Two weekends ago, we biked in Sun Valley.
When we returned from our ride, a trio of frat-boy-types called to me from the hotel balcony, "We have bean dip and beer if you want a post-ride snack!"
"We just ate granola bars," I yelled back, pleased that they saw me as a real mountain biker.
"That sounds boring!"
Then Dan got out of the car, and the guys hurried inside.
"They were flirting with you," Dan said.
"No, boys don't flirt with me. I'm too awkward and sweaty."
"I just think it's funny that they ran off as soon as they saw me."
Last weekend, we biked in McCall.
At one point, Dan and I passed a woman with two young girls parked on the side of one of the trails. We were headed downhill, and we slowed down out of courtesy to the young bikers (who looked less enthused about going up the hill than their adult companion).
"Oh, come on! Go faster!" the woman said. "We want to see some skiddy-skids."
"No thanks," I said, not sure what "skiddy-skids" were in the first place. Then I added, "Weirdo," once I was out of earshot.
A split-second later, I was glad I was out of earshot because that was mean. She was probably just trying to entertain the exhausted girls who didn't look like they cared one way or the other if Dan and I "skiddy-skidded."
On another trail, I zipped past two walkers who warned me about a big rock ahead of me, and I was like, "I got this." I was really enjoying this people-think-I'm-a-real-mountain-biker status.
By the end of my ride, I was so sweaty from wearing my rain jacket, I looked like I had been in a wet t-shirt contest. I changed into a clean sweatshirt, only to then look like I was lactating from my sports bra.
"It's like Pat's garbage bag in Silver Linings Playbook," Dan said. "You just sweated off a thousand calories."
By the end of our trip, I was on endorphin overload. Two lattes, a couple of puffs of albuterol, and seventeen miles of mountain biking will do that to you.
More mountain biking fun:
The Mountain Biking (Almost) Disaster
Adventures in Mountain Biking
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