Over the Bars

By Elizabeth Trickett

Deep Freeze

Long about March, I start to get the blues. Maybe it’s the lack of sunshine, or that the only Christmas present I’m still using is the spare tire forcing me to loosen my belt. I’ll let the skiers have their fifteen minutes, but it’s been months since I’ve felt the splatter of mud on my cheeks, or the electric rush from riding a skinny. To hell with April, March just may be the cruelest month.

I’m going through withdrawal and it’s a terrible feeling. Even alcoholics have meetings to comfort them in times like these. Surrounded by tables stacked with bike magazines, a refrigerator full of Fat Tire beer, and drawers stuffed with colorful socks and jerseys, I’m doomed and I can’t get my mind off that four-letter word. I’ve got the bike blues.

Even in the mildest of winters, it’s not the same. Mountain biking is about throwing on a jersey and shorts and feeling the dust in your eyes and the sweat dripping from your lips. It’s not about losing half a lung gasping cold air as you discover your Camelbak hose is as frozen as the trail itself. Sure, it’s better than being indoors, but nothing beats the charmed lives we live from spring to fall.

On days when I’m down at the depths of my blues, I find myself in local bike shops trying on baggies or eying new parts. I’ve even tried meeting up with my riding buddies during these blustery months, though I hardly recognize them, suddenly realizing that I’ve never actually seen anything above their eyebrows, much less the color of their hair. They all look so clean. This just isn’t right.

When I finally muster up to energy to throw on a pair of shorts and pedal in place, I’m greeted by the stories of previous summers. My legs may be as white as snow drifts, but they still tell the greatest tales. Rounded calves and the smooth groove on the sides of my quads are proof of burning climbs I refused to abandon. A tiny white scar on my right knee tells of my first race and the jagged rock that came between me and another rider. The mark on my elbow reflects the slow learning curve for perfecting bunny hops over logs and learning to trackstand. Another scar tells of the day I hit the trail following a thunderstorm, my tires suddenly sliding out as my shin slammed into a slippery rock. My leg throbbing, I somehow finished the ride.

In the meantime it’s back to spinning in the living room. The cycling computer says 200 miles, yet I’m still on the same square foot of carpet I started on back in December. In the glow of another sitcom, I visualize a newfound strength and endurance with every interval. I close my eyes and picture the tumbling rock gardens and the long fast descents where I catch a moment of air. I smell the evergreens and honeysuckle stirred by my hips as I brush through the tight corners. The only sound is the gentle clinking of the chain as it settles into a new gear. I keep spinning toward spring…