A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again

I am usually drawn to fun/crazy/adventurous/dangerous/stupid activities and ideas. Anybody who knows me knows that. So when Rich proposed mountain biking, I was more than eager. Plus, my health insurance was in limbo, so why not fly teeth-first down an aggressively steep and rocky mountain on two wheels in the middle of Whitefish, MT.

We rented bikes and helmets ("Yeah, yeah, we've done this before." I lied to the guy at the counter of the rental office), took the ski lift to the top of the mountain, and tested our (lack of) skills on the terrain park. And I've never felt so unatheltic. And awkward.

But like any other part of this trip, I found my comfort zone after 10 or 15 minutes. What seemed like impossible hazards upon our arrival quickly settled into fun and routine feeling stunts. Rich had done this before, so his confidence in his own ability was legit. Mine, however, was a blatant lie. The teeter-totter was the most dangerous of the obstacles, so I made sure to test it until failure. Five or six times over it with no problem. "One last one - just to get a picture." That always ends the same way...


I don't know why, but I froze at the top. And that's not what you're supposed to do. And I know that. Especially now. A split second after the photo was taken, I fell off the bicycular-see-saw and collapsed into a pile, my bike tangled in my legs.

After making our way to the first aid station and getting my hands and arms bandaged up, we decided to head down the mountain. I had never realized that in many cases, mountain biking trails are no wider than a bike tire. That being said, the margin for error hovers somewhere around zero. Still, it was beautiful. And exciting. And terrifying.

With a camera around my neck and my sunglasses on, I uncontrollably navigated my way down the path, around less than comforting turns, over unforgiving rocks and logs, often veering off the dirt and into the grass. But then you hit a groove. And it feels right. And again, a false confidence buries itself in your heart and brain and you start to forget everything. You forget how to be smart. How to be careful. And you start going faster. And faster. And this goes on until you realize you're out of control. And in my case, this moment coincided with a bee flying under my helmet and into my ear. And without a thought, I took one hand off of my handlebars to swat at that wretched bee. Unfortunately it was my right hand. And in that fraction of a second that I took my hand away from steering, my remaining hand pulled the front wheel to a hard left, projecting me off the path, over my handlebars and down the side of the mountain.

While yelling a very emphatic "OHHH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!" my bike and I completed our first summersault together and I landed on my back just in time to cushion the fall of my new worst enemy (read: bike.) For a second I thought I was paralyzed. Or dead. But somehow I didn't break anything: bones, camera, sunglasses, etc. This was the path I took:

After fighting to get the chain back on the bike and then suffer through the remainder of the eight mile suicide mission, we dropped off our bikes and hobbled back to the car, pleased that it was over. The rest of the day was spent at a lakeside bar, contemplating whether or not I'd have mobility the following day.