I have a hole in my leg, on the inside of my left knee. It’s not a real hole, just a scar that looks like one. I guess the technical term for it is abscess, but whatever it is, it’s kind of gross.
It happened mountain biking, though not from one crash or injury, but a series of them. It’s part of the reason I never really liked mountain biking, or why in order to love it, I had to hate it first.
Most female athletes have had a boyfriend who introduced them to a new sport. The boyfriends help choose the equipment, plan the trips and choose the routes. They push you harder than you would push yourself, drag you places you would never consider going on your own and gently push you over the edge while they stand there smiling, looking smug and amused. If you’re lucky at the end of the day, you’re still alive, and if he’s lucky, you’re still a couple.
I had a boyfriend like that when I was in college at CU in Boulder. Mark was an avid mountain biker who spent the summer racing all over the state. He was tall and skinny with long, sinewy legs littered with veins and muscles that looked too close to the skin, like one of those drawings in an anatomy book. Our water bottles were stained orange from his Cytomax mix, our cupboards piled with PowerBars and Coach’s Formula vitamins, our schedules dictated by when and where we would go riding that day.
Mark built my bike from the frame up. He ordered all the parts from catalogs, making sure to find the lightest possible components. The frame was the smallest he could find, an 11-inch steel number we bought from a tiny manufacturer in Massachusetts called Fat Chance – appropriate, considering I came in second to last at every single one of the mountain bike races he dragged me to. He was proud when the bike weighed in at 21 1/2 pounds, regardless that it was a squirrelly ride at best, with a short wheelbase and coated aluminum brakes stiff enough to stop a freight train. To say the bike had a tendency to skid was like saying solid ice is a little bit slippery.
What’s worse, the top tube slanted in such a way that it repeatedly bashed into the inside corner of my left knee. After dozens of painful rides, a nasty bruise developed that never really healed.
Four years later when I cut open my knee learning to surf, orange pus that looked like apricot jam leaked from my knee for several days before I finally went to a doctor. He told me the bruise was a deep infection, probably inside my bursa sac. He said the cut was the best thing that could have happened to me, that I might have needed surgery otherwise.
Then he offered to cut my knee open and stitch it back together.
“Why would I want you to do that?” I asked. Now I know the answer.
The story of the hole came flooding back to me this weekend during a bike trip in Moab, my first ride of the season. Not much has changed in 10 years. I’m still somehow second to last no matter who I’m riding with. I still hate how much the climb hurts and how scared I get on the downhill. I still get worked, bashing various body parts that miraculously withstand the abuse without serious injury.
But I realized I love how tired I feel at the end of the day, covered in dust and dried mud and scrapes that have already scabbed over. I love being outside all day and seeing mile after mile of pristine desert landscape whiz by, the red dirt and blooming flowers, the purple clouds and blue skies, the spires and rock formations that art tries to imitate.
I love when I make it through a tricky section I thought was beyond my ability, even if I crashed 10 times before it. I love when my muscles ache with fatigue and my stomach gets hollow after so many hours on the trail, my heart beating in my throat, echoing deep in my eardrums. I love when my bike is dirty enough to prove it has been used. I love knowing how proud Mark would be if he saw me now, planning my own trips and buying my own equipment and choosing my own routes.
Like that hole in my knee, I know the pleasure is worth the pain. Ask me if I’ll ever quit mountain biking despite it all, and 10 years later I’ll give you a simple answer: “Fat chance.”
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
