“Yes! That’s for me”! I didn’t have to think twice when the salesman at the bike shop showed me a mountain bike for the first time. Standing before the knobby-tired dream-come-true, images of me as a young girl, trying to pedal my tiny-tired Schwinn through the dirt in my back yard leaped to the forefront of my mind. Clear as a bell, I recalled my childhood wish that a bike would be invented to ride over rocks and through mud, as my little Schwinn succumbed to the terrain. “I’ll take it”! I announced. Adding a helmet and bike rack to the bill, I happily forked over my hard-earned cash, as a bike shop employee attached the rack to the back of my car. Next, my new prized possession, a Trek 7000, fully rigid mountain bike was mounted to the rack and I was off to a new life.
The year was 1989 and I was a young adult albeit still the same mud-loving, rough and tumble Tom Boy as when I desperately tried pedaling my Schwinn around the yard. I had no idea what mountain biking was truly all about, except that it meant I could finally ride a bike over virtually anything nature threw my way. After convincing a friend to plunk down his cash on a mountain bike, he and I ventured into the woods of the hilly, rocky topography of northern New Jersey. With my long ponytail dangling out the back of my helmet, I raced up my first trail.
A competitive judo player since the age of twelve, I was in top shape, ready to combat any mountain and all of its rocks and roots. Zipping along the trails, our rides always began with a steep climb that seemed to go on indefinitely until we were rewarded with scenic views, snappy single tracks, and white-knuckled descents. The sound of rocks, spun free by the knobby tires and sent pinging against the bike frame, was music to my ears.
Propelled by the confidence that my Trek could roll over and eat up anything thrown in front of it, we were unstoppable – invincible! With my feet secured to the pedals in toe clips, I took on anything, including a few things that weren’t exactly meant for a 1989 vintage, rigid mountain bike that sent me sailing OTB – over the bars – or smack down in the dirt more than a few times. One such time was when pedaling through a winding trail that opened into a wide, flat region of the forest. Off to the right was a steep cliff, rising sharply up about twenty feet. It was pure dirt and resembled half of a half pipe looming above the flatlands. Getting a running start, I pedaled furiously, convinced I could make it to the top ledge. Several failed attempts didn’t deter me but on my final try, I nearly made it up and over when my bike slide out from under me, and with one hand on the top tube and the other digging into the dirt, we slid, face down, to the bottom. The result was a bruised ego and a totally torn to shreds biking glove. Read more