I am a mountain-biking marvel

I hit the trails yesterday with my mountain-biking dad (some people take up golf when they retire; not my pops, nosirree. He takes up rocks and dirt and disc brakes and full-suspension systems). I'm a road cyclist who has made only the occasional foray off said road. It's always been fun, but the thing is, mountain biking requires SKILLS not actually necessary for road riding. I don't know who you've asked, but chances are those in the know could tell you that I like most sports but that I have more heart than innate talent or, say, hand-eye coordination. Point being, I have spent more time off the bike than necessarily on it in my previous mountain biking excursions. I have always had a great time and I really have loved it -- bikes plus trees and flowers and all that sort of thing.

However: THIS time, something clicked. I was bobbing, weaving, juking boulders, jumping ditches, and navigating steep, rocky descents with ease. I have learned to keep my weight way back, relax, and not brake unless I need to, in which case I feather the front one and put a little more pressure on the back one, unless I feel my back wheel start to skid in which case I ease up, etc, etc. I started screaming, "I am a mountain biking marvel!" and I forced Pops to agree with me. I rode a bunch of stuff he told me to walk. At one point, where he had told me to walk, and where he NEVER rides, he assured me, I ignored him as usual. I was halfway through it when I did take an unfortunate spill off the side of a cliff, but I landed on a grassy knoll and all was well. Pops made sure to point to all the rocky places I COULD have fallen, but he kept missing the point that that was not where I HAD fallen. Why bring up what could have been? I say.

Now it rained last night, and tragically, the trails are closed. But they might be open in two more days, at which time I will again instruct them as to who owns them and their mother.