Over The Bars
By Elizabeth Trickett

Rider Down

I’ve been lucky. In the couple of years I’ve been riding on singletrack, I’ve walked away virtually unscathed, save for the usual bruises, scrapes and the occasional trail body slam (bar end bruise tattooed on the ribs, anyone?). To the fearful rider (and to our mothers), danger is lurking behind every corner. We generally just don’t see it until we’re on the ground moaning, our friends pulling up the instant playback video or picture of our air-born antics. In my case, there was no one around (thankfully) and I was riding a trail I could pedal through in my sleep. But when I landed on my ankle, fighting to unclip as the bike crashed down on top of my leg, I knew this wasn’t the typical ice it and ride the next day injury.

Mountain biking is all about maintaining a certain level of toughness. Last year, in my first and only race, when I yelled to pass another rider, she didn’t hear me and our wheels collided, sending my knee into a pile of sharp rocks. Bleeding and fighting back tears as the rest of the pack raced by, I suddenly realized that no one was intent on stopping. The only thing that mattered was tearing to the finish line. With a swollen knee, I quickly shifted my goals, set on catching the pack and using every ounce of energy to finish the race. Since then, I’ve come to terms with the fact that summer means my legs are scattered with bruises. Among biking friends, it’s a right of passage. In this sport, sometimes strength is measured in scars.

With my swollen ankle, I continued to ride until the fear and pain got the best of me and I grew anxious on every log I tried to hop. That evening, I returned my bike to the shed, called the doctor and crossed my fingers. When the rush of adrenaline finally petered out and the pain set in, I knew that, despite the outcome, it would mean time off the bike.

Unfortunately, following an X-ray, the diagnosis of a badly sprained tendon meant a period of rest, and then eventually limited amounts of riding. At first, the diagnosis sounded like the perfect excuse for sloth and total laziness. But after a few days of kicking my feet up and plowing through a kitchen’s worth of junk food, I remembered that I could eat this way in the summer only because I put in long hours in the saddle. How do people watch TV for hours on end without throwing back a bag of chips? How else could I be a good, sedentary American? I decided to read instead. I scanned my coffee table for magazines—Bike, Bicyling, Dirt Rag, and Mountain Bike. Hmm…things were not getting any easier. Surfing the Internet wasn’t much better. All my bookmarks were set to mountain bike forums and websites.

I watched my friends plan rides and post pictures. My name was still on the recipient’s list for upcoming rides and festivals, which filled my inbox. They were clearly having fun without me, and I realized that I probably wouldn’t see them again until I was back on the trail. Suddenly I didn’t feel very tough. I felt fat, boring, and uncoordinated. I hoped for rain so I had an excuse to be inside. After a record number of sunny days, however, I was still moping around the house. Was three seconds of glory and the perfect bunny hop worth any of this? My social life, fitness, and mental health all rested on two wheels and I had suddenly disrupted the balance.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, I was back on the bike again, with the help of a brace. As I approached the trailhead and shifted into gear, it hit me how fortunate I was. My muscles worked, no bones were broken, and the bruises on my legs (including a fantastic baseball-sized blue and purple bump from the crash) had faded with time. This was my clean slate—a second chance. Now riding seemed like so much more than hitting a jump or impressing the rider behind me. It was a means of salvation, a way to escape—and to find—myself at the same time. I needed to pedal and to feel the stiff forest breeze on my face. For now, that’s all that mattered.

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