“Don’t get hurt. You’re running a marathon next week,” Jenn yelled, as I began to pull the door shut behind me.
“Don’t worry,” I shouted back, thinking to myself, “Mother Hen.”
I took a sip of coffee and lifted my ride.
“What’s up?” Erik smiled.
“Nice day,” I said, “Let’s do some downhillin.”
We loaded my bike and went to meet the rest of the crew, Jim (AKA Wells), who overlapped with me for a few months when I worked at CNet, his nephew, Brian, and his nieghbor, Ronnie.
We listened to Jim’s hypnotic new didgeridoo CD, and packed gear.
I should have known this was serious when I saw the body armor.
We were on our way out for some freeriding at Fort Duffield, a Civil War historical site not far from Louisville and close to Otter Creek park, where I’ve ridden before.
Freeriding is a different sort of creature from your average single tracking in the woods, however. We were planning to ride strictly downhill, hitting jumps and drops, and using a Jeep to ferry ourselves back to the top to do it over again.
Jim and Ronnie are active downhillers, having taken a few trips to places where ski resorts have expanded their business into the summer by offering mountain bikers chairlift access to insane steep rides riddled with moguls and jumps most people wouldn’t walk over let alone fly off at high speeds on two wheels and fifty pounds of steel, aluminum, or carbon fibre.
Jim is the only person I know in real life who’s been airlifted off a mountain after a bike crash. He still rides, and I consider that hardcore.
I, on the other hand, am a nearly-forty-year-old with a spiffy new bike that has almost no scratches, new helmet, and new Zoic jersey that I snagged at a good deal on Steep and Cheap.
I’m a weekend warrior, the kind of guy who might take an expensive new Orvis fishing vest on a bought-and-paid guided flyfishing trip, who might read books about tying Northern Caddis flies, but who wouldn’t know a brown trout from a rainbow, except by the labeled watercolors hanging in his dentist’s office, and who would be the likely object of speculation on the subjects of masculinity and affectional orientation by other real fisherman.
It was sunny when we hit the trail, and fresh-fallen leaves, mostly oak and maple, decorated the trail in brown, red, and yellow–excellent day for a ride. We found our way to the first jump of the day, and Jim and Ronnie gave it a whirl. They flew like pros.
“Wanna give it a turn?” Jim asked, handing me his helmet and offering me the handlebars of his beast–6-inch shocks, front and rear.
I remembered Jennifer’s warning.
“Sure,” I said.
I came off the jump a little slow and without pulling up.
When I hit, the top of my body came forward over the handle bars.
I dumped, landing on my head and shoulder and smacking my right shin hard against the pedal.
I laughed, hoping that even though I came across as having complete lack of skills, at least I wouldn’t come across as weak.
I stood up and checked my shin: Bloody, but not so bad I couldn’t keep riding.
We rode a few more hours. I was reluctant to try anything I wasn’t sure I could handle and went right when the jumps were on the left. The sun shined through the trees and the leaves whooshed beneath our tires.
Jenn came outside as we were unloading after pulling up back home.
I noticed my shin was starting to swell, I couldn’t move my shoulder all the way around, and my chest was tender where I must have smacked it. I remembered the body armor and wondered why I didn’t at least borrow the shinguards. I considered whether running 26.2 miles in 7 days was going to hurt.
“Did he get hurt?” she asked.
“Mother Hen,” I thought.
“No,” said Erik, backing me up.
See Erik’s photos from the day out on Flickr.
October 29th, 2006 at 12:46 am
Costochondral sprain. Some blame such injuries on freeriding, but too much coding makes even a marathon runner susceptible!
October 29th, 2006 at 5:55 am
Absolutely. Thanks for backin me up.