Mark of Adventure

CW graphic injury

      As we wait in line, anxiety digs its sharp claws into my rapidly beating heart, my breathing feels a little unsteady, and my legs are itching to run in the other direction. The rubber handlebar grips are slippery with all the sweat soaking my palms, but I clutch them tightly. The bike is so heavy. What if I can’t lift it? The lift moves slow enough, but I cringe imagining myself struggling to get the bike onto it. I think of people laughing or shaking their heads at how weak I am. Then, what if the operator needs to stop the lift for me? Nothing seems to irritate people more. This crowd hasn’t seemed the nicest so far. It doesn’t bother me like it once would. By this point in my life, I’ve been through the excitement of finding a great new community, and the letdown of realizing they’re just regular people that will sometimes be okay and sometimes be aggravating.

           I suck in deep breaths, assuring myself it’ll all be fine. My stomach backflips off a large jump. When the idea of a downhill bike park was first proposed to me, my stomach dropped. I imagined people careening full speed down a steep ski hill. Skis were too fast for me. No way I could handle that on a bike. Then I saw a video. It wasn’t exactly what I pictured. People weren’t racing down steep wide-open ski runs. There were dirt trails that switch backed down the mountain. The trails seemed like the trails through the woods I was growing more and more confident with. The only difference being I never had to pedal uphill, which sounded amazing. Still, looking up at that mountain as we slowly moved forward in line, I doubted everything. How could the trails not be steep? Was I getting in over my head?

           I wave the lift pass to open the gate. It’s so close now. No one struggles. They lift their bikes effortless onto the lift. They all look so much stronger though. A few more deep breaths and mental reassurances and I’m bracing myself for the moment. I move as quickly as possible, lift the bike as high as I can, and slide the front tire on. I almost have it, but the back tire pops off the rack. Panic swells through my body, but I lift the back, adjust it back on and push forward. It falls into place. I sigh and walk forward to wait for the chair. Step one complete. The chair lift isn’t as bad in the summer. Every time I use one skiing, I feel like I’ll slip off. Between the thick bundles of clothing, weight of the skis on my feet, and slippery conditions of winter, it’s hard to believe everyone stays on so securely. With the thin clothing of summer and nothing but sneakers on my feet, I feel more secure. Instead of clinging on tightly, I relax. Below me is tall green grass spotted with white, yellow, and purple wildflowers. The dirt trails cross back and forth beneath me. The warm rays of sun sooth me. Despite the calm and beauty of the ride, the jitters are still prancing around my stomach. What if I can’t do this? What if it’s too much?

           There’s some relief at not being alone, since my boyfriend, Josh, is with me, but he is a much better rider and will quickly tire of the easy trails. This, like most things, will be something he instinctively excels at. I’ll be struggling to keep up. Two of his friends have joined us too, but they’re even better. One has been doing this forever. Go at your own speed. Even if you’re riding alone.

           We start on an easy route. A “warm up” route that will likely be my actual level route. A wave of nausea rolls through my gut. I can do this. Just take it slow. We start downhill. My hands tighten around the brakes so I’m creeping forward as slowly as I can. I release them slightly but keep my fingers ready to apply more pressure. I never fully let off them. I’m sure I’ll push these brakes into breaking by the end of the day. We ride a smooth dirt line through trees. Sunlight sparkles between leaves like thousands of fireflies. Bright wildflowers line the trail. It’s beautiful, and I can feel the jitteriness subsiding. I stand on the pedals with my knees slightly bent, reminding myself to stay in ready stance. Sooner than I’d like to admit my legs burn from the exertion of this and my body slowly lowers itself onto the seat again. The discomfort of the seat gets me up. I glide around berms, always riding the lower end. My right foot lazily lowers, and I tell myself to keep the pedals even. I need to get better at this.

           As I build confidence, my speed picks up. Sweat trickles down my forehead. The full-face helmet is warm, but the wind of the ride helps. By the time I reach the bottom of the mountain, there’s a wide grin across my face. Then anxiety creeps back and grabs hold of me. Maybe I’ll never get over my lift fears. This time is smoother. I get the bike in with ease. I know what I’m doing. Just need to convince myself of that.

           Soon we’re up the mountain again. The trail will be a little harder. It’s filled with tabletop jumps. I can’t jump at all, but I can roll over them. Still, this makes me nervous. More experienced riders will be barreling down at full speed, and I’ll need to keep out of their way. Deep breaths. You can pull over when someone’s coming. You can still go at your own speed. I take the back again.

           As we start, I’m running through my check list of things I need to do. Pedals are even. I’m standing, knees bent, ready for anything. My eyes are forward mapping out my course. I roll over the first table with a smile. I might not be able to do any tricks yet, but it’s still fun. As we come up to the next one, I see one of our friends in front of me soar into the air. The jump looks amazing and I’m happy for her, but then something goes wrong. Her bike crashes into the ground and she goes flying off it. I hit the brakes and stop fast before reaching the tabletop. She doesn’t sound good. Her boyfriend and mine run over to see what’s going on. I stand waving any oncoming riders to stop.

           First-aid rescuers are called up to examine her. She’s crying and struggling to breathe. It sounds likely she’s broken her ribs. They help her into the truck and drive off. We need to finish the ride, but now the fear is pulsing through me with renewed strength. I ride down so cautiously that I might be putting myself in more danger. Slow isn’t always better when you could have people right behind that aren’t paying attention. Somehow, I make it to the bottom. We take a break while waiting for the news. She’s going to the hospital. There’s nothing we can do to help. We hope for the best. 

           “Ready to go again?” Josh asks.

           No, I want to go home. “Uh, I guess so. Seems kind of like a bad sign for the day though.”

           “Yeah, but we came all the way here, we should try.”

It’s a far drive and a decent amount of money. We’ve only barely done two runs. I understand. My hands are shaky, and my mind rattles. “Can we do the easy ones though?”

“Sure.”

We’re back in line. The usual vice grip of anxiety seizes me. I don’t think this day can be turned around, but slowly it is. The next rides are cautious and slow, but things go well. The confidence is building again. I’m gliding smoothly around berms and picking up speed. I’m remembering all the little tips and holding the stance. The fun breaks through in small fits of giggles. There’s something about racing down those lines with my full faced helmet that makes me feel strong, capable, and tough. It’s a feeling that rarely comes to me and fills me with self-pride. All my issues and insecurities fade away.

“Hey, why don’t we switch bikes? I think you’ll like this one,” Josh says. He has a downhill bike, and it should be a smoother ride.

I agree. Later we’ll wonder if this was my mistake.

I’m flying down the hill at a speed that’s fast for me. I feel confident. The bike rides over everything with ease like it can plow down anything in its way. It’s a good bike. I’m soaring, loving the wind against my face, and smiling foolishly. I love this feeling. Then something stops the tire. I have no idea what, but I feel my body lunging forward. Time disappears for a moment. I’m on the ground, trying to push my body up with no memory of getting there. A push forward and then ground. Did I go over the handlebar? I’m not even sure.

I can’t breathe at all. I’m desperately gasping for air, and my body is making a weird animalistic sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Am I dying? I’m all alone. My boyfriend is way ahead of me. At some point he’ll stop to check if I’m behind him and see that I’m not, but how long will that be? Since I can’t breathe, not quick enough. Maybe the wind has been knocked out of me. Just stay calm. It feels so long. Tears fill my eyes. I try to scream, but I have no air. I continue making that strange noise. I need to do something. I push my body into a sitting position. Everything around me spins, and the colors don’t look quite right. I’ve never seen stars before, but I know that’s what’s happening. I understand the description now. I don’t bother trying to stand. Then liquid pours down in front of my eyes like someone is dumping a bottle of water over my head. It’s red, but it doesn’t seem right. So much of it is gushing down. I close my eyes unable to see through the wall of it. I wipe my eyes to no avail. The helmet is in my way. How can my head be bleeding? The helmet is still on. I didn’t lose it. Did the helmet do this? I pull off the helmet, and the blood gushes like a waterfall. Maybe the helmet was holding it back. Am I dying? Can someone lose this much blood and still be okay? My hands are covered in red. A puddle is forming around me on the ground. I’m wheezing, but some air is getting to my lungs. I think I might faint. I cautiously lift my fingers to my head. A part of me fears, maybe irrationally, that some chunk of my head won’t even be there. There’s so much blood. My lungs are filling with air now, so I start screaming. “Help me! Help me!”

Touching my head, I find a gooey spot like the inside of a pumpkin and snatch my hand away. Maybe it’s better if I don’t know. That’s when I notice my right thumb. There’s a large piece of it flapping around separately. My stomach flips and I think I’m going to puke. I look away from my hand. I can’t look at it. No one is coming. I know I need to move myself and the bike or we could be runover by someone going too fast. I pull my body to the side and pull the bike towards me. Shouldn’t this all hurt? I don’t feel any pain. My chest hurt when I couldn’t breathe, but now I feel nothing. The blood is pouring. If I don’t get out of here, I might not make it. I can’t keep losing blood at this speed. I push myself into standing, and the whole world tilts. Walking is out of the picture. I sit again and scream as loud as I can. I scream and scream for an agonizingly long time. I can walk. The need to survive will take over. I’ll crawl down this mountain if I need to.

Then I see him. Relief floods over me as Josh runs up the hill. I’ve been found, so I won’t bleed to death alone on the side of the trail. I see the concern in his face. He never looks concerned. I’ve been injured before him plenty of times. What is this look? How bad is this?

He tells me to leave the bike and the helmet which has tumbled into the woods. He puts an arm around me, and we start walking. The stars cloud my vision, and I can’t feel anything at all, but I’m moving forward. I’m okay. I can do this. I must be fine. Then he is lowering me to the ground.

“I’m going to call for help.”

“Why? I can walk.”

“No, you can’t. You’re zigzagging all over the place.”

“What? No, I’m…” Am I?

“Stay here. I’m going to get the bike out of the way.” He walks back to the bike as I lay in the grass.

A man is coming down the trail smiling. He sees me and lets out a little scream. He stumbles over his words but offers a first-aid kit. He holds it out to me, but then sees my hand.

“Here, I’ll do it.” He pulls out some gauze pads. He leans towards me, but his face is twisted in concerned fear. I don’t know what I look like, but apparently, I’m hard to look at. Slowly stepping towards me like I might attack or something, he reaches out the gauze. Josh is back and the man pulls back with relief. Someone else is here, so he can pass off this task. He gives Josh the whole first aid and says to keep it. Then takes off quickly down the hill. I feel like a monster. At least I can breathe and that’s all that matters to me. My lungs aren’t crushed and I’m not dying on the spot.

Josh dabs the gauze on my forehead cleaning up blood as best he can. Then a man comes wearing that familiar red cross of first aid.

“Well, you sure did a good job there.” He has a kind smile. He examines my head. “We’re going to get the truck to take you down.”

“I think I can walk.”

“Nope. I don’t think you should.”

As we drive, he talks to me about what happened. He is friendly. While he jokes, I can sense the caring in each word.

At the bottom, he bandages my head. “This will do for now. At least until you get to the hospital.”

“Hospital?”

“Yes, you need to go the hospital.”

“I mean it’s not that bad. Can’t I just go home and schedule with the doctor.”

The man laughs to tell me I have no idea what I’m talking about. “You’re definitely going to the hospital.”

I’ve never been to the hospital. To visit people, but never for myself. My nerves surge again. What am I not seeing? What’s wrong with me? I fill out paperwork, while the man instructs Josh on the nearest hospital. Josh asks if we should go closer to home, but the man doesn’t recommend it. He talks in a manner that is so calm and kind, it’s hard to accuse him of being dramatic.

On the drive to the hospital, I’m retelling all the man’s jokes. The medical staff was all so kind to me. While I appreciate this, it also worries me. What can’t I see?

Josh will later tell me I looked like Carrie, but in this moment, he doesn’t want me to worry. I remain clueless. My biggest concern is my falling apart finger, but everyone acts like that’s a minor scratch. I can’t see my other concern because it’s on my face. I could see in the car mirror, but it’s bandaged now. The stream of blood pours down into my eye again. I think this is some sort of flashback hallucination. It’s not. The blood has made its way through the gauze. We know then the man is right. The closest hospital it is.

We get to the hospital and a nurse starts the intake. She pulls the bandage off and I’m being rushed into a room. I’m in a hospital room and the doctor is in there in minutes. The doctor is my favorite. He stays almost the entire time I’m there and gets me plenty of snacks. My biggest concern, the finger, will be thoroughly cleaned and glued back in place. The real issue is my forehead has been cut open bone deep and I’ll need nine stitches. Along with tests to make sure I don’t have any major internal bleeding or head injury. The helmet must have saved my life if it’s this bad with it.

I’m there for hours, but too exhausted by the whole thing to pay much attention. Everyone is so kind, but I only want to sleep. First ER visit, check. First ever stitches, check. At the end of it all, I’ll always have a faint scar as a reminder. A reminder everyone jokes makes me look like Harry Potter. I choose to wear it with pride and be one of those people who sees it as a tough guy symbol. Suitable since my face is all black and blue and bandaged. I look like I’m in a fight club. Especially with my bandaged hand to match. It’s a confidence inspiring symbol though. The mark of adventure.