My husband, Dan, and I loaded up the car Saturday morning for one last mountain biking trip before the end of the season.
Or as I put it, "This is the last time we will have any fun, ever!" (I get a little dramatic when summer comes to an end.)
I had to go to a quick rehearsal that afternoon before hitting the road, and as I was leaving the rehearsal I was sent away with several disconcerting comments.
"Be careful," "Don't hurt yourself," and "Don't break your leg."
I shook it off, knowing that most of what I do consists of riding under five miles an hour. I am not above 'bailing' (or jumping off my bike) if I feel too out of control.
Dan and I rode the first trail without any problem. It has a fairly steep incline, and I used to struggle with it when I first started biking. So when Dan offered to scope out a second, more technical trail for me, I said, "No need to scope! I think I can just do it!"
The truth is, I could do about two-thirds of the trail. I had to take it slow because the path was riddled with large tree roots and rocks. It wasn't until the rocky, root covered path started to climb and wind around that the adventure began.
On the easier part of the trail, I told Dan he could go on without me since, as I have already established, I am slow and very cautious.
"The tree roots and I are fine. You can keep going."
Then I hit a tree root while trying to maneuver a switchback on a steep uphill, lost my momentum, and fell into a tree on the left side of the trail. Again, I wasn't going that fast, so it was more like I leaned into the tree. But my balance was thrown, and I started to topple off the ridge.
Most of my faithful readers will recall my gut-wrenching fear of heights, and the two things about mountain biking that terrify me most are that a) I will lose control of my bike because I hate losing control, and I am a control freak and b) I will fall down a mountain.
I began to do "b."
Luckily, the underbrush on the side of the hill caught me, and I didn't fall very far.
"Dan!" I yelled.
I had almost caught up with him by this time, and he was able to hear me right away. He rushed over and pulled me (and my bike) out of the trees. I walked the rest of the trail.
As we pedaled down the gravel road back to our car, I started feeling something weird on my leg.
"Is there a bug biting my shin?" I asked Dan. "It feels really tight down there."
"I don't see anything, but I can't really see your shin right now."
Back at the car, this is what we found.
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| This picture does not do my injury justice. It looks much worse in person. |
But, nonetheless, a lot of people had stories of fractures, broken necks and backs, road rash, and trips to the emergency room. Some people insisted that they would rather their children dirt bike than mountain bike.
"I don't think I'm that aggressive on my bike," I replied, but in the back of my head I was reminded of the surprised look on our doctor's face when Dan and I told her we were mountain bikers, but we had never broken or sprained any bones.
The friends who had cautioned me when I left rehearsal said things like, "I thought we told you not to break a leg."
I am proud to say that I got right back on my bike and rode several other trails that weekend without mishap. I did get lost one day when Dan and I split up on a trail, but that is another story altogether.
I went back to school the Tuesday after Labor Day, and all of the kids and teachers at school were very concerned.
"What did you do to your leg?" and I told them the whole terrific story. I realized I was sounding quite adventurous.
"I thought your cat got you," said one kid.
"No, it was much cooler than that."
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