The Dabbing Left Foot

"Let's go for a mountain bike ride and trail run brick on Monday," Kevins says. Despite my newfound skills and confidence in cornering and descending through rock gardens, I reluctantly agreed to go. What the hell are you afraid of? I grumbled to myself. Falling? No. I've eaten more dirt, used by bike as a landscaping tool, and sacrificed more blood to the mtb gods than most. Going anaerobic? Not really. I am scheduled for an hour ride with endurance wattage, but a couple of spikes to clean some hills won't hurt. (right, Coach M?)

I sucked it up, suited up, and showed up in pigtails at Dryer Road Park. Our friend Joel showed up so Kevin had a riding buddy that was more his speed. I wouldn't feel so pressured to keep up with Kevin. I could ride my slow, conservative pace and work on my bike handling skills.

We motor up the trail with me as the lantern rouge. I try to keep my eyes on the boys to practice siting, but soon they disappear around the turns and the trees swallow them up. I can hear them chatting like 2 biddies at a quilting bee and follow their voices. The top of the trail opens up to 2 wide fields with trails leading into the woods. With the copious rain this summer, the meadow was ablaze in purple, yellow, and white wildflowers. The Queen Anne's lace grew tall to shoulder height. Wild bergamot and knapweed carpeted the fields in violet and pale purple.

In the 3 years I've ridden this park, I have never seen it so beautiful. I rode an extra lap around the fields just to take it all in before I dove into the more technical trails.

I turn down Z trail (named Ziggy for it's twists around trees and over rocks, I guess). The woods are luxuriously green in color and in scent. After riding straight, downhill, rocky trails in Vermont, I negotiate Ziggy slowly practicing my cornering. Tucked in the lush undergrowth are amazing mushrooms: chestnut brown ones the size of dinner plates, smaller teacup sized ones the color of orange juice, tiny thimble caps that are bright red. I make a mental note to get a book on Mycology and/or Wild Mushrooms of NY.

The boys find me and I tell them about my plant and fungal sitings. Kevin says,"Really? Bright red mushrooms?! I haven't seen any." Yep, it's time for me to focus on riding and leave the amateur botanist for a later hike. I try to follow Kevin and Joel through Ziggy but become squirrelly with the speed around the turns. Automatically, my left foot unclips and dabs. I react that way when I'm scared even though I KNOW with my entire mountain biking heart and brain that I'm more in control and safer staying clipped in and balanced. I slow down and ride within my comfort zone. The boys have pulled ahead and I can't even hear them talking anymore.

I turn down another equally technical trail with descents and the dabbing left foot makes a few more appearances. It causes my weight to shift forward during dowhills, catches on roots, and nearly causes an endo. It is my crutch that is crippling me! What the hell are you afraid of? I ask myself again, exasperated.

I am afraid of getting injured.

I don't want to break any bones or tear ligaments or tendons before Longhorn 70.3.

There I said it. It is that fear of injury that makes me slow down when I feel a twinge, a niggle, a pain in my knee, ankle--you name it, I've injured it! I'm not afraid of the pain--I've raced with blisters the size of my head on the soles of my feet. I'm not scared of blisters--they can't cripple me. But my IT band, the ligaments in my chronically sprained ankle, the cartilage in my knees can. And not being able to train because of an injury physically and emotionally SUCKS. I've done it so many times, before so many races (first marathon--which never happened, first HIM, first IM, first Highlander century) that I don't want to do it again.

So then what? Hit the brakes, unclip, and stick out my left foot (which will likely cause an accident which leads to an injury!) everytime I think I'm going to hurt myself? Should I just accept that injury is part of playing--that no one ever leaves the swimming hole, the swing set, the bike without training wheels without a scrape or bruise or even a broken bone? Should I get over myself and realize that every injury I've ever had eventually healed and that the only debilitating scar is the one in my head? Looks like the answer is a resounding YEP! Stay clipped in, ride, and appreciate the flowers and mushrooms.