I don't do mountain biking... until now!
Posted by Samantha Fugate on Tuesday, November 17, 2009
This story basically goes exactly as the title states. I hated mountain biking. Let me give you a few examples of how much I hated mountain biking. I am currently attending medical school at Michigan State University, which has a pretty large campus. I happen to have been smart enough to choose a house only half a mile away from the buildings where all my medical school classes are held. But whenever possible, I would beg my boyfriend to give me a ride. I loved when I was sick because all I had to do was groan "I'm siiiiiick" and he would drive me to class. Yes, drive me half a mile to class. Why you ask? Because my "campus bike" is a mountain bike and I hated it. There is also a pool on campus and, since I'm a student, I get into the pool for free. The pool is towards the other side of campus, probably a 5 minute bike ride away. And yes, I drive to the pool. And I pay 80 cents for a half hour of parking. That gives you a pretty good idea of how much I hate mountain biking. The tires are fat, the bike is slow and heavy. A mountain bike is nothing like the beautiful skinny tire, aero dynamic wonder that is sitting all warm and cozy in my room at my parent's house.
So now to the story. Well, a few weeks ago my dad and I were Christmas shopping for ourselves. My mom doesn't really understand our complete obsession with bikes. So while she is at a clothing store, my dad and I head to the local bike shop to pass the time. Well my dad needed a new mountain bike for our yearly trip to Mackinaw Island because I took his to campus and it got stolen. The bike shop was having a great sale on the '09 bikes and my dad picked out this sweet Specialized HardRock. Even though I claim to hate mountain bikes, I had to admit that it looked pretty cool with the front suspension and the cool paint job. While we were checking out, the guy who had been helping my dad turned to me and asked if I needed a mountain bike. Well, the bike I take to Mackinaw was given to me when I was 12. And it is purple. Okay, it is magenta, but whatever. So I grinned and told him to show me his best deal. And he did. He showed me a Specialized Myka that was half off. And it was pretty, so pretty. My dad asked if I wanted it for Christmas and I said why not.
Well, they had to build the bike that was my size, so I didn't take it home that day, but my dad took his home. And then he went for a ride and came back glowing and grinning about how awesome it was and how great the trails at Sleepy Hollow State Park, a mere two miles from our house, were. I tried to ignore his enthusiasm and went back to my studying. The following weekend I told my dad not to worry about getting my bike, even though it was built. There wasn't very much room in the back of the car anyway. That afternoon he went for another ride and came back even more happy, and a little muddy. Now I was getting curious. My dad was just as obsessed with skinny tires as I was, but now he was glowing about these fat tires. So during that week my dad brought my bike home and that weekend he asked me if I would like to join him on his ride.
I'm sure I looked like I complete idiot. My only clean bike shorts were a pair of tri shorts and I threw on a bike jersey over some under armor. Lets just say I looked like a skinny tire bike rider, and here I was climbing onto this strange fat tire bike with front suspension. I mean, the front of the bike moved when I swung my legs over to get on. We took the dirt roads over to the park and then I was on a trail. I was scared of every twig, every leaf, ever bump. I was certain that I would fall, because I certainly would not still be upright on my skinny tires. Then a giant root loomed in front of me. I screamed and my whole body tensed and then my bike glided over the root. My dad was ahead of my laughing and I was shocked that I was still upright. Then I realized that riding over that giant root was... well... kind of fun, actually. I started to learn that I could trust those fat tires and that strange suspension and that the bike I had thought was so heavy glided over the forest trail and did not dump me into the leaves.
Instead of screaming, I found that I was laughing with pure enjoyment. I loved the downhills that lurched my heart into my throat, I loved the skinny trails with the tight turns, I loved the roots and the logs and the swamps and the sand and all the terrain that those fat tires glided through. It was new and it was wonderful. Over an hour later, my dad and I decided we had better race the setting sun home and set off down the dirt road back to the house. The entire two miles I babbled about how much fun it was and how I had learned to trust my bike and how pretty it was. My dad just smiled because he had known all along that he was right. The first thing I did when I got home was call Todd and pronounce that I had been mountain biking and I was muddy.
Unfortunately, this is a love that I have discovered a little late in the year. I have a lot to look forward to since ski season is right around the corner. But on December 25th there will be a mountain bike next to the tree and it will not be shiny and new. It will be covered in mud, waiting for spring.
So now to the story. Well, a few weeks ago my dad and I were Christmas shopping for ourselves. My mom doesn't really understand our complete obsession with bikes. So while she is at a clothing store, my dad and I head to the local bike shop to pass the time. Well my dad needed a new mountain bike for our yearly trip to Mackinaw Island because I took his to campus and it got stolen. The bike shop was having a great sale on the '09 bikes and my dad picked out this sweet Specialized HardRock. Even though I claim to hate mountain bikes, I had to admit that it looked pretty cool with the front suspension and the cool paint job. While we were checking out, the guy who had been helping my dad turned to me and asked if I needed a mountain bike. Well, the bike I take to Mackinaw was given to me when I was 12. And it is purple. Okay, it is magenta, but whatever. So I grinned and told him to show me his best deal. And he did. He showed me a Specialized Myka that was half off. And it was pretty, so pretty. My dad asked if I wanted it for Christmas and I said why not.
Well, they had to build the bike that was my size, so I didn't take it home that day, but my dad took his home. And then he went for a ride and came back glowing and grinning about how awesome it was and how great the trails at Sleepy Hollow State Park, a mere two miles from our house, were. I tried to ignore his enthusiasm and went back to my studying. The following weekend I told my dad not to worry about getting my bike, even though it was built. There wasn't very much room in the back of the car anyway. That afternoon he went for another ride and came back even more happy, and a little muddy. Now I was getting curious. My dad was just as obsessed with skinny tires as I was, but now he was glowing about these fat tires. So during that week my dad brought my bike home and that weekend he asked me if I would like to join him on his ride.
I'm sure I looked like I complete idiot. My only clean bike shorts were a pair of tri shorts and I threw on a bike jersey over some under armor. Lets just say I looked like a skinny tire bike rider, and here I was climbing onto this strange fat tire bike with front suspension. I mean, the front of the bike moved when I swung my legs over to get on. We took the dirt roads over to the park and then I was on a trail. I was scared of every twig, every leaf, ever bump. I was certain that I would fall, because I certainly would not still be upright on my skinny tires. Then a giant root loomed in front of me. I screamed and my whole body tensed and then my bike glided over the root. My dad was ahead of my laughing and I was shocked that I was still upright. Then I realized that riding over that giant root was... well... kind of fun, actually. I started to learn that I could trust those fat tires and that strange suspension and that the bike I had thought was so heavy glided over the forest trail and did not dump me into the leaves.
Instead of screaming, I found that I was laughing with pure enjoyment. I loved the downhills that lurched my heart into my throat, I loved the skinny trails with the tight turns, I loved the roots and the logs and the swamps and the sand and all the terrain that those fat tires glided through. It was new and it was wonderful. Over an hour later, my dad and I decided we had better race the setting sun home and set off down the dirt road back to the house. The entire two miles I babbled about how much fun it was and how I had learned to trust my bike and how pretty it was. My dad just smiled because he had known all along that he was right. The first thing I did when I got home was call Todd and pronounce that I had been mountain biking and I was muddy.
Unfortunately, this is a love that I have discovered a little late in the year. I have a lot to look forward to since ski season is right around the corner. But on December 25th there will be a mountain bike next to the tree and it will not be shiny and new. It will be covered in mud, waiting for spring.
