Girl On Bike, What the Boys Taught me about Love, Life & Mountain Biking
Chapter 1 Damsel In Distress
It was 7:30am on a gorgeous July morning when I rode into the Aliso and Woods Canyon Wilderness Park in Aliso Viejo, Ca. The sun was rising over the hills surrounding the park, into a cloudless blue sky above me. It’s warmth on my calves hinted of a perfect weather day ahead. One of those oh so perfect southern California summer days that whispers, “Yes, you do live in paradise you lucky girl.” My bike rolled over crunchy parking lot gravel as I steered it towards the dirt trail. I had planned on completing a two-hour loop before the sun made things a bit too hot for comfort. My ride in had been smooth, but energetic; the gentle uphill gradient of the fire trail was especially satisfying. I was feeling very energetic and, admittedly, hot. Not hot as in the morning’s 80+ temperature, but hot, as in the opposite of homely. Not even a year of weekly rides and I was already feeling like one of them. You know, mountain bikers. One of those ultra fit girls — and guys — who had passed me by so many times looking so confident and at one with their bikes. I was savoring the Zen of it all as I pedaled back towards the park entrance — having allowed myself a short break at the end of the 4-mile fire road loop. I was picking up speed on a lengthy downhill grade and feeling euphoric — the breeze was whooshing by, my shoes were pushing hard against the pedals, and I was enamored of my breathtaking surroundings.
I distinctly remember every detail of that velocity-fuelled high — the heat of the earth crunching beneath my tires, the coolness of the two creeks through which the trail snaked, the clickety-click sound as I crossed the wooden bridge, the glimpse of the old corral as I rounded a corner…
I thought to slow down as I whizzed past groups of incoming riders. But I just couldn’t. The speed was like a drug that was making me feel omnipotent.
A couple yards shy of the entrance, I entered my last turn. It wasn’t at all difficult or dangerous. But I had created a most difficult and dangerous situation. The speed at which I was traveling, coupled with my inexperience as a cyclist and a bike not designed for this kind of terrain, spelled disaster. My front tire skidded in the sand and I lost control. In a split second, my bike and I came crashing down. I slammed hard onto the ground — my head and right shoulder absorbing the brunt of the impact — and slid across the trail before finally coming to a stop in the dirt. Dust was swirling all around me; it felt like the aftermath of a car wreck. I lay there for a moment or two, stunned, then tried to get up and disentangle myself from my bike. Despite being dazed, and in shock, I had the clarity to know that I was lying in the path of oncoming traffic — any number of bikers might at any moment turn the corner and plough right into me. As I tried to stand, I was overcome with dizziness, so on my hands and knees I half crawled, half dragged myself and my bike to the side of the path. Once safely out of harm’s way, I lay back on the ground to catch my breath and access the damage — to bike and girl.
My legs were wet with the trickle of blood and my mouth was dry with the taste of dirt. I brushed it from my lips and tried hard to concentrate on the task at hand. Luckily, I hadn’t taken anyone down with me; on that busy morning, on a trail packed with riders heading in and out of the park, I was so grateful I’d hurt only myself.
Only a few moments later, riders traveling in both directions did turn the corner to the sight of a bleeding girl sitting in a dirt bath — covered from head to toe in dust, with blood oozing from her wounds, looking spaced out and war torn. In a matter of seconds, a large crowd had gathered around to check out the accident scene. A wonderfully kind and sweet girl named Mary and her riding companion Brad, immediately dismounted their bikes and knelt down, one on either side of me. The sun was in my eyes, yet I so clearly remember looking up and seeing all these people, pausing astride their bikes, to gaze down at me as Mary and Brad gently talked to me and checked out my injuries. One of the onlookers, a guy, asked if he could remove my helmet and examine it for serious dents, which would indicate head trauma. As I raised my arms to help him unfasten it, I caught sight of my bloody right arm and elbow, which was so badly grazed, there was very little skin left intact. I made an “injured girl” sound. Another guy took off his Camelbak, which is a back pack filled with water and supplies. The drinking hose attached to the Camelbak crosses over one shoulder and has a nozzle on the end for easy drinking access . He reached inside and produced a gauze bandage and antiseptic ointment and handed them to Brad to apply to my elbow. By now, a group of about 15 to 20 guys had encircled our makeshift “camp” and were surveying the scene; no doubt wondering how the hell this girl managed such a crash on such an easy
stretch? “Damn,” I thought to myself. “This dirt is stuck to my lip gloss — I must really be a ridiculous sight.” And boy what a sight I was. A dirt freak — my face, my sunglasses, even my hair was coated with a thick layer. I took off my sunglasses and tried in vain to wipe it from my eyes while Mary kindly helped brush my tangled hair back from my face.
At Mary’s suggestion, we removed my gloves, which were also filled with soil. The group gasped as the left glove came off and revealed the biggest casualty of the collision: my thumb tip had been bent sideways, then forward, and was frozen in that seemingly impossible position; a gaping hole behind it revealed an exposed tendon and joint. I was a regular Girl Frankenstein.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh,” escaped my lips as I almost passed out in disbelief. Which is when I heard a guy with a Russian accent say, ”OK, time for the paramedics,” as he pulled out his cell phone. That’s how I met Edward Bederov, a trail assistant for Aliso Woods, who had just ridden into the park along with his cycling crew.
“Can I take a shot of the weirdest thumb I’ve ever seen?” asked another bystander, who had already whipped out his camera. “Geez,” I thought. “He’s excited. What kind of world have I ridden into?” But I smiled, and gamely held up the dislocated digit like it was some kind of bloody badge of courage and, at that moment, I found myself accepted into some kind of brotherhood… or something like that. The girl clearly had a sense of humor, so the guys felt comfortable enough to start cracking jokes. They could see I was going to be OK. All the same, Mary wisely took out a hankie and carefully covered my thumb to keep me from staring at it.