Mud, Blood, and Life Lessons: My First Mountain Biking Crash

“This is not ideal,” I thought as I catapulted over my bike’s handlebars into the creek below. Time crawled as I plummeted off the small bridge, the three-foot drop now looking like a stunt jump from a Tom Cruise movie. The words of the instructor who gave me my first and only mountain biking lesson came to mind: we all crash eventually. 

I splashed into the water, which wasn’t too bad. Refreshing, even. I also crashed into the rocks, which was less pleasant. The slow running water trickled over me as I sat up, grateful that at least no one else was around to have seen my fall from grace. Then I saw the blood streaming down the gash in my shin and thought perhaps riding solo had its downsides, like a lack of medical supplies. 

This was my first major crash while mountain biking. Intellectually, I knew it would happen, but there’s a difference between knowledge and experience. Hurling oneself down steep mountainsides at high speed may get the blood flowing, but it isn’t a risk-free endeavor. And as it turns out, crashing also gets the blood flowing. 

I crawled out of the creek and pulled my bike out with me.  My soggy clothes squelched as I plopped down on the trail and squinted at my shin. With the mud, blood, and semi-embedded gravel, it was hard to tell the severity of the wound. But in the moment, what bothered me more was the sudden feeling that maybe this wasn’t for me. 

I had flirted with the idea of mountain biking for over a decade, but never pulled the trigger. I like adrenaline-pumping activities. Heck, I’ve bungee jumped on three continents now, done solo skydiving, and continue to use the same cruise control joke with my wife after nine years of marriage. 

What I haven’t done, though, is really commit to something (apart from the bad jokes, but that’s a separate topic). Mountain biking fit nicely into a slot of perpetual aspiration. I could lean on the dream of it, but never risk the effort, cost, and threat of doing it. 

My wife, however, knows when to push the baby bird out of the nest. When we moved to Colorado, she insisted that I try mountain biking so that I would finally know which side to fall on. That or she was sick of me pining for it while staring forlornly out of windows. Either way, I signed up for a class and loved every second of it. The rush of tearing down a trail with trees whipping past hooked me deep, and I felt a passion just like I had imagined it feeling for years. 

Now, sitting on a deserted trail with blood coating my shin, that passion curdled like old milk. It was a physical representation of the joke, “Well well well, if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions.” The speed of my attitude shift would have been remarkable if it weren’t my own. 

As I wallowed, an old memory surfaced. When I was young, my dad taught me how to ride a horse. During one of my first rides, the horse got excited and took off at a gallop. I rolled over the back of the horse like a bobblehead getting flung off a car dashboard at a back-alley race. Hitting the ground knocked the wind out of me, and by the time I stopped panicking and could breathe again, the last thing I ever wanted was to get back on the devil horse. 

So what does my dad do? Picks me up and puts me right back on the hoofed demon. I calmly and clearly expressed my displeasure with the situation. He, in turn, listened to my argument, acknowledged receiving the words, and promptly ignored them. 

I ended up calming down and getting back in the saddle. The rest of the day went well, and I’ve been a passable horseman ever since with an appreciation both for the animal and the lesson of getting back on the horse. 

As I looked at my bike, I recognized it for what it was—another horse after another fall. Sure, there was risk. But there was also joy, and thrill, and cardiovascular benefit in a way that didn’t just suck. The only question was if I had the grit to dust myself off and get back on my chrome steed without someone else forcing me to do so. 

I got back on the bike. A drink of water, some quick test pedaling, and the trail rolled under me as I got back up to speed. As I did, some of the joy from earlier came back, but tinged with darker thoughts. 

Lost opportunities flashed through my mind: passing on diving coral reefs that look like underwater cathedrals, unconquered mountain peaks standing like stone monuments to missed moments, adventures relegated to Netflix documentaries like secondhand living. 

But what really hit hard as the wind rushed past and my legs pumped up and down was the erosion of time from procrastination. I could have biked that exact trail 15 years prior when I first moved to Colorado. I could have honed my skills over four years while living there, taking advantage of living in the Rockies. I could have taken my bike to all the places I’ve lived—Guam’s tropical trails, Germany’s mountain forests, Korea’s ancient paths, Hawaii’s volcanic slopes. 

I could have done so much. 

The question ‘why’ rattled through my head as my wheels turned.  Why did I choose a trail of excuses over hitting the physical trail?  Laziness?  That probably played a factor.  Lack of opportunity?  Even I can’t rationalize my way into believing that one.

Fear?  I rode down the last hill of the ride pondering that thought.  It wasn’t fear of the activity itself—I rode recklessly fast my first few times taking on steep downward hills, and still do.  Nor was it fear of financial cost.  I’m cheap, but renting a mountain bike through the facilities here is peanuts.  Doing it over a decade ago was likely the equivalent of pocket change.

It was fear of losing comfort, I decided.  Staying in my room watching movies or playing video games had a known quality.  Trying something new is a leap of faith—it may be fantastic, but it may take you to new lows.  For the majority of my life, I’ve deferred to certain mediocrity over uncertain magnificence—comfortable chairs and comfortable lies.  Now I wondered if comfort cost more than courage.

The ride finished in silence, me rolling back towards my starting point lost in thought. I trudged to the locker room and hopped in the shower, focused on cleaning off the mud and blood to get a true picture of the damage. 

The wound turned out to be surprisingly small. With the mud washed away and the blood cleaned up, I saw that the wound had already closed up.  No stitches needed, no awkward explanation to my wife later about a new limp. Like many of our perceived problems in life, perception outran reality.

I don’t claim to have had some mountain top epiphany. This crash didn’t change my life, nor have I stumbled upon a new life philosophy. Life is too messy for that, and the lesson of ‘get back on the horse’ is too simple for many of the issues we face.

What I can say, however, is that I’m still riding, crashes and all. I can say that my perspective on taking risks has expanded. I can say that I better grasp the cost of fear outweighing the cost of failure. 

And I can say that when I struggle my way to the top of a hill and look at the winding trail heading down the far side, the joy of the ride still comes to me.  Every single time, my heart races like it’s my first ride before I hit the pedals and launch myself forward

Have the courage to set comfort aside.  Your trails are waiting.