corinth city hall trail

          Well, it was a pretty big stretch when I clipped my shoes in to my road bike the first time. If you haven't clipped shoes into bike pedals before, it is terrifying. Get on a moving object with the potential to break bones and attach yourself to it. Pretty counter-intuitive, right? I fell at least 10 times just on my own street, spinning at less than 2 miles per hour. It's been a while since I have made friends with the pavement on my bike now, and I have moved on to new clips, bikes that should hit the ground less, and slightly more protective helmets. My two years of road cycling mastery are a victory in my "learning-new-things" column.
          I'll preface this by saying that I don't like being new or incompetent at things. Same reason I don't particularly enjoy bowling or chess. When my boyfriend and fellow triathlete pals pushed me into considering purchasing my first mountain bike, I didn't even give it a chance. Why would I attach myself to a bike that is probably going to hit trees and rocks at higher velocities? I wouldn't. Conversation over (I thought.) My friends know me a little better than I thought, as soon as I was exposed to the world of shiny pink mountain bikes with matching gloves and neon gear, I couldn't pass it up. This could be the only sport where I could ride a pink bike and simultaneously look pretty hardcore. One week later, I owned a shiny pink mountain bike, matching gloves, and an appropriately safe helmet for my impending ER visit.
          My associates decided this seemingly sketchy 5.6 mile trail behind the City Hall of Corinth, TX was to be the scene of the accident. I was nothing short of terrified. One short drop and gain, and I was ready to turn around, but after that first turn, a little barn. One more turn, 8 puppies in one yard. I didn't know where this trail was going, or if I would leave it alive that day. I had a new appreciation for the unplanned yet intentional nature of the winding single-track and the feelings of being twelve and flying down the street with a playing card clipped on to your bike to sound like a motorcycle. That's mountain biking. That's pretty much the only place I ever ride my mountain bike, and it feels new every day I go back. It's tucked away off of I-35E, somewhere between chaos and tranquility; completely open to the public, but closed off from self-doubt. I could definitely use some more time on those beautiful trails now that the weather is this perfect to analyze the arguments nature makes against my probably short-lived mountain biking career.