The gift

When I got to the trailhead, I wanted to hide. I had worried all morning about this ride. That I would fall, embarrass myself, be too slow. I debated coming up with an excuse to stay home, any excuse, perhaps even my own death.

But I went, and I’ll never really know why. How a non-athletic girl like me decided I would be a cyclist in public. I had met the other riders at school, our children the same age, and they had invited me to a ride. I put off the decision as long as I could - when I had exactly 15 minutes to get ready or fail to show up - I decided I would ride.

Even if I was last.

I would be fearless, damn it, and chase the guys up hills very, very slowly and down hills, very, very carefully.

“Ready?” they bellowed from across the dirt lot.

All eyes were on me as I got my bike down out of the rack, scratching the bumper. Next, I forgot to put on my helmet, then remembered. Forgot my gloves, then my sunglasses, remembered both. I reset the cat-eye, forgot my water. I was fumbling things I had done dozens of times by myself. Riding in a group was new to me. A group of men, well, that was territory I’d never even considered.

Because today I was the only woman. The other gal I had thought was coming, had canceled. I hurried, though, even as they said no rush.

Then it was time to go. My first new friends in ages, friends I hadn’t grown up with, people I wasn’t related to. We all liked to bike. It was as simple, and as complicated, as that. It meant vulnerability but also possibility. I could do this! I would do this!

We headed out onto the trails. I was fine, keeping up, although I knew they were moderating their pace for me. I negotiated corners and cut through soft sand and pushed to climb hills. I was last, but I was fine.

Then we stopped for a break and things happened, and - somehow - I was in the lead when we started off again. I tried not to overthink it. You know how to bike, my God! Just ride! I told myself. I put one pedal down after another and led the group of men down the trail, feeling outrageously self-conscious in my spandex, worried I would embarrass myself.

Things went along just fine for a nanosecond before, up ahead, I saw a tree down in the trail. I could stop or I could bike around it. A newbie would stop, which I most definitely was. So I decided to ride around it.

A simple maneuver up the mossy slope next to it and around the end of the fallen pine. It was a slight push in my abilities to go off trail, but doable. I reminded myself on the approach how doable it was.

Up I rode, right up to it, refusing to stop - and turned a hard left to go around it.

And which point, my front wheel jackknifed.

I was over in an instant, spilled face first into the ground, my bike coming over on top of me. I landed with a wild hiss of shit! and a thud, my pride shattered in the pine needles. I tried to scramble to my feet, but I was tangled.

And, the guys saw it all.

At first, they tried to act concerned, after all, they barely knew me. Then, screw it, they started laughing hard.

“Did that stick get ya?” one of them asked - pointing to the TREE.

“Ohmygod,” I said. “I don’t know what happened! I thought I could—”

But they weren’t listening. They were circling me, yanking me up with one hand, inspecting my bike. They didn’t hold back and they didn’t coddle me. Instead, they poked fun at me and ribbed me and jostled me.

“I thought you said you could bike!” was delivered with a punch to my arm.

And with that, I felt a pluck, a string yanked, a thin layer pierced.

I had been lost and sad and without my mother, but now I was all those things - plus hurt, covered in dirt and mortified. Better? Better.