Walking down a mountain bloodied and bruised, I decided to sit and breathe. I ached. My wounds on fire and I was covered in dirt. The sun was beginning to set.
"I gotta get moving" I mumbled to myself as I picked my unrideable bike up and pattered toward the trailhead.
The jump was long and had a rocky landing. Any off-balance, incorrect footing or speed would throw me down violently. I laughed at myself as I check-marked all the things I in fact did wrong. I felt hopeless and vulnerable, especially in my worn state. I wanted to sit for longer but I knew if i sat i would think. I wasn't a good rider, nor was I a smart one for riding alone. Whatever. I had to overcome my fear the very next day as I would be coming back up the very next day.
The issue wasn't my skill. Or my bike. Or even the trail.
That I was not capable of succeeding. Once I was home i tended to my wounds; instead of resting however, I went into my garage and picked up my bike and sat on it. For the next 30 minutes I practiced balancing and track standing. It hurt. I hurt. Everything hurt.
I awoke with writhing pain and nearly slept in. But i walked down, grabbed my gear and met the crew. We rode up (slowly), and once at the top I swallowed my pride. I could not let a manmade dirt mound mess with me as much as it did. So I hit the jump. I landed. I learned.
The brewery afterward also helped...
