Up to now, it’s been a good ride, maybe even a great ride, but this is something else! What a rush! Slammin’ down this hill, I’m trying to stay in a narrow, rutted something that’s supposed to be a trail. I’m bouncing so hard that I lose a pedal, and think I am about to kiss it goodbye. The “trail” is only about a foot wide, and rutted about three inches deep, with long grass growing over it, so I can hardly see. A good place to bust my butt, for sure.

My heart rate is too high to even think about, and I am focused as only one facing imminent death can be. I am talking to myself, trying to get it together long enough to cheat a certain and bloody death.

Hang onto the bike! Keep your eyes on the trail! Keep your bike on the trail! And get that (deleted) pedal back before you die up here!

So I hold on – what else can I do? I hold on, keeping the bike upright and under me by sheer force of will. I can see down to the bottom, and I’m almost through this valley of the shadow of death. Almost to where I can let my pulse get back below two hundred, when…

Oh, no! A hard right turn, and then right into a creek! Rats!
I have to slow down to make the turn into the creek, which isn’t much of a creek, really, but it’s narrow with a sharp turn on a steep bank down on this side, and then a steep hill up the other side. The creek’s like at the bottom of a big letter V.

So what’s it going to be? Slow down to have a shot at not going over the ‘bars in the creek, or risk a watery face-plant with some speed, and have a shot at making it up the opposite side? Sometimes life is just one hard choice after another. Slow too much for the water, and I walk the hill. Blast the water to carry my momentum up the hill, and I better hit the creek just right, baby, or I’m going to be picking sand out of my teeth.

Now, you need to know I am not a beginner at this. I have been over the ‘bars before. More than once. I have planted my face in alpine tundra, well above timberline, and down in the ‘burbs, on one of those wussy trails. I’ve got my share of scars and then some. But this was different. This was like choosing to ride fast right into a wall. Bummer.

Well, I better shift down, slow some and get my weight back on the bike, or it’s sayonara when I hit the water. Forget hotdogging. My momma may have raised some dumb kids, but I’m not one of them.

Okay, shift down. Slow a little, line up, gotta go between the rocks. Get your weight back. Here it comes! Splash! Through the creek I go, like a pro, water flying, and me cruising, still on top of my bike. Hallelujah!

Then, The Hill. Bummer.

I was so pumped about riding the creek, I forgot about The Hill. I made it a few yards up a thirty-degree grade, and blam! Stopped cold. I was in the wrong gear, with no momentum to shift down and keep going, and here I stand, looking at a hill-walk! Bummer.

Us mountain biker guys just hate it when we have to walk up a hill. Anything is better than walking the bike, even if it means pain, blood and scars.

Well, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. King Kong couldn’t get a start going up that trail, so I start up, schlepping my bike with me.

Bummer. It really was a good day.