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"Every time you go out riding, I don't know if you'll be home or not!" |
Words by Richard Belson
Sometimes, and you'll likely agree with me on this one, it's way too easy to lose perspective on how so much of what we ride is perceived as insane by many people outside our proverbial riding bubble. Take, for instance, the fine, hard-working young ladies I buy my coffee from habitually. (I'm convinced Starbuck's puts crack in their beans, but that's another story in itself.)
Anyhow, it just so happens that some time a couple weeks ago when I was setting in to write one of what will likely become one of hundreds of un-published pieces, I noticed across the street where they're building the new Sofa King or whatever it is, that they have created the best line to hit the suburban trials world in decades. It has 'Big Back Wheel Move' written all over it. It's Sofa King Great!
I grabbed my trusty steed and headed down to have a look. It was everything I was hoping for and more, and once I was there, new lines presented themselves. It was bliss. The aforementioned barristas happened to see me riding, and it has forever altered our usually passive exchanges into them ensuring I've survived my latest travails, and kindly requesting that I be careful. Interesting...
Photo courtesy of Frankowski Images
Outside our little microcosm of what we consider everyday riding, there are people whose idea of dangerous is still walking up and down stairs or crossing the road against the traffic signal. While we all consider what we do second nature, to many others, the sporting life we lead resembles something reserved strictly for EXPN or the blooper reel on Real TV's Darwinism special, only without the mullets.
I think the time this fact presents itself most evidently is when I introduce a new romantic interest to what I do. Luckily, most people living in the Lower Mainland are somewhat attuned to the whole mountain biking thing in general, but many neophytes are still way out of the loop when it comes to just exactly what we are doing when we steer beyond the green veil of the trailhead. North Shore Extreme and the Kranked series haven't exactly reached pop-culture status yet, and until they do, every one of us is going to have to gently break potential mates into the fact that we ride the way we do.
So here I am, having met someone new, and she asks what I do. I tell her I'm a writer, and she asks what I write about and what I do in my spare time for fun. They have the same answer, but unfortunately that answer usually just scratches the surface of what it's really all about.
Inevitably, the Shore and stunt trails come up, but I tried to downplay the severity a little just so she didn't get freaked out too soon - you know, to allow an emotional bond to form in spite of what I do on a bike - then leak a few more details as I go.
Imagine telling your parents for the first time that you're really into Marilyn Manson. Only there is no adolescent rebellious joy in it, and you're met with the shock and horror on the face of someone you hope to share some quality time with. This isn't good.
When you are firmly established in your thirties, the rebellious attraction thing seems to take a back seat to having your partner be mobile and able to care for you in time of need, not eating through a tube in hopes of a miraculous advance in spinal cord repair technology.
Ultimately, when she saw the chest, leg and elbow armour that have become standard fare on most of my rides, it was like she'd found a Manson T-shirt under the mattress of my futon and she instantly started to clue into the fact that this could actually get me hurt...Badly.
"No, No!" I assured her, hoping she would disregard the two devastated ankles*, countless rib cracks and undiagnosed hand, wrist and thumb sprains I have endured over the past few years. "I only ride what I know I can do." Unfortunately, there have been three recent incidents that have sent her poor heart racing with worry, none of which were a direct result of me doing something completely daft.
Photo courtesy of Frankowski Images
First of all, there was the time the dog stepped on the teeter-totter on the last log ride at the end of Lower Boundary just as it was supposed to go down and seamlessly allow me to finish the eight-foot-high balance line. I stuck the landing (sort of) with the help of my virgin chest armour, and was left with a hole through the front of my favourite riding jersey and said chest armour, and a bit of a welt on my ribs. The problem was that I told her all about it. Strike One.
After re-assuring her it was a freak accident, and that it never happens to me (gee, where have I heard that before?!?) I swung the bat a second time and missed when I sent her a few links to trials film trailers ... with the bloopers. Oops. Now, not only do I have to justify riding on scary balance lines coming down the side of a mountain, I have to make flinging myself from handrail to handrail on my back wheel without touching my feet to the ground sound like it's not completely stupid. This is even hard to justify to mountain bikers, never mind potential life mates.
The third strike wasn't even my fault. I wasn't even riding. I stayed home because I had work to do, and I was feeling a little off my game anyway so I decided to play it safe. Then my buddy Karl, who is one of the most skilled riders and dirt jumpers I know, had a freak mishap just after the first drop on Wild Cherry (not 50 metres in) and demolished the MCL and ACL in his left knee. I felt the wind from the pitch sailing by me, right down the centre of the plate, just as the words left my mouth. There was no going back. I was called out looking.
"Richard!" she said, "I feel like a fireman's wife. Like every time you go out riding, I don't know if you'll be home or not!"
Now, I'm not about to change how or what I ride. In fact, she said she couldn't allow that to happen, but I guess I am having a self-inflicted look at how injuries can ruin a season, and even affect the rest of your life. I will always have to ride with ankle braces, but that is completely acceptable, considering when that BB spindle broke, I thought I'd never walk again. I will also never go eight months off my bike again. It's just not worth the five seconds of adrenaline that dropping an extra six inches will give me, though hitting that gap jump toward the bottom of Ned's was a pretty big step for me - worth every possible tragic outcome. I pulled it off all three times unscathed - I just don't like falling, so I just choose not to do it. Simple.
I don't have any fires to fight, but there are lots of tall ladders to climb and poles to slide down when they're green and wet. Not too much to worry about, really.
* For the record, I use the non-clinical term "devastated ankles" because after 36 X-rays and five doctors, all they could do was shrug and say they weren't sure what was wrong ... other than all the soft tissue being squashed in both of them from a dead vertical landing to concrete and ensuing broken BB spindle. Devastated, like so messed up even the highly paid professionals couldn't even comprehend it. They said they were sprained. I disagreed. Devastated like I'm thankful every morning I wake up and can still walk and ride my bike.
