In the end, I’m sitting on the trail, waiting for the adrenaline to drain from my system. Dave’s holding my mountain bike. I’m holding my ribs.
The curve rode well. My line wasn’t bad. But on the back side of that sharp turn I drifted too far left, where the trail gives way to a ravine.
Only last week I stood at this spot, eyeing the loose dirt at the edge of the singletrack, where someone went down into the weeds. Today, it’s my line that’s off.
Not all the way, but enough.
I’m still in control past those skid marks. But my vision won’t lift from the drop to my left, and the bike rides the track of my eyes, as if on a rail. Straying beyond any hope of recovery, I pull hard on the brakes, inadvertently locking the front wheel and cartwheeling forward with the bike.
All motion stops at a tree.
I’m half over the bars when I slam into a maple no thicker than my forearm, hitting hard, chest-first. Then I drop back to earth. When I finally disengage my right cleat to free myself, Dave takes my bike. I take a seat in the dirt.
“Now I know what it feels like to crack a rib,” I say in jest. Except it might not be so funny. And, it might not be a joke. After a few minutes, I eventually get on the bike and finish the last mile. But my ribs hurt. And I wonder if something really is wrong.
Not all the way, but enough.
10 miles — Westwood Park
