Adventures in Mountain Biking

It is time once again for another installment of my "Adventures in . . . " series because I have had yet another extreme sports adventure.

For those of you who are faithful readers of my blog, you can probably guess that my definition of an extreme sport is relative, and only couch potatoes and anxiety-ridden recluses would agree that an adventure has truly taken place.

On my thirtieth birthday, also known as my early mid-life crisis, I received a shiny new mountain bike from my husband. His intention, of course, was that I would learn to mountain bike and that we would have yet another mutual outdoorsy hobby.

We researched trails together, looked at mountain biking association websites, and read comments and tips posted by fellow bikers on message boards. I even learned some mountain biking lingo.

Oh yes - mountain biking has its own lexicon. For example, "bailing" means getting off the bike in a hurry, as a last resort (or first resort in most of my rides). "Singletrack" means a trail with only one ribbon of tread, which our mountain biking book describes as "pure fun" (until someone comes at you from the opposite direction).

After extensive research and Dan's reassurance that we would only ride beginner trails for a while, I was ready.

I've learned that an adventure is not truly an adventure unless I have a complete melt-down. And the first time I ended up on an unprotected mountain ridge, that's exactly what happened. Apparently, mountain biking requires one to ride one's bike up mountains every now and then.

I enjoyed all of my mountain biking experiences until that day in Sun Valley, and I can't even say that I totally hated this particular experience. But when I realized I had climbed up the side of a mountain on two wheels with no barrier of trees protecting my view of the valley below, I "bailed."

I stood on the side of the mountain, my bike the only thing preventing me from teetering over the edge into an abyss of grassy meadows.

"Dan, why do you always make me do things I don't want to do?"

Dan, who had been forced to bail as well, breathed in the fresh mountain air, peered over the side of the mountain, his toes dangling off the ridge.

"I thought you liked mountain biking."

Unfortunately, my husband has quite the memory. Just a half-hour earlier, I had been rambling on and on about the beauty of nature and how we should do this more often.

Unable to argue with his logic, I walked my bike down the hill. Eventually, we entered a patch of trees, and I was able to ride the rest of the way down the mountain.

When we reached the bottom, I said, "That was fun. Let's go on another trail."

Dan did take me on one more trail that afternoon . . . a very flat, greenbelt trail. He knows my mountain biking style.