Padded Spandex and Two-Wheeled Chariots

by Sarah Artis

I've broken two ribs and a pinky. That is nothing compared to most.

The first time I tested my fate mountain biking was six years ago. Two guys from my university class invited me. Picturing a leisurely coast over gentle hills, I accepted. Biking is fun and relaxing. Isn't it?

After class the next day we jumped into a pick-up truck, three bodies in the front, three bikes in the back. We drove for just under an hour to get to the trails. My companions had packed all sorts of foreign gadgets: a patch kit, allan keys, spare tires and protein bars. Both wore special Velcro biking shorts over spandex tights. Their feet sported hard-bottomed shoes, which clipped directly into their bike pedals. On their backs, they wore hydrapacks--pseudo backpacks filled with water--every biker's best friend.

I was wearing joggers, a sweatshirt, and Vans. My bike was rusty and mostly used for ice cream runs to and from the corner store. Clearly, we didn't belong and we knew it.

That first trip into the woods with my two-wheeled carriage was not pleasant. I spent the majority of the afternoon swearing, wiping dirt from my eyes (not tears, I swear), and trying in vain to keep up with my more experienced peers. Falling more times than a child learning how to walk, at one point I managed to fall off the side of the trail into a river. Not only was mountain biking proving to be physically challenging, my pride was taking a beating: being a relatively active girl, I am accustomed to picking up sports moderately easily.

The day after that first ride, my body was stiff, my knee was swollen, and bruises covered my legs. Understandably, my roommates stared with raised eyebrows when I wouldn't shut up. "Awesome," I kept saying. "Absolutely amazing."

Mountain biking rocked me, but do not be fooled. It hooked me. Sweat tickles the side of your face as it slips from under your helmet. The combination of salt and mud on your upper lip tastes sharp and tangy. Your instinct is to squeeze the brakes tight, but your mind must control your reluctant index fingers. Pump lightly, a little at a time. Keep your weight back, your arms strong yet loose. Eyes up. Let your fingers and mind go. Float.

Once you are on your bike, nothing else matters. Getting up or down whatever rock, root, tree, or cliff stands (or fails) to be in your way is all you are able think about--not stress, or office politics, or insensitive boyfriends. Whizzing through fresh pine air on a two-wheeled chariot allows you to escape reality.

True, the trails can be intimidating, not to mention the riders who whip down them. For a woman, it is especially difficult to find other female riders, especially ones at your level with a similar attitude. But nothing matches the feeling of competing one-on-one against nature, even if nature wins. Arriving home after a day of riding, a euphoric feeling of total satisfaction overtakes you, until sleep hits you hard.

Over time you gain confidence, which shows up in other parts of your life. Yet the challenges are never-ending. The sport will continuously engage your mind, body and emotions. Rides are forever different depending on the weather conditions and your mind frame.

Since that first jaunt in the woods, I have bought a new bike, a tool kit, full body armor (body padding), gloves, and a beloved hydrapack. Owning spandex with a padded crotch now makes me proud instead of embarrassed. I still don’t think I'm that good. I wish I went more often and I still haven't found a core group of riders to go with regularly. But I love it (gush, gush) and it makes me happy. Few things in life make me feel that way so consistently. I figure when you find something like that, you've gotta jump on it. Literally.

Without exception, every weekday morning at the sound of my alarm, I burrow deeper into my cave of covers and wish for another galaxy where loud continuous beeping noises are illegal. But Saturdays are different. Even though I wake up almost an hour earlier than the usual 7:45am wake-up call, I leap out of bed. My face glows and my body ticks. I feel refreshed and excited. Saturdays, I go mountain biking.

The Author

Sarah Artis is lost and has only recently accepted that she will never be found. She has spent the past few years living, working, travelling and struggling for money all over the world, seeking adventure, wisdom and feelings of peace. Temporarily settled in her hometown, Vancouver, Canada, Sarah hopes to graduate with a certificate in journalism in April 2006.