Years of slams and bams and hard landings. Sliding off bridges. Clawing back up over cliffs. Shredded menisci, a torn retina. Cracked ribs, broken bikes, broken glasses. Knocked down, knocked out, gashes so deep I have seen my own bones.
But when you love mountain biking, that's just how it is. It's only pain. You recover. And ride again with joyous abandon.
Until one day, you don't. One day, hanging at the brink of a drop, that old sneak, self preservation, butts in and says, "Damn, this could really hurt."
Using those brakes, though. That's when the hurting really begins.
Even while it's keeping you from another knock to the head, fear hurts you. There are worse things than bruises.
All week I'd been secretly dreading the ride at Balm Boyette on New Year's Day.
Only the fast guys were going. And me.
While other trails push my panic buttons one at a time, Boyette pushes all of them at once.
Where Ft Pierce is a little roller coaster, Boyette is a big one. The Econ has high, level edges along the river. Boyette has high, inside, dirt walls forcing you to skirt along rocky outer rims. Where Turkey Creek has long plank bridges over a slow flowing creek, Boyette has narrow lanes of cement block up and down sharply banked drop offs.
I rehearsed a scenario in which I confessed to Popeye that I didn't want to go. I watched in my mind's eye while he drove off with his fast friends and I stayed home.
How great would it feel though, if I could keep up? If just this once, I rode all the hard stuff? Went down those steep rocky chutes I always avoid? Not like the old days, pitch-poling down them, but swooping the Ridgeline, and maybe even conquering the old fear of skidding off bridges.
Nice goal. But there it is again, that pesky reality of hitting the brakes and holding back just as a trail turns fun.
I reason my way through it. There's plenty to ride at Boyette without having to go over a cliff. What I couldn't ride, I could always walk. Even if it meant bruises to my confidence that would smart every bit as much as the real bruises once did. In the end, I knew I would go, worries or not.
The week before Christmas, TriLady visited from Colorado. We rode the Econ, and all it's edges, in gathering gloom on the shortest day of the year. The next day we went to Ft Pierce, and zipped up the smooth new approach to The Big Dipper. Three times around. All I had to do was follow her line, each time dropping in without brakes, and even catching air on the joyous swoops back up.
TriLady departed, stuffing her Fuel into the rental Yaris. Popeye and I prepared for the boat parade and nearly forty guests, which was a little scary too, but turned out fine.
Once the boat parade was over, we had the freedom of our days back. We rode Turkey Creek. I hung back, determined to get the bridge phobia out of my head. With a white knuckled grip on the bars, I pedalled the long curving bridge so slowly that Popeye, waiting around the bend, assumed I had walked after all. Riding carefully, no sudden moves, a bit of shaking, but somehow it gets done. The next time around, it's almost easy.
On the final morning of December there are a couple tempting rides going on, but sometimes you just know when you need a rest day, and we take one. We do the bourbon tasting at Pie-Man and Scout's that night, but we leave early. The alarm is set for five thirty for the trip to Boyette.
The zip-wham of fireworks, softened by bourbon, wakes me at midnight. I remember to say Rabbit Rabbit. I don't remember making a wish.
We get to Boyette a half hour early. Following Popeye, forgetting to shave speed, I shoot completely off a curve in the trail before we even hit any hard parts. We meet up with his fast friends and head for Ridgeline.
There are plenty of challenging trails at Boyette, but Ridgeline is the real reason we have all driven two and a half hours.
There are a few riders standing around at the head of the trail, but the guys in our group don't hesitate. One by one, they swoop down and back up the first three drops, then disappear around a bend. I follow, taking the first two drops, having fun with it, then fetch up at the top of the third, looking down over the edge. It's way steep.
I claw my way back up the swoops I just came down and check the map for a way to meet the guys at the other end.
Along the way I find an edgy trail along the water and take it at my own speed. The Superfly pops over the roots no problem and stays right on trail.
A gator floats, watching, eyes just above the bright green scum. It is no where near the size of those at the Econ.
I see a side loop that the guys had mentioned. On impulse, I take it. There are a few tricky spots and it is rough from disuse, but I grind my way through, only setting a foot down once or twice.
When I get to the end of the side loop, it suddenly occurs to me that I am doing all right. I'm two for two. And if I don't get myself back to Ridgeline today, it could be another year before the next chance.
It's not that bad. I don't do it all, and I take the bypasses when offered, but I do more of it than I ever thought I could.
At the top of an especially steep drop I hesitate out of habit, and lean out to look over the edge.
Did you ever see that portrait of the young, beautiful woman? The one that, with a blink and a shift in perception, you suddenly see an old, ugly woman instead?
In that instant, peering over the edge of a drop at scary old Boyette, with a blink and a shift in perception, I suddenly see the Big Dipper at Ft. Pierce instead. I line it up and just go.
At the end of Ridgeline, I am waiting when the guys finish their second pass. I add nothing to the discussion of what trail to do next, but ride in slow circles waiting for their decision.
I am savoring a new sensation, a tiny little flicker of returning confidence. And when they take off for the Abyss, I fall into place at the end of the line and go with them. When I finish, they are waiting. I dare to consider that maybe I am not so hopeless as I expected to be. In fact, I even find that once or twice, I am not the only one they have to wait for.
And with that I would have been happy enough with my day. An impromptu New Year's resolution unvoiced and unexpected, but accomplished nonetheless, by early afternoon on the very first day of the year.
But these are Popeye's friends. Roadies first, mountain bikers second. These are the guys who can do the Cross Florida in 8 hours. The question is not whether to ride some more, only whether to ride more here, or head to Alafia and ride more there.
When we pull into Alafia, I don't wait for the guys to get organized. I tell Popeye I'll check back in an hour, and I am off and riding. I have a loop and a mission in mind.
First to North Creek. Edgy trails, narrow and tight, banked along a series of shady gator holes, gooey and still. Killer rattles over the wooden bridges, long and straight, and of no concern to a veteran of Turkey Creek.
North Creek
Can you see the gator?
Me neither.
(But it's there.)
Next on the agenda comes Rock Garden. Signs with arrows point the way to "easier" or "harder". For the first time ever, I choose "harder". I don't clean them all. I walk down one and avoid one other, but it's more this time than any other here.
I make it through Rock Garden, and head for Bridges. There's a 30 foot wooden entry bridge across a deep gully, then a series of swooping whoopty dos in decreasing amplitude all the way to the end. My previous solution to riding this trail was to skip the bridge and the first (highest) drop by pushing my bike up the dirt bank about halfway through, and riding the progressively easier dips to the end.
The bridge is wider than Turkey Creek, and the first big drop is no Big Dipper. I pedal right by the two guys standing over their bikes at the top looking down, and just go. And go, and go. And from there to Roller Coaster, and go some more.
I have far exceeded my check in time, but when I get back to the car, Popeye isn't there either. No doubt still out effortlessly riding Moonscape or some other black diamond trail.
I rinse under the outdoor shower, and sit on the tailgate in dry clothes, eating a salty ham sandwich. I'm glad I came.
