For the better part of my life I considered myself clumsy, prone to accidents, often unaware of where the edges of my body end and the ground rises, the corner cuts, gravity grabs a hold without mercy. The combination of a exuberant nature and a mind that strays from the present moment does encourage clumsiness. As a child I buzzed with excess energy, waking on Saturday mornings in time to watch the farm report at 5:30 a.m. Even on the rare occasions when I succeeded in whining until my mom's resistance fell and she let me stay up past bedtime, or when I sneaked my way into the midnight hour, I still managed to learn about combines, pests and heard snippets of the Farmer's Almanac before the sunrise.
I discovered, when I learned how to downhill ski at the age of 24, that my body and mind can align with great results when I am physically active. I ran cross country and track through junior high and high school, and rode horses as a tween and young teenager, but there was a definite gap in recreation during my early twenties. The extent to which I moved my body included sporadic hikes, cruising on my bike around town, and dancing whenever I had the chance. Add a sport that requires balance, quick movements - both proactive and reactive - and a developed proprioception, and suddenly I became active, athletic and sometimes even graceful.
I found a passion for cross country mountain biking on a four day, 103 mile bike ride in Canyonlands, Utah on the White Rim trail in April 2010, at age 33. I bought my poppy orange Haro 29" hard tail, Maryjane, the week before that trip, and spent the time in between trying to figure out how to shift and slide my cleats into and out of the clip-in pedals. More often than not, I ended up on the ground with the bike still attached to my feet, and the image is as painful and embarrassing as the reality. The ride became a crash course - often literally - in basic mountain biking skills, even though it's on a jeep road and vast compared to single track. Just like day one of skiing, during which I fell dozens of times, biking on dirt, over rock and through sand made me fall in love from the first.
Over time I've made considerable progress in both. There is something delicious about the beginner experience, even more so when you arrive later to the learning opportunity. As an adult, being a newbie can evoke numerous fears, such as appearing foolish or inept, the potential for injury, or getting left behind in the dust. But to dare to try, to be vulnerable, to open to a new part of self, that can transcend fears and lead to the type of success that enhances other parts of one's life. If nothing more, it's freaking fun to play on skis, on a bike, whatever your game of choice happens to be, and to notice and benefit from new skills, small victories and even the defeats.
The best part of living in the Airstream in the middle of Jackson is that I can be on single track within 5-10 minutes, and I'm warmed up from getting there by the time I hit the dirt. This morning I rode pavement the mile and a half from home to the trailhead at Cache Creek. This Bridger-Teton National Forest area includes access for hikers, bikers and equestrians. There are miles of intersecting trails and they vary from easy to challenging as they wind up a narrow valley, parallel to or crossing over Cache Creek, through forest and across open meadow.
I've become familiar with the rocks, roots, twists and turns, climbs and downhill sections in this area over the last three summers. I started riding there as a relative beginner and feel confident to say I've reached an intermediate skill level. I rode Hagen as it meanders above the creek, minus the Staircase where I will probably always have to push my bike up the steep incline, and continued on, sweaty and breathing hard.
On the return route, however, I dared to try to ride up and over a foot high root that has been a nemesis. One attempt to ride over it instead of lifting the bike resulted in an instant hematoma on my elbow when I approached it with speed, then hesitated and slammed to earth with force. This time, bike and rider toppled over the bank. I am grateful that the spring melt has subsided and that only my right foot plunged into the creek.
I hauled Maryjane and me back onto the dry side of the path and laughed as I removed my shoe and squeezed water from my red and yellow zia socks. Attempts that lead to humorous outcomes rather than disaster must always be hoped for. One of these rides I'm going to make it over the massive root, no bruising or creekside encounters necessary.
When the way I live life seems awkward, when I fear to risk, when failure frequents my attempts, I remember the steep climb I used to walk and now ride, or the fluid movement as I pedal through tight turns when before I creeped through them at a snail's pace, and how I now enjoy the switchbacks that used to make me panic. To achieve success requires trial and error, again and again, until you succeed and then reach the next challenge. So I get back on the saddle, clip into the pedals, and enjoy being here, in the trees, under the sky, alive with the world.
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