Getting back in the saddle

I like to think I’m a pretty strong woman, mentally and physically. I’ve been through some tough times in my life and manage to emerge unscathed and only slightly scarred on the other side. But there have been times when some things absolutely terrify me.

Last year I bought a mountain bike and embraced it with a passion I didn’t know I had in me for a sport. I love the sound of fat tires thumping over needle covered trails. The whoop of satisfaction after conquering a particularly technical section of narrow tree lined single track or rocky terrain. In my first (and thus far my only) mountain bike race, and only the 5^th time I’d ever ridden, I came in second female. So I was beginning to feel fairly confident with my skills.

Then we went to ride in the mountains...

The first day of riding we encountered a downhill trail that sloped quite steeply to one side, had tall trees on the other, and lots of gravel and boulders on the way down. My boyfriend and riding partner headed enthusiastically down the slope with a smile on his face. As he disappeared around a corner I decided that it didn’t look that bad. I began my descent slowly using my brakes as I’d been taught – heavier on the back, lightly feathering the front. Then my front tire slid sideways when I went over a large boulder that had come loose - I panicked. Not thinking I gripped my handlebars bike tightly which also immediately and firmly applied both brakes and the next thing I knew I was lying on the gravel facing up the hill with my bike partly on me, saddle askew and many scrapes all over my left side. I lay there for a while, testing my limbs to make sure nothing was broken or bleeding profusely, and then gingerly rose, checked the bike to make sure everything was working and then proceeded to walk the bike the rest of the way down the hill to my waiting partner who was starting to worry about me.

Because we were quite a ways from the car, there was no option other than ride the bike back. He was able to refit the saddle for me and I tentatively got back on and rode. The rest of the trip though I found myself balking immediately whenever I was faced with a steep decline or anything that appeared to be remotely technical.

Each time I encountered one my physical self told me that I was fully capable as I’d ridden much of this stuff before, but at the last minute the mental held me at a full stop, remembering the terror of flying over the handlebars earlier in the week.

I was angry and frustrated at myself for the rest of the summer. I rode cautiously - and I didn’t crash once. Frankly, it was boring.

Because we had a wonderfully late fall, we were able to ride well into November. I felt like I was starting over again, but I slowly regained my confidence and was beginning to ride aggressively again by October. Crashing, although it hurt, didn’t worry me as much and I’d get up, dust myself off and laugh. Though I spent my fair share of time on the ground, I knew that it was because I had the courage to try. As Samuel Beckett once wrote: “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” I fail spectacularly some days, but I have a blast doing it.

That being said, I would rather crash 100 times on my mountain bike than once on my road bike…Oh wait...I already have ;0)