Careen

Dirt. Dust. Wind. Trees. Everything whipped past as I flew down the slopes. My mountain bike was singing beneath me. It had never more perfectly tuned. I could feel the suspension flowing smoothly over bumps and rocks, the tires digging into corners, the gears clipping back and forth as I adjusted my attack. This was living! I yelled at the top of my lungs, pure joy welling up.

The blue sky opened up around me as I belted out of the forest and into the grassy plains. I was thousands of feet above sea level. Ecstatic too. Everything I had dreamed about and worked towards had come together in a single ride. Every ounce of weight shaved off the frame with lighter, more expensive parts made the bike more nimble. Every subconscious response my muscles made was thanks to years of grueling rides and training sessions.

The ground swelled beneath me and I floated. I always hated being airborne. You lose all directional control. No contact with the ground means no way to change direction. Most riders made the mistake of thinking that your orientation was the same as your direction. Not true. I could feel the bike drifting away from where I wanted it. The ground was rushing up, but I had no way to change my angle.

Everything that had been good became bad in an instant. The tires caught wrong, ruining my balance. With my center of gravity off to one side, there was no way I could realign myself for the next turn. I locked up my brakes too late, fell hard and exploded through some rough grass and out into thin air. My bike tumbled away below and to my left, and once again, the ground rushed up to meet me.