genuinely for me. Those early rides gave me space — not to solve anything, not to fix anything, but simply to breathe. To move. To exist without being needed by anyone or anything else for a short while. And because of where I was mentally, I knew something else mattered just as much as the riding itself: how I approached it.

Removing the Scoreboard on Purpose

Early on, I made a very intentional decision — one shaped by experience.

I left the technology out of it.

No bike computer. No tracking apps. No Strava uploads.

Not because I’m anti-technology. Not because data is bad. But because I knew myself well enough to know where that road led. The last time cycling was a big part of my life, I followed a familiar path that a lot of riders do. You start out riding for fun. You improve. You add metrics. You start chasing numbers. Before long, rides stop being something you want to do and start feeling like something you have to do.

“I have to get this ride in today."

"I can’t skip — it’ll break the streak."

"That one didn’t really count.”

I knew that mindset would have broken me in that season.

I didn’t need more pressure. I didn’t need more expectations. I didn’t need another area of my life where I felt like I was falling short. So, I removed the scoreboard entirely.

Riding Without Needing Proof

For the first few years back on the bike, there was no public record that I rode at all.

No data to analyze. No rides to compare. No need to justify why a ride was short, slow, or cut early. Just me, the bike, and how I felt when I got home. Some days the rides were short. Some days they were emotional. Some days I turned around earlier than planned. And all of it was okay.

That freedom changed my relationship with movement. Riding became an outlet instead of an obligation. A release instead of another task to complete. It gave me a way to process everything I was carrying without forcing answers or outcomes.

In a season where so much felt out of control, riding became something I could choose — gently, honestly, and on my own terms.

Carrying Less Doesn’t Happen All at Once

Nothing magically lifted. The weight didn’t disappear overnight. The grief didn’t resolve. The stress didn’t vanish. But something important shifted. I started carrying it differently.

Movement gave me space. Consistency gave me confidence. And removing pressure gave me room to heal without needing to explain why. Before I could change how I ate, how I trained, or how I structured my days, I had to rebuild trust with myself. This chapter wasn’t about progress. It wasn’t about results. It was about creating a foundation that wouldn’t collapse under expectation.

Looking back, this chapter wasn’t about rebuilding fitness — it was about rebuilding trust.  Trust that I could show up without forcing it. Trust that consistency didn’t require pressure. That foundation changed everything. Because once movement became steady and honest, it exposed other habits that weren’t serving me. What I ate, how I recovered, how I treated my body outside the bike — all of it came into focus. That’s the story of what came next.

What’s Next

This is Part 2 of a multi-part series. Movement was the first thing I rebuilt because it gave me space and clarity. But once that foundation was in place, it exposed other habits that weren’t supporting the life I wanted. In the next blog, I’ll share how that awareness led me to rethink how I was fueling my body — not through dieting or extremes, but through intention, consistency, and respect.

Later in this series, I’ll also share a more personal story about unexpected inspiration — including how watching my son commit to his own transformation became one of the most powerful motivators in my journey.

About the Author

Jamie Gruttadauria has spent over 35 years in the cycling and fitness industry, working in specialty bicycle shops and fitness equipment stores since the age of 16. A lifelong outdoor enthusiast, and trail rider at heart, he believes movement is best when it’s sustainable, intentional, and connected to nature.