1
Sharp drop-offs surround me as my bike teeters on the edge of a cliff. I can’t seem to convince my racing heart that this is normal—exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. As a professional Mountain Biker, thisshouldfeel normal.
It never does.
Every single time I stare down a disgustingly steep trail, my pulse rises into my throat. It doesn’t budge until I make it back on solid ground. Even then it sometimes sticks around and moves up into my skull, making me nauseous.
I’m not sure why I keep doing it. I can’t seem to stop though.
My life is reduced to terrifying trail after terrifying trail and all of the monotony in between. I lose myself to anxiety as I pump up my tires and tune my shocks, all the while wondering if I’ll be able to convince myself to plummet to my death at the next competition.
I used to love it. I’m pretty sure I still do, but lately I haven’t been able to get out of my own head. This is my last year to prove to myself that I can do this. I made a promise to myself, and to my friends, that I would give this pipe dream one moreseason before I’m done. I’m twenty-five, it’s time to get it together. I haven’t been getting any better…or braver.
This isn’t even a competition day—we have one of those this weekend—and I’m feeling like this already. I’m not sure how I plan on dealing with the entire season. Reid is a mile ahead of me by now, just like he always is. Finally, I convince my legs to move, and I fly down the trail at a dizzying speed. Once I’m flowing, the overwhelming sense of doom tends to quiet at least a little bit. It’s hard to think of much else aside from not crashing.
My thick thighs are trembling from exertion. At least on event days, the ski lifts carry us up to the start of the trail. When we’re home, we have to bike ourselves up. I barely register the trees, moving too quickly to let my eyes focus on anything—until I spot Reid waiting for me by the trail head. He’s leaning up against the trail post, chomping on his beef jerky without a care in the world.
Sweaty and smirking, my favorite combination on him. The sight does nothing to slow my already hammering heart.
He leans forward to bump his fist against mine. “Addie! That was good.”
My eyes roll back. “We both know that was not good.”
Reid shrugs. “It was. You looked a little tense, but your form was perfect.”
He never looks tense—a natural on a bike. You’d think Reid has wings with the way he haphazardly tosses himself in the air.
This ride was supposed to make me feel more confident about tomorrow—and about the competition season as a whole. Instead, all it does is remind me how screwed I am this summer. Reid waves his half eaten beef stick in front of my face. “Come on, Addie. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
My voice catches, “Easier said than done.”
He looks at me with pity as he grabs my bike and our hands brush for a second. The gloves we’re wearing aren’t a sufficientenough barrier—it sends a shiver through me. He’s clearly struggling with both bikes, but he offered and I’m not risking touching him again.
I manage three deep breaths before I have to distract myself with my phone. Since I committed to riding this season, I haven’t been able to focus on anything for long. Another bead of sweat rolls down my cheek, and I’m once again pulled from my train of thought. I try to wipe it away but end up adding dirt to the mix instead.
The air conditioning hits me, drying the salt to my face as I wait for Reid to secure the bikes to the back of the van. This van will become my home after this weekend, and I still can’t wrap my head around that idea. I stare at myself in the rear view mirror, making a feeble attempt to clean the dirt out of my golden strands as Reid finally climbs in beside me.
I’m trying to avoid making eye contact with him by focusing on rubbing the splatter off of my rosy cheeks. I can only avoid the pull of his gaze for so long before I’m caving. I turn towards him as he instructs me, “Leave it. It looks cute.”
He pinches my cheek between his thumb and forefinger. My pulse is right back in my damn throat. And my entire vocabulary has made itself scarce—I stare at him, dumbfounded, until he takes pity on me and expertly maneuvers the van out of the trail parking lot.
I’m so fucked.
Sinking into the mud,I look down and yank my foot free, trying to distract myself from the competition in front of me. Reid is riding perfectly, like he always does. Apparently, that fact isn’t reaching my nervous system. I grasp for air where there is none.
Freeride mountain biking is inherently dangerous. We launch ourselves into the air trusting that when we land, we’ll be in one piece. It’s especially dangerous when there’s a downpour like this.
The men are riding today, the women are riding tomorrow. Each event is different—sometimes we ride on the same day, but men almost always get priority.
Naturally, they don’t want to waste the good dirt on us women.
I think that’s what keeps me going. Some rebellious streak in me is determined to prove to myself, my parents, and this industry that women can compete at the same level the men can. For years, the women’s division of freeride was hardly a thing. Now we’ve finally started to make some waves. I don’t want to be a coward who gives up and burdens us girls with a bad rep.
This trail is technical; full of sketchy drop-offs and rock slides. One wrong move and Reid could be paralyzed…or worse. Even the most confident rider can be brought down by a bit of rain, and I’m hardly comfortable riding in even a light drizzle. A few riders decide to pull out at the last minute, not wanting to risk their bodies or their bikes so early in the season.
Reid isn’t one of them. Of course he isn’t. He’s never been one to take the safe path. I’m both envious of and annoyed by his recklessness.
Shifting my weight, I accidentally splash mud up onto the back of Damien’s calf. Damien is my cousin, well, not blood cousin, but that’s the best way to describe him. Our families have been friends and business partners for as long as I can remember.
