That day I gained the nickname "endo" for setting a record seven times flying over the handlebars. I put my crank 1/2 into my right calf, I bled from almost every extremity. I bruised every extremity. I rolled down 15 feet of a 60% grade after hitting a sandbar at 20 miles per hour. I realized that a no-shock bike does not go over eight inch rock walls. I scared my leaders because my legs were more red than tan. I ruined a pair of shorts.
A few things changed mentally that day:
First, I realized I did not like Superman, because imitating him resulted in pain. From then on, I supported batman's awesomeness and psychologically intriguing rogues gallery.
Second, I realized I did not find the adrenaline rush of pain addictive like some.
Third, I swore off mountain biking. Why leave a perfectly good road?
Three years ago while home-teaching one of my good friends (isn't it funny how home-teachees become the best friends?) he challenged me to come out with him on the trails around our home. The area we live in is actually quite a mountain biking hotbed with courses and single-track trails in abundance. I promised I would, eventually.
Today I kept that promise.
Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results.
My friend let me borrow a nice trek mountain bike, and we went up into the hills.
It took me less than ten minutes to reestablish my nickname, and nearly kill myself.
Sadly, the story does not involve any real challenge. He took me to the mountain bike equivalent of a bunny hill wood A-frame. Three feet up, three feet down. Nothing fancy. I gained the necessary speed, leaned forward, and noticed my tire moving to the side, no, make that off the side.
The bike went completely vertical with the rear tail following over the top. I ducked to roll out of it like one would road biking. I came down on a triangular shaped rock which could have made my wife a millionaire, but just ruined an expensive set of glasses and my helmet.
My body collided with the surrounding timber and rocks, puncturing the skin on my leg and giving me all sorts of road rashes. I crunched, and completely ruined my shorts. Feeling quite cheeky, I stood up; upset mostly because my friend took his 7 year old on these tracks and did not apparently have any problems. My pride and other nether-regions were significantly injured.
I successfully crashed three more times, bruising every (again) extremity of my body before the day was done. A bike with 4 inches of travel does not win against an 18 inch rock, and I lose against the crossbar. every. single. time.
Promise fulfilled. That won't happen again.
At least for a few weeks...
1 comment:
I'm glad you're at least alive to write about it. Ouch.
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