Okay, so I said I’d write a write-up about Smurfboy… I started to, and it turned into something else. Maybe I’ll manage the smurfboy write-up after my exam on Monday. Anyway, this bit me, and needed writing, so here it is.

The Day I Realized I DON’T Suck at Mountain Biking
I started mountain biking in June of 2006 when I started dating a guy who had been biking his entire life. His father led a beginner ride at Rowlette Creek Preserve every week, and was an active DORBA volunteer. Wanting to try the thing that had my then-boyfriend so excited, I borrowed a bike and hit the trail.

I have always been active in hobbies in which I showed quite a bit of natural talent. Riding horses and training dogs had dominated my life since I was a small child, and were as easy to me as breathing. Mountain biking, I discovered, was NOT a natural talent of mine… in fact, it was more like a natural enemy. For a year I struggled to keep up with my friends, even in the slowest beginner rides. The more a pushed my boundaries, the more I seemed to get hurt, and the more cautious I became. In the matter of a year I fractured my skull, sprained my ankle, broke my wrist, and littered my body with numerous scars and bruises that to this day have never disappeared, and are a constant reminder to me of how much I suck at the sport I love.

My then-boyfriend and his father were terrible about encouraging me in my efforts, and instead of being understanding when I was afraid to try something new that frightened me, would yell at me in front of our group rides to suck it up and quit holding everyone back. Riding wasn’t fun for me at all, and often ended with me in tears. The one thing I never was, though, was a quitter, and I kept at it.

When the then-boyfriend and I split up in March of 2007, I continued to ride, usually alone, and ended up meeting my now-boyfriend, Yater. The first time we met was at Boulder Park for a ride, and being stupid and riding over my head I made a fatal error on a steep, rocky decent with a big “CAUTION” sign at the top and went flying through the air and rolled a good twenty feet to the bottom of this rocky hill, my 30 pound bike landing on top of me. Yater was aghast, and yelled “are you okay!?” as I stood up and proceeded to scream like a banshee from the pain. My shorts were torn in two, and my entire left thigh, from hip to knee, was black as pitch and bleeding. Being the stubborn person I am, I got back on my bike saying I was fine and rode the rest of the park, listening to Yater repeat over and over again that he’s never seen a girl take a fall like that and get back up. It made me wonder if I wasn’t better at this sport than I thought. Even still, by the time I’d reached home my leg had swollen and stiffened so badly I had to call my mother to help me into the house, and was off the bike for several weeks.

In 2007 I went to my first race in Waco at Cameron Park, and was halfway through my pre-ride on Saturday when I endo’d and broke my hand. I was put into a cast for six months. I spent that year traveling to races with Yater and getting a feel for how they were run and what went on and being Yater’s personal race squad. I started to really love the environment of the races, not to mention the people. However, once I started to ride again, I found that the six months off thinking about how much I suck had not done anything but put a big wall of a learning curve in front of me. In this time I had moved to Tyler, where Tyler State Park is the only trail to ride and is a much harder trail than anything I had ridden previously. My first ride out I became so frustrated with myself for not being able to ride dumb little roots and hills that I threw my bike down and stormed off the trail in tears. Yater ended up carrying it back to the parking lot. Sometimes boyfriends are so great.

In 2008, after spending six months mastering Tyler State Park, I decided to try Cameron Park again for the TMBRA Spring series, and upon pre-riding realized how greatly I’d improved. I didn’t even notice the spot where I had fallen the year before. Race day came and I was a nervous wreck. There were nine girls in my class, and I remember that race being one of the most demoralizing experiences of my life. I cursed and stumbled my way through the course and crossed the finish line in tears, pulling 6th place, nearly twenty minutes behind first. Two weeks later, I traveled to Warda, Tx to Bluff Creek Ranch, having walked nearly the entire trail a year before while taking pictures of Yater at an endurance race there, I thought I could handle it. The pre-ride had me as frustrated as I’d been at Waco, coming upon obstacle after obstacle that I just couldn’t muster the courage to try. It enfuriated me that other girls seemed to do these things so effortlessly, and by morning on Sunday, after a restless night of dreaming about how much I sucked, I had no confidence whatsoever. On my first lap I fell on an invisible root and injured my collar bone.

I spent the drive home from Warda crying from sheer frustration. Never had I loved something so much that I seemed to just be so bad at. In my years of equine and canine sports I had developed a very serious competitive spirit, and had become accustomed to winning with little effort. Mountain biking was an experience I had never before faced… I put so much time and effort into it and still seemed to be nowhere near as good as everyone else. I resented myself for it, and I hated anyone who was better at it than I was. It just wasn’t fair.

I spent the rest of 2008 healing and riding. Time in the saddle is what people always say will make you improve, and they’re right… it’s just that I need three times the time in the saddle to make the improvements everyone else seems to make in X amount of time. I did, however, defeat Tyler State Park, a trail that many say is one of the hardest in Texas, and I started to feel like I could handle other trails.

In 2009 I once again entered the race in Waco, Tx. This time, there were three of us on the start line, and I felt proud standing there in my new Big Pig Racing jersey. Maybe it was my new confidence, maybe it was the feeling of belonging on a team who apparently thought I didn’t suck, or maybe it was because the day was so pretty, but I did a lot better than I had the year before. By the last half mile I was ready to quit… I stared up at the switchbacks that climbed up the hill and to the finish line and wanted to vomit. I couldn’t even see straight, and I could hardly understand the people who were cheering on the side of the trail. There was a girl behind me that I was pretty sure was the girl in my class who had been behind me, but I couldn’t tell. As I clicked into granny gear and prepared to tell her to go ahead, admitting defeat, I heard one distinct fan cheering… “Come on, Rachel! You’re almost there! She’s right behind you and out for blood! Don’t you dare let her by! Hammer! Pedal! Go!” Sometimes boyfriends can be so nice to have. I stood up and pedaled as hard as I could ever remember pedaling and finally got to the top of the hill with the girl right behind me. I clicked into higher gears as fast as I could and took off for the line. I had my eye on it, and as I watched it go under my bike I let go… I blacked out right on the line and fell over. A man came running over to me asking if I was okay and as I tried to focus my vision I gasped out “I’m… fine… just leave… me… here.” He laughed and helped me unclip from my bike and I asked if I had gotten it. He looked at me funny and said “oh? The place? That girl behind you wasn’t even in your class.” Sometimes boyfriends are so mean.

Second place out of three wasn’t bad. I was over ten minutes behind first place, and about five minutes in front of third. I still, for some reason, felt defeated. Did beating one girl really even prove anything? I still got my butt handed to me by the trail.

Two weeks later was again, Warda, Tx. I had heard there were serious changes to the expert section of the trail, and the start had been extended to a demoralizing grind through open fields. The pre-ride left me once again feeling like a failure. Just out of the woods in the first section of trail was a small bridge over a creekbed that I still couldn’t make myself ride. A little ways through some fields led to a steep downhill paved in asphalt called “Gas Pass” that literally made me shake in fear to look down. There were bridges over large ravines, and despite the fact that they had railings my mind’s eye kept showing me visions of freak accident that sent me to my death. I couldn’t ride them.

The day of the race I once again felt like I shouldn’t even be there. There were four girls in our class- one was the girl I had beat at Waco- but standing on the start line I couldn’t help but realize that the two I didn’t know sure did look like they knew what they were doing. The whistle went off and despite being in my highest gear, I watched the three girls disappear through the fields. They were long gone and I was dropped. I huffed and puffed my way around a pond and into the first section of woods that held a few miles of twisty trail through the trees. I never spotted my competitors, and with every pedal stroke I wondered why the hell I was out there. Why was I doing something that I so obviously wasn’t mean to do? It was stupid that I continued to try at something that continuously left me in tears, or worse, in the emergency room.

By the time I came out of the woods and rode along the fenceline toward the first little bridge that terrified me so much, I just didn’t care. I’d ride it, and if I fell into the creekbed, good riddance, I could get carried off this damned course and never ride again. But I didn’t… I rode all the way across it without incidence, and did a little victory dance in my mind.

The next several hundred yards of trail was a grinder uphill through an open field, and it was in this field that I spotted one of my competitors, the girl I had beat at Waco. It was also in this field that I spotted one of my teammates, a fellow Big Pig, and I was touched that Matt Kocian had stuck around to cheer for me. Hearing him yelling did a lot for my morale, and I clicked it up several gears and caught the girl ahead of me with ease. She was hurting, and I left her in the dust and never gave her a second thought.

After this small victory, though, was the thing on the trail that left me so terrified… Gas Pass. As I approached the drop the “CAUTION” sign at the top seemed to grow to monstrous proportions, and the crowds gathered around the side of the trail seemed to morph into vultures, waiting for the carnage. As I started to hit my brakes to get off and try to walk down the slick asphalt, I heard two boys, both several years younger than me yelling “See! I told you girls wouldn’t ride it!” That was it… the exact motivation I needed. Quit being a pussy, I told myself. Nut up and do it or go home. I forced my fingers to let go of the brakes and gulped in terror as my front wheel began to roll over the lip into the drop. I pumped my brakes a few times to keep control, and was done before I could even vomit. It was remarkably easy, and I couldn’t stop the laugh that came out of my mouth when I finally reached the bottom. Why had I been so darn scared of that thing?

The next bit of trail was a really fun new addition since the last year. It was a bench cut into the side of the hills that went up and down like a roller coaster, and had some really fun banked turns that were a blast to lay into. By the time I’d reached the bottom of this section, I was feeling a lot better, more confident in myself. As I stared up a long climb through a ravine, I saw several people off their bikes and walking. “I can do this,” I told myself. I put my head down and stood up and started to grind, and by the time I really started to hurt and considered getting off and walking like everyone else, I heard that distinct voice again.
“Come on, Zippo! You’re making time! Keep going! You’re the only girl who’s made it up this! You’re a climber! Hammer! Hammer Hammer!”

Yater was at the top of the hill snapping picture after picture, and as I peaked the climb I gasped out in between heaves “I rode… Gas… Pass” and gave him a thumbs up.

The following bridges that I had been so afraid of last year and on the pre-ride I went over with little consideration. A simple “suck it up” to myself hardened my resolve and before I knew it I was done with the first lap. By the start of the second I was feeling good… strong, even. The couple of miles through the first section of woods went by like nothing. I kept myself in a higher gear than normal, like Yater had told me to do, and found that rather than feeling out of breath my legs were consumed with a wonderful burn and I suddenly understood what was meant by the term “mashing the pedals.” I knew I was making time, but honestly, I could have quit right then and been perfectly happy with my own personal victory.

I rode Gas Pass the second time like it was an anthill, bombed through the roller coaster, and charged up the big climb, all the while hearing Yater’s voice in my head yelling “Hammer! Hammer! Hammer!” With every stomp on my pedal I chanted to myself “Big…Pig…Big…Pig…Big…Pig” to keep myself in a good rhythym. It was just before the second climb, a benchcut before the last mile of easy trail before the finish, that I saw the second place girl. She was ahead of me, and I could tell she was hurting. I heard Yater’s voice in my head saying “you’re a good climber, stand up and go for it” and as I got out of the saddle and yelled “on your left!” I felt like I was on top of the world.

I rode the next mile of trail as fast as I could without being wreckless, looking over my shoulder the whole time. This girl was faster than me, and I knew it. As I approached the break in the trees just before the gravel road sprint for the finish I glanced over my shoulder and saw her just behind me, on my back wheel.
“She’s right there, Rachel! Don’t slow down! GOGOGO!” I heard not only Yater, but team mates and friends as well, and as I came out of the trees I clicked into my highest gear as fast as I could, put my head down and pedaled harder than I ever had before, absolutely refusing to let this girl get the best of me. No… effing… way, was she going to take this from me. I crossed the finish line half a wheel length before her, and was so happy I could have done another lap just for fun.

When the results were posted, I scanned the line next to the number two for my name, but didn’t see it.
“You got first place!” My friend Andrea yelled. Sure enough, I had. The girl I thought had been in front had DNF’d -crashed, I would later find out- and the girl I had sprinted with had known she was sprinting for the highest level of the podium.

As I stepped onto the wooden block with the two others below it, I was beaming. I had gotten first place, and more than that, I had genuinely earned it. I had won a sprint finish, something I viewed as the true test of a racer, and even more, I had overcome so many of my own fears and mental obstacles.

On the drive home, I couldn’t stop running my fingers over the lettering that read “First Place, Beginner Women 19-29.” I was exhausted, I was in pain, but it had all been worth it. I had proven to everyone, and even more, to myself, that maybe I didn’t suck so much after all.

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