Before lunch I rode my fat tire up Old Mine Road toward Apache Peak. The grade increases steadily as the road climbs higher. My Strava profile reads 28% at the point where I biffed and had to dab. A skilled mountain biker could ride all the way to the top. Fifteen years ago, I rode all but the last 100 yards. Now I can’t seem to keep the front wheel down. The rear wheel starts to skid, and I wig out, not wanting to fall and break another rib.
The last time I broke a rib – actually two ribs – was two years ago, when I was running from the North Rim to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. A year before that, I cracked a rib flying over the bars of my mountain bike. Broken ribs are painful, potentially life threatening, and annoying, because they keep you from laughing. I prefer being a wimp on a mountain bike to not being able to laugh.
