Over the Bars

By Elizabeth Trickett

At Odds With Endos

I’m a self-professed scaredy-cat. I’m afraid of tight spaces, horror flicks and public speaking; even centipedes send me running. Oddly enough when I’m on a bike, however, I instantly become the girl without fear. The thought of crashing brings worries of bent components rather than broken bones.

I found out the definition of “endo” on a humid evening last summer. After ripping through miles of woods, the single track dumped us onto a fire road that was gritty and pothole-laden. As we cruised along at a good clip, I was overly confident and bunny-hopped everything in sight. Still fairly new to the sport, I had yet to learn the almighty power of the front brake­­­­- a loaded gun cocked and ready to fire at any time. What happened next remains a blur, but resulted in my left hand clumsily reaching out for a proper introduction with the silver lever. The time between rear tire lifting and jersey scraping along pavement was a fleeting moment of total silence.

Let’s face it; we love to witness a good crash. We even entertain ourselves with movies of nothing but poor suckers going down on their bikes. This is the best form of entertainment on two wheels. And you can be sure that when I hit the pavement, at least one camera appeared to document the occasion. Breathing was difficult, but I still found enough air for a few choice words to escape.

“Is my bike ok?” I asked softly. I could feel the hunk of aluminum being unclipped from my twisted feet and pulled off my aching back. Rolling helplessly on the pavement, I spotted a shifter pod several feet ahead of me. Luckily that was the worst of the damage and the perfect excuse for an upgrade.

A year later, only a scar remains on my elbow from where it skidded against the warm gravel road. The crash was an initiation of sorts, an instant golden ticket into conversations with fellow bikers, when talk turns from broken collarbones to tales of road rash and ambulance rides.

Every time I saddle up, I know there are rocks on the trail, off-camber turns and steep drops begging me to slip up and take my eyes off the trail. The dangers read like subtitles on a film, but I know my suspension will swallow them and my front tire will quickly roll to safety. As long as a centipede doesn’t crawl out from under a rock garden, I know I’ll be just fine.