Back in the saddle

by Amy White
April 4, 2000
(www.slowtwitch.com)


I got on my mountain bike last week and rode it around, off-road. No big deal, really, except that the time before last ended abruptly in an Incident I Don’t Remember. So it has been a while. There’s something about finding yourself on the ground, in the middle of nowhere, with no skin on one thumb, having absolutely no idea what happened and, further and more frighteningly, being unclear on a lot of other details of your life, that makes you a little bit reluctant to climb back aboard for another E-ticket ride.

But we’ve had a little bit of rain, and that has packed the sand down on the trails that are virtually right out our door, on the former Fort Ord. Lots of singletrack running through stands of oak trees, up and down valleys. Still, I hesitated. Then a friend started taking the kids out on Sunday afternoons. And telling people about it, and inviting the grown-ups along. Finally, his promises of "two hours of fun, all welcome" became too much to resist. Well, that and another friend twisted my arm.

So I climbed aboard my trusty HooKooEKoo. It was the first time I’d ridden it off-road since March, and only the second time since the Incident, which was in August 1999. Yes, that’s right. Been a while.

It’s amazing how you can get so scared about something that you really might not ever do it again, even if you used to like it. It’s like you become a different person.

Thing is, before the Incident, I was not a particularly good mountain biker, but I had worked my skills up to what I’d call the "passably fair" level. I was decent. I could descend with some guts. I could climb with some determination. I didn’t ride enough to get good, if that were even possible, but I was happy with fair-to-middlin’.

Sometimes I think I didn’t understand the risks, and hence had little fear. I never thought about broken collarbones, or losing consciousness, or picking rocks out of my flesh. For sure it was better that way.

The first time I rode—really rode, you know, with intent—on a real mountain, I was alone. I drove up to Aptos, to the Forest of Nisene Marks. There is no more magical place to ride or run on the Central Coast than here, in my very humble opinion. Thing is, professional mountain bikers ride here. It was only on subsequent visits that I began to notice them, gliding past in small groups. It is not an easy place to ride, especially once you climb past a certain point. Because it’s all up, up, up… and then, well, you know, it’s down, down, down.

I went up pretty far, until I felt like I didn’t want to climb another foot. Then I turned around and pointed my bike back down the mountain. It was a white-knuckle ride all the way. I kept thinking of George Jetson: "Jane! I can’t stop this crazy thing!" It was hilarious, especially in hindsight, because I really didn’t have any idea what I was doing. Instinct took over, and I discovered that I might have some raw skill, if only because I did not leave body parts on that mountain. Either that or it was beginner's luck. When I got back to my car, I could hardly believe what I'd done.

But back on the fort, now, I discover that inner daredevil has gone missing. We mount up and I can barely steer, I'm so bloody nervous. My friend Mark takes us out. I am immediately off the back. I do not care. I tell myself, Staying upright is the goal. Remembering the ride, start to finish, is the goal.

Soon, we're in the woods. Thankfully, the trails are familiar. Of course it’s been a while since I’ve ridden them, but at least I know them. It would be hard to get lost. We regroup a lot. I am frequently last to pull in. I am bothered by this only because I don't want to hold anybody else up.

After a while, I look down at my cycle computer. We’ve ridden six miles. I smile to myself. Those are six more miles than I thought I’d do when I woke up. They’re like pages in a book, and I put them there on my own. We’ve been riding for a while, but it doesn’t seem like it. I feel my confidence coming back, seeping in around the edges of my soul. I remember how to descend. I remember to be light, to think light, and to relax. I follow Mark down a short drop-off to another trail and laugh, amazed at what I've just ridden down. I tell myself, you definitely wouldn’t have ridden that alone.

Of course I can't climb for beans, in part because I have equipment challenges related to my fear: I have regular platform pedals that shoot my feet right off of them as I try to grind up up a hill. They have little teeth on them, and I end the day with little ankle bites up and down my calves, just like always.

I should tell you here that my bike and I have a storied history. I have thrown it down a hill. I have fallen off of it. I have fallen onto it. In short, I have abused the living h^*l out of this bike. Still it waits for me to mount up again. I think about that as we ride along, my bike and I. I think maybe I have missed it, but I am still not sure.

Time passes. The ride gets a little more challenging. Still, I'm upright. Not smiling, necessarily, but not unhappy, either. We turn back for home as the light begins to fade. Mark shows us how to pop a wheelie. I laugh. Maybe next time.

Then, without warning, I find my mind running a familiar pattern: I start calculating, like always, how much it would cost to get rid of those damn pedals. And whether clipless would be more, or less, terrifying. When Mark suggests a shorter stem, I start thinking about that, too. Optimism through investment, I guess you'd call it.

I look back down at my computer. Nearly 13 miles. An unlucky number, eh? You could say that, but I see it this way: Each mile helps me find the way back to the adventurous person who got a sidetracked a little while ago.

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