My buddy peered at me, with deep concern, through the spokes of my bike as I tried to determine whether I was ok. He had recently lost a good friend who had died of a heart attack while mountain biking. I didn’t want to scare him any further, so I chose laughter over whining. He pulled me off of the ground as we marveled at what would soon be a dark bruise on my thigh. I have no idea even what part of the bike was involved in my new tattoo.
We figured out our overshot mistake and took the correct trail, dropping us through a valley smelling lush from its carpet of fern, but not before another climb. We were so tired that the roots and rocks felt more like a beating than the descent for which we had been so desperately longing.
During this time I thought about the poor bastards who yesterday started the Pisgah Mountain Bike Stage Race, riding these very trails, but for more like 40 miles a day. At least I knew better than to sign up for that…this year…
