The Girl On Bike: A Mountain Bike, A Mid-Life Adventure and Men in Shorts

Author

INTRODUCTION

Standing in the kitchen, my hands in fists at my side, I thought, Surely it won’t end like this? But there was no stopping the stream of hurtful words, screamed at me until the blue veins in his neck bulged and his spittle hit my face. I was almost hoping he would strike me so I would have visible signs of his abuse. It would make it so easy to file the report, pack my bags and leave. I would be able to look in the mirror and see the color of pain; red and purple and bruised brown, instead of how it had coursed through me unseen, a strong, invisible current that had pulled me along this river of false hope and fear for too many years. I had been slowly drowning, quietly, like a small child unattended in a pool of water, making no sound, surrounded and surrendering to a sinister power I did not know how to overcome. Until this moment.

Deepak Chopra says, All great change is preceded by chaos. But why do we have to experience suffering, pain, loss, cruelty, or great misfortunes in order to engage great change? Why can’t we skip the rocky roads? Don’t you just wonder?

Masters and mystics tell us the only way to solve a problem is not to go around it, but to go through it. I’m sure each one of you has faced the mountain or the tornado or the madman, and wondered how to escape adversity. But I’m here to tell you the only way to triumph is to ride right into the center of it. In the eye of any storm there is a calm, I promise you. There is a space, an energy, a knowing you carry within you that will teach you how to be free.

This is a story about my journey, my search to re-discover myself. But it’s a journey many of you have also taken -- whether you have chosen a bike, or running shoes, a paintbrush, a computer or a set of drums.

In Girl On Bike, you will discover how a frightened and fragile woman recovers her inner power of strength, embraces her outer beauty and uncovers the magic of healing and grace that exists in the outdoors. You will learn the secrets of redemption that being in nature teaches me about forgiveness, freedom and fun. Along the dusty bike trails, accompanied by the kindness and kinship of new friends and companions, you will understand why I revel in dirt, sweat, tears and how a few bike mishaps teach me that bruises and bumps will always be a part of life. And as long as you choose your friends wisely, and keep your heart open, you can make it through anything. In reading along, you will share the victory that belongs to everyone who braves the chaos that precedes great change.

When I was 16 years old, I traveled as a foreign exchange student to Paris, France. I was thrilled with the idea of such adventure and experience. I felt so brave and alive! My daily diary was filled with detailed descriptions of the beautiful places and people I met. I imagined a life as a magazine writer on my flight home. But my rosy ideas of life as a traveling journalist lay locked away in my diary as life showed up with other ideas and challenges. I married young and had my daughter Leah when I was 20 years old. After being a single mother for six years, I married again at 28. I opened a business when I turned 35 and worked six to seven days a week for the next twenty-two years. Along the road of my life, I’d let go of adventure, I’d forgotten how to play and working hard seemed to be what I did best. I became a very successful businesswoman, but a very unhappy girl. Until the day I found, again, the courage I once owned. And the bike and the wilderness trails that led me back to her.

In the midst of this mid-life adventure; on the trails with the dirt, the wildlife, new boyfriends and wild scenery, she came back to me. The girl inside showed up and I knew this was the time and place to tell her story. At 16, she was alive and well and full of promise. But at 50 she was ready to kick ass and set herself free.

Our instincts push us toward the very chaos that is our only ticket to freedom. It’s a far more wonderful world -- filled with great adventure and fabulous people -- than we can imagine, when we’re stuck in a place of discontent. So I encourage you to leave the job that doesn’t appreciate you or the relationship that sucks you dry. Get on your own bike and ride through the fear and uncertainty. The girl inside you is the one to trust. She is waiting for you to say yes.

Chapter 1

THE FIRE TRAIL

Get a bicycle. You will certainly not regret it, if you live.

— Mark Twain

The July morning is cloudless and almost cool. At 7:30 a.m., I’m already on my bike to beat the heat that would soon be coming up and over the low hills surrounding Aliso and Woods Canyon Wilderness Park. I’m planning my two-hour ride before the sun gets too hot to enjoy.

I ride into the parking lot along the bike path that runs past my apartment about a mile from home. The moment my tires leave the pavement and roll onto crunchy gravel and dirt, I‘m immediately connected to a raw power that travels from dirt, to pedals, to shoes and up through my hands gripping the handle bars.

Riding past mountain bikers unloading bikes from cars and trucks, hikers forming their groups and runners doing their pre-run stretches, I feel invisible and like a fraud. Who am I to think I belong here in the wilderness, on a bike, at my age? I take the question and stuff it into my back pocket. I have just learned how to bike the trails, and the joy I’m discovering out here, on a bike, on the dirt, pulls me forward.

I choose to ride the single track that winds alongside the paved road through the first mile and a half into the park. The wide-open canyon in this first section provides me with the warm-up I need to feel reassured for the next section of uneven dirt trails, rocks and ruts. I have been riding into this park on Sundays for less than a year. I ride alone and I’m still hesitant about my bike skills.

The rising sun is at my back, my shadow riding ahead of me, front tire in pursuit. She looks like she knows exactly which way to go and how fast, and where to avoid the big rocks and ruts. I follow her.

At the end of pavement and single track, the fire trail beckons to the right. The entrance to the deeper recesses of the park, the doublewide dirt road, is called a fire trail for its ability to allow a fire truck to make its way in when needed. Park Ranger trucks can also drive in when repairs on the trail are required.

I roll past the wide steel gate, past two outhouses and official park billboards with wildlife warnings and photos. Rattlesnake. Coyote. Hawk. Assorted flowering plants. Bobcat. Mountain lion. This is their protected home. I’m just visiting.

There’s a wooden bench in front of a small horse corral. I stop there to take a breath and watch the other experienced riders enter. One or two nod hello. They ride like they belong to this wild place, all self-assured and dirty, handling their bikes between their legs with ease and grace. I back away, trying to blend into the browns and greens, hoping my insecurity about taking up space isn’t obvious. The morning scent of sage and dirt and sweat mix with the dusty air stirred up by passing tires.

I ride.

As I relax a bit, and loosen my grip, I take in the view of the surrounding hills and caves and rocks. Jostling over the uneven terrain, I feel power pumping through my thighs, and my connection to the forces of gravity, air, earth and sky plugs me into my senses beyond anything I have experienced before. I feel untamed.

As I pedal on, my physical energy increases. I feel very hot. Not hot like the weather, but hot, as in, sexy. I feel a rush just before I reach the turn for Mathis Trail at the end of Coyote Trail Run. I stop underneath a shady grove of scrub oaks and drink some water.

A group of guys rides past and they turn to look.

Hey, you okay? One of them waves his gloved hand towards me. He’s tall in his saddle and kind in his smile. Thirty? Thirty-five? I take a quick look at the others. Muscled and sweaty and young.

Yeah, I’m good. Just taking a break!

I smile. They all smile. One looks at me a bit longer than the others.

Not yet a year of almost weekly rides and this morning, I suddenly feel like one of them: a real mountain biker. Today, something has changed, as though I have left all of my insecurity at the entrance for good. I feel like I’ve stepped into this new version of myself that wasn’t here yesterday.

There is an unspoken, sacred pact out here, and suddenly, today I have been seen, greeted, included. I have joined this group of outdoor adventurers without saying a word, just a wave and a hello. And that is enough.

A couple more riders pass, nod in greeting. I feel the trees above me, and the dirt under my feet. Sweat trickles down the center of my back and under my arms. My thighs are pulsing from the exertion. My breasts rise and fall with my breath. I unzip my jersey to cool myself.

This erotic feeling from being out here in nature, surrounded by all things earthy and boys riding by is new to me. I place my bike between my legs, lift myself to the seat and pedal on. I give myself permission to release the hardness within and feel the softness of the freedom out here on my bike, in the dirt, all sweaty and dusty. Until this morning, I did not fully understand the power that draws me out here; draws all of us here. Healing. I am being healed. I am being awakened. I am being born again.

I’m feeling the Zen of it all as I pedal two more miles, almost to the end of the fire trail. Feeling lighter, stronger and surer about my space on the trail, I stop at the bottom of the hill that leads to the end. That climb will have to wait for another day. My efforts are spent. Today I have ridden farther than ever before. It is good enough.

I sit looking over a steep drop into a creek, breathing in the cool air and listening to the frogs and chirping birds. Overgrown trees generously shade me and a few other bikers that have chosen this same spot to cool off. There’s a T-intersection here joining the fire trail and another small trail that heads up a dead-end hill. It’s one of my favorite stops.

I sip water from my bottle and eat my two fig bars, while I compare my shoes and helmet to what the other riders are wearing. Those who’ve stopped to rest, sip water from their Camelbak backpacks that carry water, drinking hose attached. I make a note to buy one soon. My own water bottle in its holder is crusted with dirt, making it a nuisance when I need to drink.

I could stay here for hours; the shade is so comforting, and I’m filled with the beauty of nature and its sounds surrounding me. I’m too shy to start conversations out here, so I’m thankful when two other riders mention what a perfect morning it is for a ride. I notice their bikes tires are much thicker than mine; the tread is knobby and their frames are heavier. Their helmets offer better shade over their eyes because of an attached visor. I make a mental note. My eyes are sensitive to sunlight; the visor is a good idea.

After a few minutes, I turn around and head back down the trail. The trail has a slight downhill grade, bumpy and uneven. I keep to the right as bikers and hikers head past me on the left. A twoway road with no markers, only dirt and rocks and tree roots coming through.

I ride with my newfound confidence and begin pedaling faster and faster.

I am picking up speed and feeling euphoric; the breeze whooshing by, my shoes pushing hard against the pedals, flying through the arroyo, seat off the saddle a bit as I roll over rough spots. I pass the sycamore grove, crows jabbering high up on the branches. I hear the sound of air through my wheels. My bike purrs.

It feels so good on the seat above the ground – the speed, the wind, the scent of a morning spent in nature. I fly past groups riding in, feeling cool. I’ve never been cool before. I fly down the trail, down a fun small drop and over another small creek, with ease. I can do this. I know I’m showing off now but I need this. It feels unbelievably wonderful. A total body rush.

I ride fast through two creeks and over a wooden bridge, the sound of the planks going klickety klack, leaning into the turns near the old corral.

On this straightaway, I have only smooth sailing. I pedal harder still. I’m riding faster than anyone coming in or out. My back tire is making a dust plume and my heart is pounding. A few more minutes and I’ll be back at the entrance gate to the fire trail.

I am almost out of the park when I come to a turn that seems neither difficult nor dangerous, but I lose control in a patch of deep sand, and in a split second my bike and I come crashing down. I smash onto my right side as I slide across the trail through the dirt. My head and right shoulder thump onto the ground, the dust swirling around me as I come to a screeching halt. I am momentarily stunned and dizzy as I try to get up and get the bike off of me.

Gathering my senses, my immediate concern is to get off the ground before more bikers turn the blind corner and ride right into me. I try to stand up but I’m still too shaky. On my hands and knees, I drag the bike off the trail to the side, and sit back down to catch my breath and assess the damage to bike and girl.

There’s some blood on my legs and I taste dirt. Brushing it from my lips, I try to concentrate and figure out what I’ve done wrong. Luckily, I crashed solo and didn’t take anyone down with me. I was in the middle of a group of riders only moments before and I feel so grateful I have hurt only myself.

Five minutes later, a group of riders comes around the corner and discovers me sitting in a dirt bath from head to toe, blood oozing from my right arm, looking spaced out and war torn. In a matter of seconds, other groups of riders have stopped, gathering around to check out the accident scene.

Two riders stop and immediately get off their bikes and kneel down on either side of me. I look up to see riders pausing on their bikes to look down at the mess I’m in. The woman named Mary and her male riding companion who have set their bikes aside to help, talk gently to me and check out my injuries.

He asks if he can help take off my helmet to check for dents that might indicate serious head trauma. As I lift my arms, I catch sight of the bloody and missing skin. I make an injured girl sound. Another guy standing nearby takes off his backpack and produces a gauze bandage and ointment. Damn, I think to myself. There is dirt stuck to my lip-gloss and I know I look ridiculous.

Upon Mary’s suggestion, I remove my gloves, which are filled with dirt. The group around me has grown to twenty now and I’m convinced they are all wondering how the hell I managed to crash on such a flat and easy road. I am a dirt freak: covered in it, eating it, seeing through it, my sunglasses so coated I have to take them off. Mary helps brush my hair, matted with it, back from my face.

The removal of my left glove reveals the gravity of the collision. The group gasps. My left thumb tip is dislocated and bent sideways, then forward. It is frozen in that position; a gaping hole exposes tendon and bone.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. A sound escapes from my lips. I am close to passing out when I see a guy grab his cell phone. Okay, he says in an unexpected Russian accent. Time for the paramedics.

Someone takes out a camera and asks if they can take a shot of the weirdest thumb they’d ever seen. I smile and offer a bloody thumbs-up. My sense of humor revealed, the guys in the crowd start making jokes. I am going to be okay. Mary takes out a hankie and covers the thumb to keep us all from staring at it.

People in the crowd start to exchange injury stories and sleeves and shorts are rolled up to show off crash scars and bruises. One guy relates a story about losing control down Lynx Trail and flying head first over his handlebars into a huge boulder. He’s laughing about it now.

The crowd hangs around, waiting for the red truck and EMTs to show up. No one seems to want to ride off, for which I am grateful since I am starting to feel woozy. Someone suggests I put my head on my knees to calm down and breathe. The Russian says that if the paramedics don’t show up soon he can easily pop my thumb back in to place. I decline the offer.

I look up and take a closer look at the people blocking the sun above me, their forms giving me shade. The Russian stands in front, his thigh muscles bulging from his tight black bike shorts, his