Real Mountain Bikers Wear Skirts
by Anonymous

August 24, 1994 was a monumental day for me and others like me. Despite the pain and anguish, a bent knowledge in the back of my head whispered to me, "I'd do it all over again. The joy far exceeds the pain. It was worth it."

August 24 was the day I wiped out.

I became an instant member of the broken clavicle club. Forty percent of the skin on my back was missing in action, I had damage to two muscle groups, and my spine was doing a pretty fair impersonation of a desert sidewinder. I was in rough shape.

It was on a dirt-and-gravel trail that an instinct I thought long dormant had thrust itself forth... could it be?... a maternal-type inclination? Immediately after impact, I jumped up and instinctively lunged to my bike's side with apologies and words of ardor. Promising her those shocks she so mournfully stared at in Gunner's Cycle. I looked skyward, proclaimed my sins, and wept.

Meanwhile, my arm felt odd. Sort of sloppy and about four inches longer than the left. Hmmm... which of these things is not like the other? I pick my beloved up and proceeded down the mountain to do the regular hospital routine: X-ray, scrub down, sling, goodbye.

For the most part, I never gave my accident too much thought. It was just one of those steps in my life that I knew would arrive sooner or later. I'm quite notorious for having a constant array of gashes and scrapes on my legs, and so many bruises that I was once asked if I do the fake 'n' bake tan trip. But, in the opinion of quite a few, by crashing and injuring myself I'd treaded into a male realm. That somehow, because I'm a woman this shouldn't have happened. And what was I doing up there alone, anyway?

During my rehab process, my physiotherapist came into my torture chamber and saw that I was reading a bike magazine. He looked at the title, looked at me, and said, "You're not going to ride again, are you?" I looked up, stunned, then glanced over my good shoulder hoping that Rod Serling and the whole Twilight Zone gang were somewhere back there, because I've heard (through the grapevine) that sometimes people do say dumb things. But "not ride again"? I'd rather surrender my first born. I stared at him blankly and wondered about euthanasia. He added that in his experience of sport medicine, women usually discontinue the sport in which they were injured. I'm so glad he included the word 'usually'.

Our society pigeonholes not only females, but males as well. Any deviation from the expected norm results in defamation. Acquaintances and friends have hinted (behind my back) that, considering my hobbies ("aggressive" mountain biking, restoring a muscle car, fishing), perhaps I'm gay or bi, implying that if I was then I'm not a worthwhile person. Tap your head for echoes, pal. No wonder I was up on that mountainside alone. No wonder I tend to lead a relatively solitary life.

If people only knew the absolute beauty and thrill of bike expeditions. Knowing that I can rely on my own mental and physical capacities to carry me in and get me out. I recall those friends now and then and remember their fear of being alone. Their inability to try anything by themselves, let alone anything new, lest they should fail. A life lived in fear is a life half lived.

I have a strange sense of pride regarding those gashes, bruises, and scars scattered over my body. I'm supposed to hope that those ugly scars that ripple down my back from shoulder to waist will fade, but only if I apply vitamin E regularly. Excuse me? No, they must scar, as dark as oil, as deep as eternity. To me, those "ugly" scars are a reminder of my resilience, my daring, my ongoing education. The more mud that I've splattered on my body the better. Those scrapes, gashes, and bruises are nothing but a gentle reminder of a hard ride that pushed me to my limits.

It has never occurred to me that mountain biking was considered "male". I just do it. If there are other females out there, great. If not, I presume they just don't prefer it.

When all the dust is settled and I've come off the hillside battered, bruised, bleeding, but smiling, I'll sit on the tailgate of my truck, look lovingly at my ever faithful, and wonder if my bike knows it's a female that thrashes her down the mountain, tugs at her brake cables, and gently cleans here and keeps her from evil?

Somehow, just somehow, I know it doesn't matter.

This story is a lost author who's been found, but who wishes to remain anonymous.