Dammit
There was no exclamation point. Rather, the expletive was expelled as more of a groan that was left unpunctuated waiting for an undetermined finish. There were two reasons for that groan. One was that the bar had been set. And then two, was that the bar had then been cleared. She was left standing next to her bike knowing full well that she would be attempting something that she didn’t necessarily want to try. The final clause of her utterance would be whether she cleaned the move or tumbled back to the bottom.
She throws her leg over the bike and with another sigh mounts and begins the approach. The move is a rock ledge about three feet high with a couple of bumps. There is an air of uncertainness, but it disappears the moment she begins toward the move. Focused. Eyes leading her front wheel over and through the rocks. She approaches. Her front wheel rises up and makes contact with the rock and then she pedals pulling the real wheel up and over and then she’s on top. No bumbles. No uncertain moments. Clean.
Her lack of screwing up leaves me looking the part of a fool. Hands out to my side standing as if I was the idiot in the middle of a game of Keep Away. I wasn’t needed, but I was there for moral encouragement, that again wasn’t needed. I was spending the weekend riding and sessioning Moab, yes, all of it, with three bad ass ladies that cleaned 99% of what they attempted.
The stoke level was above what I have experienced on long, hard rides in way too long. And every time one of them cleaned a move, that stoke level went through the roof. For me, it was nothing short of marvelous to be waiting, with my hands in the air for one of them to try a section of trail, only to be interrupted by a group of dudebros coming through. All of which would bumble, a little confused as to why we were standing around the big rock they couldn’t ride up. Then, with the dudes gone, every one of the ladies would clean the obstacle with perfect confidence.
Yes, there were a couple of spills. And I say spills instead of wrecks or crashes or shit eating for a reason, because any time anyone went done, it was minor. Unlike a testicle festival where the dudes go flying into things they have no real business even attempting, these ladies were capable beyond what they knew and proved it time and time again. Each one learning from the other and improving their skills over the weekend,
Did they ride like girls? Fuck yeah they did.
More accurately, they rode like three smart, independent women who were capable of cleaning every move they attempted in Moab. There was contemplation, line choice debate, confidence and the lack there of, but most importantly there was an a spirit of overcoming and mutual respect and challenge. Yup, they rode like three smart, independent women.
And while many of the moves were started with an expletive expelled as a groan from someone who was willingly unwilling to try something they weren’t 100% sure of, they always ended with a hallelujah! Punctuated correctly with high fives in place of the overused exclamation point. Ride like a girl. Ride with these girls and there will be no way you will consider that phrase an insult.
P. L. and R.
