This is Us, From Broken Back to Back on the Bike

The sun doesn't rise slowly, it's not like the setting sun, it explodes over the hills, throwing bright light and long shadows. Erasing a cold that feels like it's gnawing on your bones to become bearable, it lifts a murky cyan landscape to a vista of vibrant colour. We don't own these hills, we no more own them than the people who paid for them think they do, because on a long enough timeline everything is temporary. We're simply guests, passing through nature's playground. I steal hours on this playground while the world sleeps, grinding out before work through rain or snow to meet a trailhead at sunrise. It isn't something I want to do, it's something I feel I need to do. Colleagues think I'm crazy and if I explain it, they will never understand. Mountain biking is what stops me from being a working class robot. Being up in the hills, surrounded by all its beauty is what reminds me that we weren't born to pay bills and die. Not all of us get it though, for some riding isn't their medication but more an act of status. Recently I watched a guy strapping his brand new and hugely priced bike to the back of his brand new Range Rover, head to toe in all the latest gear. He was huffing and puffing for air while bitching non-stop to his mate that there were too many riders out. He could hardly breathe, but found enough air to mock a guy as he rode past for being on a budget high street bike. For every breath he was taking, someone was taking their last. Every time he filled his lungs to complain, someone was about to take their last breath, surrounded by family, seconds from heartbreak.


For me, he isn't one of us, he is a tourist. This is a haven of joy, where people speak through smiles. This is where we are us. I'm a vegan, animal rights advocate, but not here. Up here I'm just a rider. I could ride with a hunter, a butcher and I'd never know because all descriptions and titles are left in the car park. We fix each other's bikes, we help each other up. When we ride past someone attempting their first baby gap jump and with a face contorted with fear, we can't help but stop and call out, 'Nice.' just to see their face blossom with a smile. Because this isn't a sport, not to me anyway. It's a painkiller to a shitty life. Life hurts, it burns and it scars. There are so many things in life that don't make sense to me, relationships, politics, shitty jobs. War. The only thing that has made sense to me is riding. The hills ask nothing of me, the trees don't care if I am having a bad day or how old my ride is.



Like most painkillers, it is addictive and that shitty high street bike is a gateway drug. I am an addict and my addiction is trying to kill me. Stitched up cuts, black eyes, bruises, snapped bones and a broken back and that's just in the last couple of years. They say 'He who walks the path will wear its marks with pride,' we wear scars like a general wears stars. They are our right of passage and our badge of office. Come summer and in shorts, our shins look like they survived a shark attack. Some will notice and say, 'My god, look at your legs!' while others, be it in a supermarket or just walking down the street will smile and give a nod of acknowledgment, those long healed trenches are our admission.


When I broke my back, they said that was it. But like most addicts, I would harm myself to get my fix. I would sneak out and try to pedal, soon sending it off the curb and enduring the bolts of white pain that seared up my spine because I needed to ride. As bad as it was, riding was my coping mechanism, there was nothing it hadn't helped me through. Week after week I tried to climb a hill that was once just an inconvenience but now a mountain. Months in and with what felt like acid in my veins, I eventually made it to the summit and cried my eyes out as much from relief as hope. Because I could swear I could hear the clack of hope hubs and the echo of laughter through the trees as I slept. I knew the trails were waiting for me and I wasn't done yet.


Two years to the day I attempted the same jump that broke my back. Still couldn't make it. Those who love me went crazy, saying I will kill myself one day, but it isn't death I fear, it's a life unlived. Life is happening right now and it's already late. Rain, snow, 5am darkness - I will ride. If you want to chase the pot of gold under the rainbow, so be it, but my addiction means driving a shitty van with the fuel light on. What I do know is nobody on their deathbed wished they spent more time at work. Time flies, that's the bad news. The good news is you're the pilot. If you can't find the time to ride... look harder.

---

MENTIONS: @jonnygibbings

---