Edema Rue

I remember my first ride.

I mean, not my first ride.

But the first one that mattered.

On that old pink and white bike. It must’ve weighed 40 pounds or more. No sunglasses, no gloves, no clips. I barely had a helmet that fit.

I wasn’t sure why I was there.

I just knew that it hurt.

It hurt a lot.

Up, and up, and up. The trail seemed like it would never end. I felt like I was stopping every few feet. I drank all my water before I even got halfway there. Probably before I even got a quarter of the way. And I was sweating so hard. I didn’t think I’d ever sweated that much before, or that it was possible I ever would again. 

Seemed I walked that ride more than I rode it.

The end was the hardest. I was done. One girl and a coach next to me. I got in and finished thirty feet in front of me. I was new. No one cheered for me.

They knew her, and she was last.

They screamed her name.

I’m not jealous. Not anymore.

I thought going down would be better. I remember I was so excited.

They took off. All at once there was more dust than air and they were flying down that mountain.

And then, seemingly in the blink of an eye, it was me and two coaches. They rode behind me; that was, after all, their job.

They talked about work and family.

And I tried to ride.

Cheeks flaming, legs burning, lungs aching, I tried with all I was worth to find the wings everyone else seemed to have.

I didn’t find them that night.

Instead of glorious trumpets, I had squeaking breaks.

Instead of a choir of angels, I had a pair of coaches who never seemed to stop talking.

Instead of flying, I was crawling.

Instead of triumphant, I was terrified.

I don’t know why I didn’t give up, then.

I know I wanted to.

But for whatever reason, I stayed.

It’s been four years.

Four years of blood.

Four years of sweat.

Four years of tears.

More of all three than I care to admit. More than I thought possible.

I’ve ridden over a thousand miles.

Hundreds of practices.

Dozens of races.

Each one feels as if it’ll kill me.

That’s one of the craziest things about being a mountain biker; every ride hurts. It never gets easier, you just get faster.

Only sometimes you don’t.

I rode today.

Dead last.

Two coaches behind me.

They talked about work.

Cheeks flaming.

Legs burning.

Lungs aching.

That’s not quite fair.

I’m not the person I was there, and I won’t ignore years of work by pretending that I am.

But somehow,

Through all this,

I still haven’t found a pair of wings.

They’re soaring among the stars,

And I am shackled in the mud.