by Myra VanInwegen
Mountain biking is risky. Unless you try only the tamest trails and walk even the smallest dropoffs, you will crash. Of course, not all crashes result in major injuries. Most result in nothing worse that dirty clothes, small cuts, scrapes and bruises. You laugh at these, and show them off in the pub later. They’re a part of mountain biking, the (minor) pain that goes with the pleasure.
Occasionally it’s a lot worse. You can die. You can be paralysed if you land the wrong way. Less permanent are broken bones, especially collarbones, and torn ligaments. We usually don’t think too much about this as we’re riding, mainly because it happens so rarely.
Still, there are times when it does pay to think about it. If you’re a newbie, it’s sensible for you to walk bits that your more skilled friends ride down. No need to worry, your skills will improve and soon you’ll be ready to try it.
If you’re riding alone it’s a good idea to take some precautions, and this is doubly true if you’re riding alone in a remote area. Leave the riskier moves for when you’ve got your mates with you, pop an emergency blanket in your Camelbak, and learn basic first aid skills.
But when you’re with friends in a well-populated area, you can let it rip. Especially when you’re on a well- supported commercial event. If you eat dirt, in the next 5 minutes there will be at least a dozen people passing by, asking if you’re alright, offering to phone for help, ready to rip up your cycling jersey to make a tourniquet.
But do you really want to let go, even then? Last September I did the South Downs route with Trailbreak. That first day I was riding well and my confidence was high. I was going down many of the hills without braking. Of course you can guess what happened. Something on the track threw the bike off course, and down I went. I rolled as much as I could, but still my right shoulder took much of the impact. My hydration bladder burst and drenched me with Hi-5. So there I was, lying in a heap on the side of the trail, wet and sticky, with a painful shoulder.
I picked myself up, picked up the bike. No damage to the bike, but damn, my shoulder really did hurt. I pushed the bike down the hill. And, yes, lots of people did stop to ask if I was alright, so if I’d been badly injured, I’d have been rolled out pretty quickly.
After a while I got back on the bike, put it in a low gear, and rode with as little weight on my right arm as I could. I pushed up all the hills. Five slow miles later I was at the next checkpoint. I chucked it in, feeling very sorry for myself. I went to the local hospital where they checked that I didn’t have any broken bones.
The next day it was hot and sunny. The weather that UK mountain bikers dream about. I saw all the Trailbreak riders from the lunch stop, where I was making sandwiches, making minimal use of my right arm. They drifted off after eating, and I saw their silhouettes on top of the hill after a hard climb.
OK, so it wasn’t a major injury. I didn’t break anything, but it was about a month before I could sleep comfortably on my right side.
Was it worth it? Was the rush of adrenaline I got, the sense of feeling way-cool as I pulled away from the people I rode up hills with, worth my hurt shoulder? Well, flying down the hill certainly felt good at the time, but not being able to ride the next day, and for a couple of weeks after that was a real downer. I love riding. I love the freedom of the wind in my teeth, the sweat, the balance, the careful picking of lines to make it through that tricky bit. And I was grounded, jealous of all the happy bikers, riding in the sunshine.
I have to conclude that, for me, it wasn’t worth it. Not that I’m going to creep down hills from now on. I’ll just apply a touch more brake to keep my speed a bit more under control, to minimise the damage the next time I crash. Then I’ll be more likely to just pick myself up, laugh at my new collection of scrapes and bruises, dust myself off, and head off down the trail, to ride the next day and the next…
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