"Holy crap dude, you okay?" are not the words you want to hear twenty minutes into a mountain bike trail ride with friends, but Craig had said them, and he was talking to me. Was I okay? Hadn't really thought about it. The last few seconds had been a slow-motion blur (if that makes any sense), and the end result was me splayed out on a rock with my bike blanketed on top of me.
And the day had started out so well.
It's not every year that us Colorado residents get to ride dirt in late January. In fact, come to think of it, in the seven winters I've lived on the east side of the Rockies, riding bikes in January would be a first. But the sky was blue, there was nary a puff of wind to chill the bones, and my buddies Isaac and Craig were up for getting some outside miles in. Put that all together and that's Ma Nature and her second cousin Chance saying "I don't know why we're doing this, you clearly haven't done anything to deserve it, but here you are, a golden day in January. Jack Frost is busy keeping things unseasonably cold in Florida anyway." Thanks, Ma. So I took advantage, I grabbed with both hands. Kitted up, bike dialed in, it was time to get after it.
We took off from the parking area, riding faster than normal to get warm, Isaac taking point with Craig and I working to keep up in his wake. Riding in Palmer Park is always an experience. The trails seem to have a mind of their own, arrayed almost purposefully contrary to your view of what a "proper" trail should be. Zigging when you think it should zag, smooth when you're expecting rocks and roots, and of course, completely unforgiving when you're ready for an easy spin. Rock drops, roots running on a bias to your intended line of travel, step-ups that you can barely get your front tire over, and step-downs that you know, you just KNOW, are going to have you nose-wheeling, suspension entirely compressed, seconds from failure and carnage.
I used to hate riding in Palmer Park.
When I say I used to hate Palmer Park, I mean that up until a couple of weeks ago, I hated it. I had been riding there for four years. Admittedly I wasn't riding there often, and wasn't riding anywhere else that had constant, challenging terrain close to the level of the Park, but I detested riding there. "Where are we riding today? Oh we're riding at Palmer? Sweet... oh wait, we're riding TODAY? Sorry, I have to do my hair..."
Now I never really said that, but I may as well have, because for four years, even before I had turned a pedal over at Palmer I knew I was beat. I knew I couldn't hit a drop, knew I couldn't clear a step-up, knew without a shadow of a doubt that those sneaky roots would slide me right off the trail. The really tragic part of this whole mess was I didn't wreck often. How could I have, when I would walk anything I deemed dangerous enough to put my face on a first name basis with the local terra firma? Mountain biking? Not really, not so much. Weak of skill and weak of mind is a combination perfect for discovering that you do indeed suck at your hobby, your supposed passion. Your worst fears are confirmed.
So what changed? Perspective. Technique. ATTITUDE. Yes, Palmer is rocky. Yes, the chances of not riding everything cleanly are good. Yes, people will see you crash if you can't clean your line. So what? Stay loose, stay focused, and get through that rock garden. I dabbed a foot on that step-up, big deal. I'm out riding on a beautiful day with like-minded friends, there are worse ways to be whiling away the hours. Dang it, I'm down, crashed on that rock step. What happened? Didn't have my weight back enough, wasn't looking ahead planning my run-out. Let's try that again...
Which brings me back to Craig setting his bike down and running over to check out the damage to me and my bike, and Isaac turning back toward the commotion with a concerned, almost comical look on his face. Time sped back up and I re-played the crash in my mind. I had followed Isaac in on a line that looked difficult but the day was young, I had energy, and figured I could get through. I swung wide left of his line by about six inches, and had my confident outlook adjusted for me by a jutting rock. With my weight too far forward, my front tire couldn't release up and over the bump, and after the suspension went through its available travel, the tire had no other option than to stop. I, of course, continued my forward momentum, as did the back of my bike, in an outward and upward arc. I had too much speed, yet crucially, not enough to ride out the mistake. I held true to my crash pattern until I was almost inverted, perpendicular to the ground and then began a vertical, downward trajectory. I landed, exhaled a breath that was part profanity, part "ughoofbugluh," and had time to think "Man' I'm glad no one had a camera" as the bike slid to its final resting place on top of me.
A crash like that would have eaten me up just a few weeks ago. Even though I wasn't hurt and the bike was fine, it would have crushed my soul. But as Craig picked the bike off of me and Isaac came back up the trail to make sure I was okay, I was already figuring out that I was feeling strangely good. Actually, I felt great. It was like that spill had woken me up, and I was ready for more. I clambered to my feet, brushed myself off.
"You want to move on, Scotty?" Isaac asked, wary of my normal pattern of grumpiness and less-than-sterling fortitude in the face of adversity.
I grinned at him. "Not yet, man. I think I'm gonna take another shot at it."
~Scotty Mac
"The road less traveled sure got a lotta stones." ~Everlast
