When Biggy informed me he'd signed me up for a women's mountain biking clinic this past Saturday at Blankets Creek, he failed to mention that it was an ADVANCED class. So I showed up on my cheapo North Face bike, wearing my Keen sandals and dorky mullet helmet, only to find myself surrounded by adventure racers riding Cannondale Lefties (um, like Biggy's bike), who were clad head to toe in Pearl Izumi. I felt like like Jane Hathaway in the secretarial pool.
So already at a self-esteem disadvantage, I had to tackle difficult obstacles, steep climbs, and treacherous descents in front of these gals. Oh, and while they were sucking water from their 80-dollar Camelbacks, I was stopping to unscrew the cap from my small bottle of Asanti crammed into the drink cage of my bike. This, for four hours in 100 degree weather.
The first thing we had to do was ride over a log about a foot in diameter. We were instructed to approach it slowly, crouch over the handlebars and then PICK UP on the front wheel. I tried it twice, and both times it was like hitting a brick wall. There were only three ladies of the twenty or so who actually accomplished this feat, despite the 500 years of experience among them.
Later, we attempted to climb a root-laden hill I couldn't have managed on foot. This little exercise was met with success by only about four of the riders and resulted in my almost breaking my ankle and splitting my heel open. I'm happy to report, however, that I did descend, without injury, the hill, which was actually like falling into a pit.
Alas, I didn't fare as well in the s-curve rock garden, even though it was one I've navigated before with no problem at all. There's just something about being watched...
By Saturday evening, I felt like I'd been in a car wreck. And not until then did I notice the drawer where Biggy keeps our life insurance policies was slighly ajar.
It looks smaller than it is:
These are just the bangs and bruises I can show you:
left inner thigh
right inner thigh