Trail Rider Magazine

38 Trail Rider www.TrailRider.com saplings directly ahead. In an improbable show of reflex, I let go of my airborne bike and reach for an approaching branch. I catch it, it bends, and I drop gently down to earth some six feet below the trail. I'm standing on a cramped, muddy beach, looking up at an impenetrable wall of willow limbs stretching up to the trail. But where is my bike? I turn around, toward the swamp: it's lying close to, but thankfully not in, the brownish water, looking like it made a much harder landing than I did. Just then, the sound of an engine above—SOS, I think. A bike with an A class plate appears in the hole I just left in the greenery. "HEY BUDDY, HOWYA DOIN' UP THERE?" I call. Adrenaline, much like alcohol, makes me think the entire human race is my pal. "Fine?" a voice responds. "How are you doing down there?" The rider parks his bike, then climbs through the willows and down the bank. He's wearing 90's-fabulous pink goggles and has a big scrape across his nose. "Fine but stuck," I say obviously, prying my handlebars out of the mud. The other rider, who is fortunately quite tall, takes the bike from me, starts it, and easily lofts the front wheel over the first row of semi-prostrate willow trunks. The rear wheel requires a little more persuasion. "Feel free to keep going," I offer, futilely hauling on the swingarm. "It's ok, I've got a flat." If he hadn't, I would still be down there today. We even- tually get the rear wheel up and over the tree—my com- panion doing most of the heavy lifting—then the process repeats itself. I let him start ahead of me when we finally make it back to the trail. Flat tire or no, he's going to be moving a heck of a lot faster than I am through this mess. Tired from pushing the bike, I barely make it 50 yards be- fore incompetence strikes again. Bouncing over a root, my front wheel leaves the trail and begins sliding down the slippery bank. In infuriating slow motion, the rest of the bike inexorably follows it. Worse, the trail is so nar- row and so hemmed in by trees on the opposite side that, now that the bike is on its side, there's not enough room to drag its tires back to flat ground. Somehow, I'll have to lift it vertical without it sliding further down the bank... My promise to refrain from swearing and kicking the bike is tested and shortly broken. Another rider comes along. There's no way he's going around me, so he's pretty much forced to help. Together, we awkwardly lift the bike to safety. I make it back to civilized country, meaning trail with ground on both sides and no trees in the middle, and then to the next check—but not, I notice, before houring out. I rode off on minute nine and reached the reset at minute 73: if I hadn't just wasted 20 minutes depending on the kindness of strangers in the swamp, I would have passed with flying colors. Better luck next time. However, the checkers don't notice and I don't say any- thing, so I proceed to the gas stop anyway. Might as well get my money's worth—and besides, I'm barely tired. I fill up the bike, drain my Gatorade bottle into my Camel- Bak and carry on. At the entrance to the next woods sec- tion, someone writes a nine on my score sheet. I remember absolutely nothing of the next part of the race, except that my 12-dollar knee guards got saturated with sweat and started shaving the skin off my knees. I was riding too slowly for anything remarkable to happen, so the next occurrence that sticks in my memory is— alas—the next time I houred out. At the second to last check, I come in as if by fate on minute 73 again—and once again, nobody pulls me off the trail. The last section is a repeat of the first, so I get a second chance at the grass track. I remind myself to sit forward, weight the outside peg, use my inside leg for balance... Remarkably, 60-some-odd miles into my day, I'm still kind of having fun. And it doesn't stop there—since I was the only rider in the Women's class, I got a first place trophy despite my comically poor performance. Better yet, the first place trophy was a beer stein! The King Phillip Trail Riders know what's up, and they put on a great event. My goal for the next race: no swearing, no crying, no kicking the bike—and only hour out once.

• Cover