Last summer I enthusiastically, and rather blindly I might add,
leaped head-first into my very first mountain biking adventure
here, at Arcadia. Being the adventurous sort and having never
mountain biked though the proud owner of one for—well, a long
time—I thought it was as good a time as any to start. I had
complete confidence in my riding partner. Life was good. How hard
could it be?
Five minutes into the ride the inner dialog began, “You
don’t know what you’re doing. What have you gotten
yourself into? You don’t know jack.
You.Are.Going.To.Die.” And so it went. Obviously, I
lived to tell the story. But I am quite certain my life flashed
before my eyes. More than once.
Five and a half miles later the ride was over, I was still
alive—barely—and off to lunch we went. Later that
evening, or perhaps it was the next day, I received an email from
my riding partner asking when I wanted to go riding again, in Big
River. I think I fell out of my chair. If I recall correctly, I
managed to push that ride out a few weeks while I recovered from
this near death experience.
Several months, and many mountain biking excursions later, I
still don’t know jack. But I’d like to think I’m
a little better on the bike. But just a little. I placed this cache
on foot. BYOP.
Wear your orange. Remember, I don't know jack.