All Bikes Are Not Created Equal

For as long as I can remember, I have always enjoyed a good challenge. My brother and I would make a competition out of anything and my goal was not only to win but to prove to him that I was as tenacious as my hair was big.

There’s just something about healthy competition.  Whether it’s against an opponent, the clock, or against yourself, there is a deep sense of accomplishment when you finish something you set out to do.  Long suffering and perseverance is sadly a lost art and one that I'm slowly learning to love. 

In 2012, some friends convinced me to do a local adventure race with them.  It’s basically a big team scavenger hunt with multiple tasks through each course of the race. Your goal: collect all the stamps for your “passport” and cross the finish line before everyone else. You run. You canoe. And you bike.  I like to call it a lazy man’s triathlon even though it leaves you exhausted when it's all said and done. The first adventure race I completed was an urban race and it was a blast. So I immediately agreed to the next one.  Little did I know that it was located at Kincaid Lake in KisatchieNational Forest.

At the time I had what I thought to be a decent bike. It was a hybrid that was more comfortable than my SUV. My bike did fine in the first race so I assumed that it would do great in the next one.  I didn’t know that all bikes are not created equal or that mine really wasn't designed for what I was putting it through. It was a lesson quickly learned and forever remembered. It’s hard to forget crossing the finish line while others are packing up and leaving because they have already eaten and enjoyed the post-race treats.  Did I mention how humbling it was for someone who thoroughly enjoys anything competitive?

I sensed these races would be part of the norm and I refused to drive the struggle bus again the same way I did at Kincaid so I invested in a mountain bike.  Nothing fancy. No bells and whistles.  Just an entry level mountain bike.  I was so proud! If I didn’t know what I was doing, at least I looked the part riding a bike that was better suited for what I was doing.  I still wanted to tackle the same trails that kicked my tail, but I had no idea where to start or what to do. 

Thanks to the kindness of a friend at the local bike shop, Red River Cyclery, that changed.  Matt was an experienced cyclist who specialized (no pun intended) in mountain biking. He had special shoes that were attached to the pedals. His gloves matched his shoes and his helmet didn’t look like the WalMart special I was sporting. But my hair did look better than his.  He frequented the trails as much as I frequented the local CrossFit gym and it was evident that he knew what he was doing. Though he was a veteran, he was kind enough to slow down, teach me the basics, and give me helpful pointers that enabled me to actually enjoy the very thing that demolished my pride a few months prior. 

My time on the trails had been utterly redeemed and I absolutely loved it.  There was something unique about that morning.  As kind and generous as Matt was to let me tag along, it wasn’t him.  Maybe it was the stillness of the morning and the ability to step away and unplug for just a moment. Or maybe it was the sheer silence from the hectic patterns of the everyday hustle and bustle.  More than likely it was the lightning speed of lactic acid building up in my quads combined with the desperate need of oxygen; that kind of feeling isn’t one you ever forget no matter how awesome the experience.

Though several years have passed and my skill level has improved slightly, I’m still a newbie trying to figure out this whole recreational cycling thing.  However, the lessons I’ve learned thus far and the respite it has provided in the midst of an ever increasing pace of life has been a good gift from a Greater Giver and for that I am utterly thankful.