Eating Rocks

Mountain bike riding yesterday for the first time this year. Briones Park in Pleasant Hill. Spectacular NorCal setting. Sun setting through gnarled oaks. Hilltops as smooth as a baby's bottom. Drastic climbs out of tight scrub-and-laurel canyons. Screaming descents of trails which can't be descended -- if you actually looked at where you were going. Long, leaping bunny hops for the sheer joy of flight. And to impress the girlfriend.

At the bottom of the hill, a 1/4-mile of chunky gravel snaked down to the parking lot. Perfect opportunity to practice power slides! Nailed three or four turns, whipping the back of the bike around in a spray of gravel...and then went down hard on an innocent-looking right. The rear tire went wide left, the front went right, and I smushed for ten feet through bits of granite that ripped the skin off my arm, my hands, my hips.

I watched myself eat rocks with a detached air of inevitability. First road rash of the season, after all. Had to happen sometime, might as well get it over with.