Courage Pills

When I was a kid, I remember a distinct time of being terrified before a foxhunt, or any trail ride for that matter. My pony, Sox, hated water. He hated water so much that upon any encounter of a stream, no matter how small, he would poise right on the edge, coil himself up, and launch. If the stream was wide, I was in for multiple, wild launches. Launches that more often than not separated me from his back. He also loved to buck during gallop stretches. I mean, what awesome chestnut pony allowed to run wouldn't? I kept Foxhunting not because I wanted to, but because my dad made me. Isn't that what he bought Sox for in the first place? Wasn't that what well to do children did? Foxhunt on their pony?

Then, a funny thing happened. Sox's leaps stopped scaring me. They became predictable. I learned how to ride them. His bucks became the same. Just another natural part of his stride. My body learned how to adjust, and I started to LIKE his bucks, LIKE his gangly attempts to fly over water. It became fun.

I learned from a young age, though, that I'm not naturally a very brave person. My flight/fight instinct most definitely lies in the before the slash part of the phrase. Yes, it is true that I rode horses. I rode horses for a very very long time. And yes, many times, riding horses tipped me over into territories that made my flight instinct kick in. Still, I rode. But what you may not know is that I never ever became "brave" with horses. I didn't nonchalantly lead three horses in at a time, unworried about getting trampled, or stay unnerved when the horse I was riding tensed and coiled, ready to unleash an epic buck, spin, rear, or other aerial maneuver. True, I still led three horses at a time, and rode through my fair share of bucks, spins, and rears, but they never became non-events to me, because every horse would buck, spin, or rear in a new and unique way. In fact, one of the reasons I ultimately decided to get out of the business was I grew tired of riding the babies, the crazies, the stoppers and buckers and rearers.

Riding a bike, especially at first, gave me the same sort of nervousness that horses gave me. I remember falling over for the first time still clipped in, feeling my heart smash against my ribcage, and my hands death gripping the bars for the entirety of the brief slow ride. In fact, for the first month or month and a half, every ride brought with it the same sense of "uhoh" prior to the start. I knew the only way to get passed such a sensation was to keep doing it, and eventually, the feeling went away. Things became routine, predictable. The same. Now riding on the road is a non-event, and even accidentally toppling over while clipped in (which I actually did two weeks ago trying to get started up a steep hill, don't tell anyone) elicits no panic or fear. Only rage.

When I first heard about Cyclocross, I was stoked. It sounded like foxhunting's bike related sibling. And wow, once I got used to Sox, did I LOVE to foxhunt. Galloping through fields in the wintertime, jumping over walls and coops and trees, taking nips of hot chocolate during checks (periods of standing around waiting for the hounds to come back) while the adults took nips of whiskey, returning to the barn for a hot, greasy hunt breakfast with the rest of your riding friends. Cyclocross centered around bikes, mud, beer, and cowbells. Easily comparable to horses, mud, whiskey, and horns. No brainer right?

Wrong.

I didn't take into account the appearance of my old friend, Mr. Anxious.

Tonight was my first "race," but really just a more formal practice session. I had already gotten used to jumping on/off the bike, and picking it up, so I figured this would give me a taste of the steering/conditions aspect of it.

I geared up, and went for my first practice lap, something you're allowed to do for every race.

In the first corner, a tight one, my compression cap told me it wasn't tight enough by allowing my handlebars to turn without the wheel. I fell, I laughed, I went up to the car and fixed the problem.

I tried again.

I came up to the same corner, turned, slid, but stayed upright, and kept going.

But wait, what was this? Was this nerves that I was feeling? Nerves about what, softly landing in the mud?

I kept going.

I entered the wood for my first ever taste of single track. It was slick. It had some roots. And some rocks. And once again in a corner, my front wheel came out from under me and down I went. Into the soft mud.

Yes, I was laughing, but my body wasn't. My body was getting tenser.

Out of the woods, I encountered another usual cyclocross course offering: sand.

Once again, the front wheel went out. Once again, I laughingly went down. Once again, I brushed myself off and kept going.

Except that my body wasn't accepting the "fake it till you make it" attitude I was trying to impose on it. My body kept bracing for the next inevitable slide or skid. And even though I knew I wasn't going to get hurt, I couldn't shake the nerves.

I did eventually finish the practice lap, and go back to the parking lot seriously debating whether or not to jump into the "race." Part of me started making excuses about needing to practice more solo. Part of me said to HTFU and jump in.

I talked to Cullen, who encouraged me to do the latter (though not the HTFU part), saying that it was the most casual setting I was going to get at a "real" race, and it would be slow going for everyone.

So jump in I did.

But I still couldn't shake the nerves.

Even on the starting section, the section with nothing more than a few slick turns on the grass, I couldn't get rid of the tension and the feeling like I was on a horse about to bolt. Entering the woods for the single track, it started to go better, until a root bounced me off my line and into the path of a tree. I did avoid the tree. I did not avoid the bush next to the tree. I went down, entangling my bars in the surrounding vines. And yes, I was laughing, and yes, I did and do see the humor in the situation. But I couldn't get my body to laugh along with me.

I made it through the rest of the single track unscathed and upright.

My goal after that, though, changed from finishing the race to simply get back to the parking lot remaining upright the entire rest of the lap.

When I did, I pulled off the course.

Prior to this race, I read article after article of the road rider who launched into Cyclocross with zero experience, the rider who fell down a zillion times in their first race but still loved it and loved it the entire race, the rider who was hooked after the first lap even though XYZ happened to them. They were fearless and nerveless. I so wanted to be one of those people.

I am so not one of those people.

But.

I am someone who can fight the flight. I am someone who can do things over and over until they become natural, until they achieve a level of same-ness that trumps my nerves. Sox was the same pony. He bucked, but they were the same bucks.

My bike hit bumps, but I can learn to ride the same bumps. I can learn to ride the same sand. The same turns, the same barriers and uphill runs. Repeat repeat repeat until, like toppling over while clipped in on my road bike, it loses its nerve wracking newness. Yes, the courses won't be identical, but they will have enough sameness to them, in different combinations, that eventually, I can start to have fun.

So while it would be nice to pop some courage pills, for now, I'm going to have to fake it till I make it, whether my flight instinct likes it or not.