Mountain Biking Badass?
Okay, maybe not badass, but still pedaling
When I was in my early 20s, I took up mountain biking. My good friend, Chris, biked often, so I bought a bike to join the fun. Chris helped me select everything I needed to get started, taught me the skills required to build confidence on single-track trails, and pushed me to ride faster by riding close to my back tire whenever I was in the lead. I loved it.
When out on the trails, I didn’t think about anything else. I couldn’t, or I’d make a mistake and fall. I got good at riding over roots and even small fallen trees. I could pedal through stream crossings—once with an angry beaver slapping the water with its tail as we rode past. I got to see plenty of wildlife in the woods, including two black bears once on a trail up the road from my parents’ house.
I felt strong and capable when on my mountain bike. I used clipless pedals and became skilled at releasing my foot when needed. I’ll never understand why they’re called “clipless” when you’re literally clipped into the pedal. I mountain biked at least a few times a week, so the trails in my town became familiar. I knew exactly when I could coast and when I needed a quick burst of energy for an uphill section. I could predict when I would hit the more technical parts of the trail. My familiarity with my favorite trails was a detriment to a guy I started dating. I took him mountain biking and had to stop and wait so many times for him to catch up that I decided he wasn’t the one for me.
When I moved to Colorado, I brought my mountain bike with me, but quickly realized that riding here was a whole different game. Rocks were more common than roots, and my favorite smooth, flowy trails with gently rolling hills were difficult to find. Single-track trails in the West mostly involve steep slopes that require riding straight up and then rushing back down at speeds I wasn’t comfortable with, especially with all the loose rocks. I visited Moab in my first year living out west. I could handle the trail, but had trouble keeping up with the guys we met camping who offered to ride with my friend and me.
A year or so later, when I decided to get into triathlons, my mountain bike rarely left the garage. Between running, swimming, and road biking, I no longer had time to mountain bike, especially since it took more effort and required driving further from my house to the trails.
Fast forward 10 years, when my brother-in-law was hit by a pickup truck while riding his bike home from work, and I lost the desire to ride on the road. Luckily, my brother-in-law made a full recovery, but his accident shook me. I noticed that fewer drivers seemed aware of cyclists. I still rode on dedicated trails and in wide bike lanes but became less interested in sharing the road with cars. A couple of years later, when I moved to Evergreen, where there are fewer bike lanes, my road bike was the one left hanging in the garage.
I bought a new mountain bike—still a hardtail with 27.5-inch tires because that’s what I was used to riding, but with upgraded brakes and better front shocks. I started riding the trails in Evergreen, and tried one in Buffalo Creek with my husband that was over our heads for just getting back into single-track.
Being over 20 years older than when I was what I would call “good” at mountain biking, I found myself less confident, more apprehensive, and worried about falling. I decided to stick with flat pedals and take group classes to reacquaint myself with trail riding. I also don’t have the same strength as I used to, and sometimes tire out when an extra burst is needed to get up and over certain obstacles. I’ve gained a new sympathy for that guy I dumped for being unable to keep up with me all those years ago.
Mountain biking is challenging and engages muscles different from those used in my other activities. I find myself walking my bike much more than I did in my 20s, but the important thing is how it still makes me feel. Honestly, when I power over a big root or make a tight switchback with my feet still on the pedals, I feel badass. Like I can do anything. It doesn’t matter that just a mile back, I was cursing the loose rock that caused my back tire to spin out and forced me to push my bike up the steepest part of the climb. Every little obstacle I overcome on the trail is a win and gives me a boost of confidence to keep riding. I might not be as good as I once was, but I’m still out there, pushing the limits of my comfort zone. And that, my friend, feels good.
What’s one thing you do that makes you feel strong and why? Share in the comments.
