Taking My Bike for a Walk: Lessons in Love & Mountain Biking

I’m taking my mountain bike for a walk. It is a beautiful day so why not take my bike for a walk? Oh, but you ask, "Aren't you supposed to be riding that bike, not walking alongside it?" Yes, of course ... and let me explain why I chose to walk my bike. There's a lot more to this story.

I wouldn't be mountain biking (MTBing) in Moab, Utah in the middle of a desert, risking life and limb if not for love— and true love at that. I’m not just learning to mountain bike at age 59. I’m learning to love —really love —with all the risks and hazards that come with it. 

I knew my (now) husband was serious about me when he outfitted me with a MTB and all the appropriate accouterment. But all the love and cool gear in the world could not transform a scaredy cat novice rider into a MTBing badass. 

I grew up on a small farm outside Little Rock, Arkansas, and my first bike was a rusty single-speed cruiser handed down from my three older sisters. I taught myself to ride in the cow pasture behind our house. While other kids did wheelies on their Huffys with their bright colored tassels and banana seats, I gingerly steered my rusted cruiser up and down a dead end street. I fell down a lot. Fifty years later, I was finally learning how to ride off-road.

I had a lot to learn. I received great advice from mountain biking enthusiasts. "Always look ahead to anticipate what’s coming next. If you're staring down at the rock right in front of you, you’re going to hit it!" 

Focusing on my future also seemed like a good life lesson that I had somehow missed in my first 58 years on the planet. I had more than my share of romantic mishaps that left my heart bruised and broken. In many ways, I was starting my life over. When my MTB-loving man came along, I projected on him the negative experiences of my past. I was so fearful of falling (in love) I tried to mash on the brakes and play it safe. 

Fortunately, my guy was confident in me (and very patient) both on and off the trail. On our first ride together, he took me to a single track where parents bring their toddlers to learn to ride. I had one objective: Do not crash. 

Within the first five minutes as I tried to navigate my bike between two large boulders, I hit a pedal against the stone and lost my balance. Aside from a scraped knee, I was unscathed, but for the rest of the ride, I dismounted and walked my bike around any obstacle that looked the least bit intimidating. 

"You're a strong rider," my guy said. "You’re just overthinking it. If you let it, the bike will roll right over that rocky terrain and do most of the work.”

I wanted to believe him, but somewhere deep inside I feared that he was being way too kind and optimistic. I continued to ride on the paved Moab Canyon Pathway near our home. Each time, I felt a little stronger and more confident. I was proud of my improvement as I learned how to shift gears and adjust the dropper post seat. A few weeks later, when friends came to ride the Moab trails, I thought I was ready to join in the fun. 

On the first trail (the warm up) I managed the single track without too much trepidation. Then, we went to a more advanced area. It was still considered a beginner course, but to me the “flowy” dips and turns appeared steep and scary. I huffed to the top of the first incline, took one look down the descent — and completely lost my nerve. I panicked. 

“I can’t do it!” I cried. “Go on without me!”

As the group pedaled off, I dismounted, turned the bike around and slowly walked it back to the parking lot. I wanted to ride, but in that moment of frustration and humiliation, I gave up. 

Back at our van, I secured my bike on its rack, removed my clunky black biking shoes, and stripped off my gloves and helmet. Now what? I couldn’t just sit alone and wait, so I put on my hiking shoes and trudged up a hill to try to find some perspective. 

At first, I felt sorry for myself. Then I beat myself up for a lifetime of insecurities and ineptitudes. Why did I ever think I could learn to MTB at my age? As I looked out over the desert valley, I knew somewhere my guy and our friends were riding and having a great time. I started to sob. 

The desert is a good place to take your sorrows and your fears. It's quiet and non-judgmental, but not particularly compassionate. It will swallow your petty concerns in a heartbeat. Tears evaporate quickly.

Far above me, a hawk effortlessly circled on the wind current. I took a deep breath and let go of my shame. I prayed for grace and guidance for what to do next. When the answer came it was so subtle and obvious that it made me laugh out loud: "If you want to ride, get back on your bike and practice. Do it for yourself and no one else. Just practice!” 

I ran down the hill back to the van, lifted my bike from its rack and changed back into my biking gear. Then I pedaled to the warm-up trail and I road it again. This time, it felt a little easier, and I stayed on my bike for the entirety of the single track. 

I was about to turn around and pedal back to the van when I saw my guy and our friends at the top of the next hill. My MTB-loving man grinned at me and waved. I waved back, got on my bike to ride up to meet him, and … immediately toppled over. My laughter floated across the arid landscape and settled in my heart. I could do this — it would just take practice.

More than six months later, I’m still practicing. I’m also still losing my balance and sometimes losing my nerve, but I have discovered a love of MTBing that I never imagined I’d possess. I love how I can propel myself into the wilderness and explore the natural world. Most of all, I love that MTBing has taught me to be more present with all my fears and to be kinder to myself when facing them. 

We recently traveled to Baja for the winter, and my bike has become my constant companion on the beautiful Mexican trails. When I hit a point on the single track where the trail is too technical, I dismount and take my bike for a walk. But whenever I’m uncertain about a segment of trail — or any other new experience — I hear the subtle voice that guided me in Moab, “Do it for yourself and no one else. Just practice.” And each time I ride, I become a little more skillful — a bit braver.