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| The bike I won |
As many of you may have heard, I
won a mountain bike in a raffle last week. Obviously I was excited, until
I had a flashback to the one and only time I'd attempted to mountain
bike. Of course most people would have started mountain biking on an easy
trail and worked their way up.
I'm
not most people however.
When it comes right down to it, I've been known to go balls to the walls 100% on the first try. (This bravado has resulted in two concussions and fourteen stitches, but that's another story).
I wasn't sure I ever wanted to mountain bike. It was all because of Steve. I met Steve in Colorado at a location I will not disclose due to embarrassment, but it might have rhymed with “Slum Bay.”
Steve was my dream guy. And by dream guy, I mean, he was tan, buff, and super clean-cut. He was a West Point graduate, so that meant he was a GENIUS, right? (See: “The Story About My West Point Boyfriend Throwing Up on My Mom's Pug and In Her Purse The Same Night”).
He looked like Captain America.
“So when did you graduate?” I asked.
“Three years ago. I'm 25,” he said smiling.
Wow! TWENTY FIVE! Awesome! That meant he was mature and cultured and knew how to have an adult relationship. I was awestruck with the level of sophistication he must have possessed. I’m sure he watched foreign films with subtitles and listened to indie rock. I mean, how lucky was I that I would meet an attractive, clean cut military officer? Surely he was one of a kind. (Insert sarcasm font there).
“So, you like to do outdoors stuff?” he said, swigging his Fat Tire.[1]
“Oh yeah! I ran in college,” I said, hoping he noticed my toned legs, rather than my midsection, which had seen one too many Fat Tires recently.
“Well, I've got this race coming up. I need a partner.”
“Sure,” I said, giddy with excitement, clutching my bejeweled Hello Kitty phone. (I may or may not own a Hello Kitty sleeping bag for said outdoor adventures).
“It's kayaking, mountain biking, and running. You kayak nine miles in a tandem kayak, then mountain bike 20 up and down Peak 9 in Breckenridge, then run thirteen up and down Peak 8. You interested?”
“Oh yeah! I love to kayak.[2]
“How are you on the mountain bike?”
“Hmmm....” I said, looking off to the side, as if trying to remember the last level of trail I rode. “It's been a minute, but I'll be good.” [3]
“Well cool, I'll sign us up then.”
So it was set. I was going to wow Steve with my athleticism and tenacity. I was going to kick so much ass.
But
first I needed to find a bike.
*
That Saturday, Steve and I left at three in the morning to go to the race. I drove, so he could look at the map. Part of the race involved orienteering, and since he was in the Army, he knew all about maps and stuff, right?
(The
Army Guy I'd later marry once drove to Wilmington, OH instead of Wilmington, NC
because he entered it in MapQuest wrong.)
I had procured a mountain bike from a neighbor in a trade for a case of beer and my Seasons 1-3 DVD's of 24. He had adjusted the seat, and assured me that mountain biking wasn't that hard. Then he also told me if I needed to be picked up from the hospital to call him.
An hour into our drive, Steve and I started talking about past relationships.
“I've never dated a girl who wasn't a 'Miss' something.” he said, folding up the map and putting it in the backpack.
“Um....you mean, as opposed to a 'Mr.'?” I asked, quite clearly confused, as I knew the Army still had rules on the “Don't Ask, Don't Tell” policy.
“No, no. Like Miss Utah, Miss Northern Colorado Rodeo, Miss Teen San Diego.....”
“Oh that's cool! I was an Indianapolis 500 Princess.” True story.
“Really? Then you're OK, I guess.”
I smiled, proud of myself, despite that Steve had just thrown down the first of many red flags asserting his douchebaggery.
We got to the site of the race at 5 am. I stood in awe at the sight of the sun rising over the great snow-capped Rockies and looked up at the mountains which seemed to stretch right into the heavens.
And thought, “What the fuck did I get myself into?”
Steve had the map and his job was to orienteer us in the right direction. The first part was the kayak race. It was a two-man kayak, with the heaviest person in the back.
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| Actual race photo. |
“So Shawna, guess you'll be in the back, huh?” he said, slapping my ass.
He had just played his second douchebag card, but I wouldn't see the full hand until later.
'It's
OK,' I reminded myself, 'He likes athletic girls, time to step it up and
prove it,' I thought as I stepped into the freezing lake water, my feet
sinking in the mud.
“Do you have the compass out?”
“Hold on, I'm looking,” I muttered. “It's still pitch black, I can't see anything, and there's gross stuff on the bottom of this lake.”
I found the compass, but in my infinite wisdom, hadn't gotten a towel out. I was already shivering when we pushed off.
We paddled our hardest. I was actually decent at the paddling part, especially compared to our competition, most of whom looked like serious athletes.
We finished the paddling in 2 hours, moving onto the mountain biking stage. Right away, I knew we were screwed. We started ascending the mountain, my legs burning and my lungs gasping for air. I was hyperventilating like Hugh Hefner watching Dateline: Predator. I thought I would die.
“Come on! We're losing time!”
“Yeah, I'm pedaling. It's not going faster.”
“Change gears!” He shouted.
“What?” I moved my bike helmet so I could hear him. [4]
 |
| I was pedalling so hard! |
“Shift into a lower gear!”
Um, bikes have gears? That's what those knobs are? Oh fuck.
'Don't panic,' I thought. 'Just keep turning them until something works....OK....um...OK, that feels better.'
It took us two hours to ascend to the top checkpoint, where we stopped for a brief lunch of PowerBars and water. I wondered if he expected me to vomit the excess calories after. I'm sure Miss-fucking-Utah did.
My legs hurt, my lungs hurt, and most of all my ass hurt. Despite the padded shorts and seat, I felt like Adam Lambert might after a particularly wild night at Ted Haggard's new church. I doubted
I'd be sitting comfortably for weeks.
I didn't remove my bike helmet, as I caught a glimpse of myself in the bike's mirror, and I looked pretty good. Like I could be a model in HerSports or Outdoor Living.
Steve looked good too. His muscles gleamed in the sun and when he removed his shirt to apply sunscreen, I caught a glimpse of washboard abs.
“My ex girlfriend was a championship mountain biker.”
Did I fucking care? How do you become a champion in riding a bike through some trees? I'm fucking spectacular in the art of sarcasm, but you don't see me putting it on business cards.
“Didn't her ass hurt? Mine hurts.”
“Well she was really skinny. If you had less weight on you, there wouldn't be as much of a load to bear.”
Really?
At this point, I should have left his ass on the mountain and told him to shove his compass up his ass. I'd be home by noon and drunk by one. My fat ass could be soaking in a hot tub.
But noooooo.....now I had something to prove.
“Wasn't she the one who was really pasty?” I asked, recalling our earlier conversation.
“Yeah,
that was her, she was Miss Tah-”
“Well studies have shown[5] that fat people who are tan are more attractive than pasty skinny ones.”
I
got up, then wondering about what kind of tan lines I was getting from this
little excursion.
We headed down the mountain, navigating the roots, branches, rocks, and small mammals that impeded out progress. We even passed some of the other teams on the way down.
(I wanted to tell Steve this was a matter of physics. My massive body accellerated faster as it went downhill.)
We were flying it seemed. I had figured just the right seat ang grip position that allowed me to turn without tensing up and going downhill, the bike seemed to glide on air, offering as much resistance as Lindsey Lohan in a liquor store.
I
was actually enjoying myself- the combined feeling of speed, the fresh mountain
air, the blue sky, the trees and rocks and-
Oh fuck! A rock!
Within five seconds, I went head over the handlebars, landing on my right wrist as the bike careened down the trail ten feet in front of me.
“Are you OK?” Steve asked, braking and rushing towards me.
“Yeah, I think I'm OK. I mean, my arm hurts, but it'll be ok.”
Then we both looked down.
Yeah, a bandage wasn't going to cut it. It was already going black and blue. And I couldn't move three of my fingers.
“Can you get down? It's only another mile or so.”
“Yeah, I'm good, just get me a Vicodin out of my backpack. Front pouch....yeah, give me a whole one,” I said, gritting my teeth to hide my pain.
I grimaced, bit down hard on my lip, and got back on my bike.
We somehow made it down, no longer did I care about the fresh mountain air, but praying for the sweet release of death.
At each transition stage, there were EMT's[6] to check us out.
“I think you're wrist is broken. You should have it checked out.”
“No, I'm not stopping. " I gritted my teeth. "Beauty takes pain. Wrap it in a tourniquet or something and let's get a move on.”
He stared, probably not comprehending where the beauty part came from, as this point I was covered in blood, thorns, and pine needles.
“OK, you're over 18, it's your decision,” he said as he wrapped the Ace bandage around my wrist.
We started the run. The Vicodin was kicking in, the bandage was tight, and I was feeling better. Now, I may not be awesome at many things, but I can hold my own running up a mountain. (Or from the cops). We had a 13 mile loop up Peak 9 and back down. I knew the downhill would be easy, and that was the home stretch, so I wanted to give the uphill everything I had.
By 2 pm, we were above the tree line, about a mile south of the top checkpoint.
Anyone who lives in Colorado knows what sometimes starts happening at 2.
Oh yeah, it started pouring. I mean, torrential downpour. Monsoon. Like if there was a small Pakistani village there, it would be washed away.
“You
OK?” I asked.
“Yeah, but maybe we should find shelter,” he replied nervously.
That was all it took to put me over the edge. So far, I had trusted him implicitly, and his nervousness reflected back to me. I felt the first wave of panic set in.
“Um, we're on a mountain. Copy that, a fucking mountain! Where do you think we're gonna find shelter?”
“I don't know, but you might want to put on your bike helmet!” he shouted over the storm, which had grown to include lightning and thunder.
“Why-”
“Just do it now!” he shouted, using his pocket knife to cut the zip ties attaching it to my pack.
The it hit me. Not a thought in a metaphorical sense. A golf-ball sized piece of hail. And another.
I put the helmet on, no questions asked, as we started sprinting downhill as fast as we could go. The hail was so painful- I felt like I was getting shot repeatedly with a pellet gun. This was not the way my day was supposed to go.
The hail wasn't as bad as the ever present threat of lightning which seemed to be bouncing around the mountain peaks, just looking for a dumbass hiker to strike.
I started doing the math, conjuring up everything I remembered from the Discovery Channel. Who would it hit first? Him because he was taller? Me because as a woman I probably retained more water? I had a lot of metal fillings....
Just then, we saw lights coming towards us. It took me a second to realize that this wasn't an out of body experience, but a Jeep Grand Cherokee with “Colorado Search and Rescue” painted on the side. Never before had I felt so overjoyed to see a government employee. We jumped in with the other runners and continued down the mountain.
An hour later, we still got our medals for completing the race to the best of our abilities and packed up to head home.
I
was covered in welts and bruises from the hale and had several cuts and
scrapes. My hair was a matted mess, and
my makeup was smeared from crying with relief on the way down. I was the antithesis of hot.
Either way, I figure I had to have shown Steve how tough I was, and what I was willing to endure. I was sure all in all, my day was a success.
My friend had texted me, asking if I wanted to come to a party at our apartment complex.
“Hey, Steve, so do you want to go to this party tonight? I know you're tired, but there's a hot tub and beer there?”
“I
can't. I have a date tonight with a
stripper from PT's.”
I turned, staring at him, jaw agape.
“Yeah, she's pretty hot. I've been thinking I need to just go for the hot dumb ones now, ya know?”
REALLY asshole? You couldn’t have informed me of your change in taste SIX HOURS AGO?
I shook my head, still reeling from shock and awe. I looked down at my bruises, scrapes, and sprain. I sighed. Well, I might not be hot, but after today, I thought to myself, I definitely qualify as dumb.
Oh well, at least I had the story.
And maybe the next day Steve and I could go to the hospital together. Me to get a cast and him to get a prescription for Valtrex.
[1] The
drink of the Sophisticated Man.
[2] This
was not a lie. The one time I did it on
Lake Erie for 15 minutes was fun.
[3] The
last time I rode a bike was when I was 13.
[4] It's
super hard to look cute in a bike helmet.
Trust me. I practiced in the
mirror.
[5] My
friend's mom in high school said this.
[6] They
were training Junior EMT's that day.
Lesson of the day: “The Shit Inexperienced Dumbasses Will Do In The
Wild.” The next weeks lesson would
involve bears and Texans who left marshmallows outside their tents.
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