Issue link: http://trailridermagazine.uberflip.com/i/131019
A Newb's Guide to LosING Friends and Alienating e People By Anna Svagzdys manage not to collide as he veers into the woods, shouting something I can't make out and gesturing at something in front of him. "WHAT?" I yell, beginning to follow him, but as soon as I leave the trail, my front tire deflects off a log and I fall over again. Greg parks his KTM and walks over to help. "You were headed straight for this huge, rocky uphill," he says, his voice hoarse from a cold. "You never would have made it, so I wanted to show you a shortcut so you wouldn't hurt yourself." If I were a dog, at this point--and mentally I may well have been a dog, at this point--my fur would have stood on end. "Oh," I snarl. "Thank you so much for rescuing the damsel in distress." E very time I get off my dirt bike, I forget how to ride it. It seems I was born without muscle memory--and very nearly without the other kind of memory, too, which may explain why I insist on writing everything down. I have been riding and writing about it for almost a year now, so I can confidently tell you that every first lap of every day I have ridden has been an unmitigated disaster—and today is no exception. I hoist the KDX and give it a kick, but Greg motions me to cut it off. "What!?" I snap. "Sorry, I'm losing my voice--" "Well" I say, "I didn't ask for any advice…" As I struggle to free my KDX 220 from where I've wedged it between two trees on sloping, rocky ground, I can just make out Chris, Jared and my boyfriend Greg waiting for me at the crest of the hill. They've been there for a while, and the sight of them fills me with feelings of worthlessness and despair. This is something that I should probably talk out with a therapist, but since I can't afford one, I funnel the unwanted emotions into an andrenal flood of unadulterated Haterade and send the bike flying with a shove, a shot of throttle, and a scream that could shatter glass and frighten children a county away. Once I've picked the bike up and climbed aboard, the boys move on and I chase after them, faster than I ought but slower than I'd like, inevitably blowing another berm not 50 yards down the trail. By the time I'm on the bike again, Greg is coming back down the trail to look for me. We 34 Trail Rider Behind his goggles, Greg looks somewhere between incredulous and hurt. "Why do you have to be so mean?" he says. I replay the conversation in my head and feel a sudden chill in my guts that makes me want to dump the bike and go squeeze him, but by the time I come to this revelation, all that's left of the KTM is some settling dust. I kick the KDX again and roll off in halfhearted pursuit, worthlessness and despair flooding in as the Haterade floods out. I survive the rest of the lap and meet the boys back at the truck. Greg gamely pretends I'm not a total sociopath and,