Today we skipped paddle boarding and went biking instead. After what seemed like a million torturous minutes of bringing up the rear behind the kids I finally got a chance to split off and actually ride—and promptly ate shit. I didn’t just, like, fall over (which does happen with some regularity). I lost control and went flying off the trail.
As the ground rose up to meet me, I coached myself through the crash. “Tuck but not too hard; protect your face but don’t bust your neck. Don’t tense up—it’ll hurt worse if you do. Know where the bike is.” It was the longest split-second of my life. My head hit first and hardest with an alarmingly loud thud that I’m sure only I heard. I skidded to a stop almost immediately after.
I laid there stunned on the ground trying to figure out why it didn’t hurt more. That’s when I realized I managed to land in soft dirt, possibly the softest dirt in the entire park. I slowly sat up, shaking, and took stock: no breaks, no punctures, and my bike was fine. I lost some skin (and a few years off my life) but otherwise it was remarkably unremarkable. I hauled myself up and rode to the end of the trail to wait for Jesse (and try not to puke).
The thing I was most scared of—crashing—happened and I’m not even sorry. Yeah, I’m sore AF, but more than anything I’m proud of myself. I tried something hard. It went sideways and so did I. I didn’t panic. I didn’t freak out. I didn’t fight it. I handled it. I did not in fact puke. And I got back on the fucking bike.
Sometimes we can see the crash coming and we can’t stop it. All we can do is lean into it with everything we know and all our instincts and hope for the best. If you’re navigating a crash, let’s talk so we can find your soft dirt to land in.
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