We All Have Bad Days

“I haven't been able to make it up this since it rained last week – it's all washed out!”, I shouted, out of breath and pissed off. I stopped to watch my husband, Jason, as he effortlessly rolled to the top of the climb. So, I tried it again and bailed halfway up when my rear tire broke traction and I panicked. I stopped to compose myself and drink some water – it wasn't even 10 a.m. and the sun was searing hot – welcome to Arizona. I heard a cyclist behind me and turned around; he made it up and over, no problem at all. Whatever, he had a way nicer bike anyway. Then I noticed a girl coming up the hill, and it happened – I instantly wished she wouldn't clear the climb. Then it wouldn't just be me, right? Wrong. She owned it, and we happened to be riding the exact same bike. Shit. I halfheartedly attempted it a few more times before I gave up and called to Jason that I wanted to head back. I was mad at myself – for my lack of ability to conquer even the simplest obstacle, for my ruthless mental attack on a woman I've never met, and for my willingness to just say, “fuck it” and give up.

As we crossed under a set of power lines, my seat post zapped my thighs with each pedal stroke – awesome. Everything was infuriating – from the patch kit bouncing around in my seat bag to the sports drink that leaked out of my water bottle's cap and drizzled slowly down my calf. I needed something to wake me up, to punch me in the face and yell, “Hey, asshole! Just ride your bike and be happy!”. Then, like an ironic gift from the mountain bike gods, my front wheel came to a dead stop on a downhill section and I wasn't riding anymore. There was an eery moment of silence before I hit the ground, arms outstretched and bike following shortly behind. I opened my eyes, fairly certain that something on my body must be broken. I could feel the tiny rocks ingrained in my knees, and drops of blood peppered my bike's frame. I clumsily stood up and began walking my bike toward the direction of the trailhead, my heart was pounding and I was strangely smiling. Jason kept saying, “Andrea, just let me take the bike.”, but I wouldn't let go. I started walking up the next hill, but stopped on the edge of the trail to sit, or throw up – I wasn't sure. My left thumb was starting to swell and my forearms were covered in road rash but I was so full of adrenaline that it didn't really matter.

A short injury assessment in the shade

We walked together up the hill, and I decided to ride my bike back to the car since it would be faster. I coasted to the parking lot, barely holding on to the handlebar, having to use mostly my right hand. I was starting to shake as I took my front wheel off to load the bike into the car. A guy parked next to us loading his dogs into the back seat said, “Hey, how was your ri – oh, damn! You fell good!”. He proceeded to tell us a story about his most recent over the bars experience, which happened on a motor scooter in front of a crowd of people. I tried to listen, but put most of my efforts into not puking on his shoes. We got into the car, and I sat there, covered in drying blood and with a navy blue thumb; the first words out of my mouth were, “I'm glad that happened, I needed that”.

Smiling, yet also realizing I had to pick pea gravel out of my skin