So, I’ll do it scared…yet again.
I wonder if it’ll ever get easier.
Robbie announces my name, and my front tire starts dipping down the trail. The dirt is dry and dusty, and clouds of it flow behind me. The faster I ride, the more I can hear my tires digging in, and it grounds me.
I bridge the first canyon gap with ease—not anything crazy, but my speed is perfect, and my timing couldn’t be any better. The rest of the track plays in my mind like a movie. My nerves are starting to get to me, crawling up into my throat, demanding to be listened to. They’re going to need to wait.
Slowing down a fraction, I lift my head to suck in a deeper breath. It’s sticky and somehow dry at the same time. The sunbeams are hitting the dust, making the trail look like something out of a dream. I hit the rock garden with such precision there’s no need for any tricks. My tire glides over every rock perfectly, and I don’t hesitate for even a second.
A jump is coming up. I pick up speed and let myself relish in the wind. On my inhale, my front tire rolls up the incline hard and fast. I squat down and pre-load my suspension. At just the right second, I commit, and as my back tire hits the air, I lean backwards as far as I can without letting go of my handlebars.
I forbid myself from fear. Backflips are either fully committed or fully fucked, so I trust my timing is perfect and let the flip take me.
It feels like I’m upside-down for five full minutes. My feet are nailed tight to my pedals. I’m surprised by how easy this feels. I don’t know why I’ve never tried this before in a real ride. It’s incredible…like I’m flying.
The rotation completes without me doing anything. It’s natural, like this is my thousandth flip, not my seventh. For three glorious seconds, I’m floating as my bike rights itself and I prepare to land. My body weight is central and I loosen up my joints to prepare for impact. I pull the bars into my chest to make sure I clear the lip of the landing.
After that, the rest of the race passes by like it’s happening to me. I speed down the trail, letting the rumbling sounds of the crowd guide me. I can’t believe I just did that.
As I cross the finish line, I immediately look for Reid. I throw both arms up in the air as I slow to a stop. Everyone is cheering—loudly, the same way they do for the boys—and I’m shocked by how much I like it.
Finally, I spot Reid. He jumps over the fence line, ignoring everyone who’s telling him he has to stay behind it. As soon as he reaches me, he throws me up into his arms and twirls us in a circle.
There’s a lump in my throat. I can’t believe I did it. For once, I trusted myself, and it paid off.
He whispers near my ear, “I’m so proud of you, Addie.” I can barely hear it through the hard shell of my helmet, but my stomach still clenches.
I’m on top of the world. He drops me a little, but his arms catch just under my ass, and I relish in the contact. As I’m about to pile on another risk and crash my lips into his, a reporter comes over, shoving a camera in our faces.
“Baddie Addie in the flesh folks!”
Reid puts me down and shoves me towards the camera. “Go soak in the limelight, Blondie.”
Helmet free, I do my best to look into the camera and smile. The lights are blinding me.
“Addie, did you hear the good news?”
I don’t reply, just shake my head. My camera presence could definitely use some work.
“You’re officially invited to Red Bull Rampage!”
My heart stops. There’s no fucking way. I have no words.
Champagne sprays from behind me and soaks the top of my head. It splatters right onto the cameraman, and Reid steps over to apologize. The guy brushes it off and immediately turns the camera on Reid. “How proud of your girlfriend are you, Hasty?”
Reid pulls me into a side hug. “I couldn’t be prouder of my little Blondie.”
I’m a deer in the headlights, frozen, standing there staring back at the camera. Reid didn’t deny the girlfriend accusation. Surely he’s just keeping up his charismatic presence. Won’t this negatively affect his prospects for the weekend?
He shoves a microphone in my face, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.
“That’s the dream,” I say, scrambling for something intelligible.
Why did I say that? It sounds so cocky. This is fucking Red Bull. The Superbowl of freeride mountain biking, but I’m stone. Why is talking to the camera somehow harder than being upside-down thirty feet in the air?
They take pity on me and lead me to the podium, where I sit and awkwardly wait for the other riders to finish. A bunch of people come up to me, shaking my hand and telling me they’ll be rooting for me in Utah.
A guy named Steve comes over to let me know he’ll be one of my diggers once we get to Utah. Apparently I get a whole team behind me. You have to build out your own trails at Rampage. I know the guys get full teams, but I never actually pictured myself with one. It’s hard to comprehend that Iactuallymade it.
