Best Advice I've Gotten, part 1
In life as in biking, focus on where you want to go, not where you don’t!
When I first started mountain biking, a few summers after I first moved to Lake Tahoe after college, I was hopeless. I had gotten a good deal (free) on a sweet bike through one of my ski sponsors, so I threw on some old spandex shorts and an oversized t-shirt and set off with a friend. It’s biking, I thought, how hard can it be? A few minutes later, lying in the dirt with scrapes on my elbows, after my fork came off my front wheel as I rode over the only tiny log on an otherwise extremely flat trail, I knew I was in for it. Mountain bikes are complicated. There are shocks, gears, and apparently quick releases that one needs to properly fasten so as not to lose their front wheel. And bike trails, at least the ones worth riding in Tahoe, are pretty much straight up vertical—steep switchbacks, dusty corners, rocky grunt-y climbs, and skiddy, bumpy downhills. Very much unlike the kids’ beginner trail on which I had just eaten it, hard.
The most challenging part was that everyone I rode with was either an ex-pro mountain bike racer, had ridden for 20 years, or both. They would take off at their easy pace, chatting breezily, pulling farther and farther ahead of me. I would be at max effort yet still just out of earshot (not fully in the quiet woods, not fully in the conversation) pedaling my hardest, red-faced and inefficient, when a rocky section would appear. My companions would clear it without breaking their chatter and pull ahead, now fully out of earshot, while I spun out and got off my bike, dragging this nasty machine uphill in frustration, when what I really felt like doing was heaving it off the side of the trail. At least when my riding partners were that far ahead they couldn’t hear my sobs of frustration.
Smooth friends making it look easy.
On the downhills I was a basket case. For a summer or two, I must have crashed on at least one out of four rides I did—a 25% rate of returning bloody and demoralized. Since all of my fast “friends” had pedals that clipped to their shoes, I got the brilliant idea that I should clip in, too. Clipped in, I was approximately 10% faster, but my crash rate increased to at least 35%, so the math didn’t really pencil.
I slogged like this for several years. Mountain biking was a thing I did because everyone did it. Most of the time if left to my own devices I chose running, because then it was just me trying to get up the hill, not me plus a massive confusing machine that I was trying to wrestle. But I always wanted to be a part of the action, so if I got invited to bike, I said yes. I improved, glacially slow, but after a while without realizing it, I was at a net positive on my MTB ROI—the rides were more worth it than not. The downhills always left me grinning with glee and shaking with exhilaration. I bought more pads. I scraped off less skin.
I was still almost always behind, though. No matter how hard I mashed the pedals, I just didn’t have the smooth power and the efficient spinning of my mountain biker friends. They would eventually pull ahead and I would be left with the sounds of my own ragged breathing, crankily wondering why I bothered going with friends when I always ended up riding solo. I would arrive at the “F-YOU break,” them having finished their snack or water or gossip, me apologizing for being slow, and them saying “You’re not! You’re right behind us!” as they clicked in and whizzed off.
Stopping to appreciate all the little magical details, at my own pace.
One time, I was doing my normal shtick of riding behind, feeling sorry for my slow self, when I pulled up to the group. They were waiting at the top of a large uphill, ready to pedal off for the first downhill. I can only imagine I had my best Eeyore voice going, “Sorry I’m so slow guys.” A few friends were in an intense conversation and didn’t look my way, but my friend Jim was listening. He looked at me for a minute. “You know,” he said, proceeding cautiously, “We invited you to bike with us because we like to ride with you. You don’t have to apologize. We literally were here for less than a minute.” He paused. “What if instead of saying sorry when you got here, you said It’s a beautiful day, or thanks for waiting, or something, and left it at that?”
It didn’t sink in much at the time. I nodded, and mumbled that I would try, but the next time I rode I went solo, and mulled his words over the entire time. By always focusing on the parts of biking where I was lacking, I had been completely missing the most glorious parts of the uphill: the sweating, the grunting, the heavy breathing, and especially the attempt to smooth all of the rough spots out into a sinuous forward progression by working with (not against) the complex machine. It completely changed how I approached biking with friends. I still got PO’d occasionally when I was left in the dust, just out of earshot of the juicy gossip I really wanted to hear, but I would soon remember to turn it around and focus on the rest of it, my own jerky movements through the forest, annoying thoughts in my head, and all of the other good stuff.
Not coincidentally, I was thinking of this advice the other day as I realized I’ve been mountain biking for almost 20 years. In that short, short time I’ve learned many lessons, thanks to lots of friends like Jim. And I can finally say that these days I’m mostly able to focus on pedaling out the rough spots, smoothing over the obstacles in the trail while working out the annoying rocky thoughts about life that spin through my head. This advice has served me well in many aspects of my life—always when I’m focusing on what’s lacking instead of what’s right in front of me. I try to remind myself that they invited me (they being life, sports, the universe, whomever) because they want to bike with me and I want to try my best to keep it that way. I treasure the challenges of the uphill. I no longer see my bike as a wrestling opponent (most days). I’ve slowly gotten a teeny, tiny bit faster. And more often than not, I arrive at the waiting pack and smile. “Thanks for waiting!” I call as they speed off downhill.
