I was sick as shit last week and missed BOTH practices—suck! Then I got to hear all about how aweeeesome practice was on Thursday. And how my teammate got to do all these super fantastic endurance drills without me—double suck, I looooove endurance training as much as TrAC/DC loves push-ups! After an entire week of inactivity, I feel like a slug. So, I decided to be extra ambitious this weekend, get all of my make-ups done, AND do lots of cross training. The weekend went something like this: fun skate Friday, dryland Sunday morning, and trail riding Sunday afternoon. Good times, right?
Since I am a derby girl, everyone in my sphere of influence seems to think I’m totally hardcore. So they think nothing of asking me to do shit that I find kind of nuts. Like TRAIL RIDING on a MOUNTAIN BIKE, when I have only been on a bicycle precisely three times (and that includes said trail ride) in the past 20 years! Now, don’t tell anyone, but I am, in fact, NOT hardcore. And I’m sure that most of you TRUE hardcore derby girls, thrill seekers, and risk takers, would think that what I did Sunday was merely child’s play. But it’s my story, so, it was totally hardcore!
I don’t really know exactly what I was expecting this trail riding experience to be like. I know that my best friend is positively terror stricken every time her husband suggests that he might want to take a ride out to the Hooper Road Bike Trail, so, that should have been something of an indicator. But, I hear “trail riding” and I think RIDE on a TRAIL. Not, ride over fallen trees, through ditches, precariously close to a small ravine (okay, fine, it was a ditch) and so on and so forth. But I was not to be deterred!
Moments into our ride, I began to think that maybe I’d made a mistake. This thought occurred to me as my life flashed before my eyes when I ran into a tree at the first fork in the road. I spent the next few minutes kicking the shit out of the back rim of my borrowed bicycle, the rim that I bent running into the tree. I really just wanted to pack it up an call it a day at that point. Buuuut, the thought of anyone calling me the P-Word was just too much for me to handle. So, I huffed and puffed up and down, up and down, up and down the hills—most of the time pushing or dragging my bike rather than riding it. Once, I fell into a bush, then slid backwards down the hill, dragging the bike down on top of me. But finally, by the end of this harrowing adventure, I had mustered up enough courage to just say eff it, and I charged ahead, peddling as fast as my legs would allow—over roots, and tree branches, through valleys and ditches. About an hour
later, I made it out alive, drenched in sweat, covered in bruises and scratches, mud and bicycle grease, but reasonably proud of myself.
Today, I cannot walk. Not with a normal gait anyway. My quads hurt SO bad, I can hardly raise my own ass up off of the couch, not to mention the fact that the bicycle seat did a serious number on my bum. I counted 11 bruises and there’s a small collection of scratches on my right forearm. I have no fewer than two dozen swarming insect bites and a small patch of black grease on the back of my leg that two showers later I still can’t scrub off entirely. Good times, right? Common sense suggests that I may want to stick to 8 wheels, but against my better judgement, we’re riding again next Sunday, if anybody wants in! Pad your asses ladies, it’s a bumpy ride!
Photo Credits: www.deater.net