First, a disclaimer – my crash was a slow-motion comedy one. I wasn’t “sending it” over jumps or doing anything that could remotely be classed as “cool”. I was hanging on.
I’d been riding with some friends (all much better than me) in the Forest of Dean. The woods were chaos, people milling in the fire road then peeling off onto the surrounding trails. It had been raining pretty much non-stop until Sunday’s glorious blue skies, and the ribbons of banked trails were slippery, and caked in mud. Riding new trails in these conditions, while trying to keep up with friends (and battling the inner monologue telling you that you’re “just not in the mood”) is a bit of a recipe for disaster.
I was reading the trail too close to my front wheel, not looking ahead, or bracing for what was to come. Then my mind switched off – I noticed a drop too late, and instead of stopping, I simply careened over the edge, falling “like a sack of potatoes.” (A “rag doll” was also used to describe my fall.)
From the Welsh-English borderlands, Meg’s first taste of cycling was downhill – she’s now learning to love the up, and swapping her full-sus for gravel (for the most part!). She is slowly embarking on a road riding journey.
I ended up going over the bars, and landing on my shoulder, neck and head, my body crumpling over the top of me. I rolled over and – most surprising to me – did a little burp and got up, more embarrassed at my guttural scream than the fall itself.
There were factors that let me to that moment. Part of why I love mountain biking is because it’s a battle with your mind, most of all. But as soon as that little voice inside your head pipes up with the first, “I’m not feeling this”, then it is (in my case, at least), game over. There is only so much inner-monologue-coaxing I can do to turn things around.
My friend Chris asked me to lift my arm above my head – no breaks. He said when the three of them clocked what was about to happen, that our friend Archie let out a quiet “oh no.” Chris, a dad to a five-year-old, knew not to react before assessing the damage first. His calm response led not to tears (as usually happen when I’m shocked and slightly in pain) but to that big, grin in the photo above.
I pretty much tapped out after that. I was just a little sore, still a little shell-shocked (maybe I should have cried, actually?) and so I left them to do a few more runs, and headed to the coffee shop. I felt like a…