Embracing My Inner Wuss

There are a lot of words for it:  Wuss.  Wimp.  Weenie (why do so many start with "w?").  Our broomball-playing friends' favorite, "Sally" (as in "hitch up the skirt, throw down the purse, and shoot that ball you Sally!").  And, of course, there's the old standby "chicken."

I freely admit to being all of the above.

It's kind of funny, because people who don't know me well, but who know what my hobbies are/have been, tend to assume that I'm this risk-taking adrenaline junkie who lives for speed and danger.  I guess I can understand this; I played women's rugby in college, raced off-road motorcycles for 12 years, co-drove for the Hubster in his rally truck for 3 years (including the epic rollover here) , and have gone dirt biking, snowmobiling, and Jeeping in the mountains many times.  And, of course, there's the current obsession with speedskating.  See, it's even got "speed" right there in the name--I must be a speed freak, right?

Actually, I couldn't be any further from a risk-taking speed-loving adrenaline junkie.  I don't like speed, I don't like risk, I don't like being upside down or sideways or out of control in any way, shape or form.  Some of this, I think, comes from being clumsy (as I mentioned here).  In baseball, pitchers are frequently told to "trust your stuff."  Well, when you're clumsy you learn pretty quick not to "trust your stuff."  Your ability to judge how far/hard/fast/high you need to do something; your ability to execute what you've figured out that you need to do; even your ability to figure out which direction to dodge...all are extremely suspect when you're a klutz.  (This is undoubtedly why I get so much more frustrated with the Skate Park Punks Patrons than do other skaters; I'm never sure I'll dodge the right way when they dart out in front of me.)

In addition to my inherent clumsiness, there have been a couple of epic experiences that have shaped my Inner Wuss. One of these was my first off-road motorcyle race.  When I met the Hubster, he was racing in long-distance cross-country off-road motorcycle races called Enduros.  He taught me and all his other friends to ride, and about four months after I rode a dirt bike for the first time, I thought it might be cool to do a race...forgetting about that whole "clumsy" thing.

In Enduros, you mostly race on single-track trails and so there's no way to do a mass start.  Instead, four riders start every minute, thus allowing everyone space on the trail.  Now, I don't remember, in my first race, whether I started on the same minute with one of the other (2 or 3) women and just got behind, or whether I had started a minute behind and was starting to catch up--all I know is that, about 12 miles into the 60 mile race, I was seeing glimpses of my competition through the trees.

Instantly, I forgot my usual wussy approach to speed events.  Cool....I'm catching someone, I'm riding hard, ooh, I see her again, getting closer, hey--I'm kind of good at this, I'm...

WHAM!

I'm lying on the ground under my bike with more pain than I've ever experienced radiating from my left knee.

Somehow I managed to get out from under my bike and get it up on the kickstand.  (Hubster had drilled into me the horrors of leaving a bike running while it lay on its side).  Then I sat down to survey the damage--under my riding pants and hard plastic knee/shinguard, my knee was bloody and swelling fast.  No way I was going to be able to get back on my bike and ride out of there...in fact, it hurt so much that my only focus right then was not throwing up.

Eventually, someone came along...another woman rider, who offered a bandaid (!) and sympathy but couldn't do much else.  Then, finally, the "Sweep Crew" arrived, folks who ride through the race course after the last rider, looking for those who are stuck, broken down, out of gas...or injured.

Because this race was put on by the dirt bike club the Hubster belonged to, I knew the Sweep riders slightly--two brothers who, while very nice and who wanted very much to help, didn't quite know what to do with me.  After determining that the closest road was about a mile ahead of us, and ascertaining that I couldn't ride, they looked at me thoughtfully.

"I'll carry you out," offered one.

Um, no.  He was about 5' 9" and 165; I'm 5'5 and, um, definitely more than he could carry through the woods for a mile.

More head-scratching, and he finally decided to ride me out to the road double on my bike (which was easier to ride slowly than his race-tuned machine), then go back for his own bike.

The rest of the day was not a lot of fun: riding double on the bike while trying not to bump my knee; riding back to the campground in one helpful fellow's truck; then riding to the hospital in another's; waiting for the doctor to stitch up someone's chainsaw wound before he could see me and then getting stitches myself; and finally, almost worst of all, getting back to camp and discovering the grief the Hubster had been enduring.

You see, at the time, the Hubster was merely Friendster; in fact, he had an out-of-state girlfriend.  None of his buddies in the dirt bike club believed that we weren't dating, though, because we came to all the races and riding weekends together (what can I say; I had a pickup truck and he didn't!).  So, the entire time I was at the hospital, Hubster was subjected to frequent updates:  Your girlfriend crashed.  Your girlfriend went to the hospital.  Your girlfriend is on her way back from the hospital.

Don't worry, your wife is fine.

I think that last one almost put him over the edge.

Anyway, it was a very painful lesson in "why I shouldn't try to do things at high speed."  Because I had never even seen the root that I rode over at the wrong angle, which catapulted my bike into a tree, which caused me to go over the bars and bash my knee on a sharp bike bit in the process.  I didn't react improperly; I never reacted at all.  And while I continued to race for 12 more years, I don't think I ever again rode as hard as I did in that first 12 miles of my first race.

Still, I kept trying "adrenaline junkie" type things.  Rally racing, snowmobiling, a mountain bike race.  And I gradually learned that, as intriguing as they might sound...I was just not cut out for them.

So now, I skate.  I know there are some risks in skating, especially in inlining, but they're pretty tame compared to dirt biking and rally racing.  And it seems as though my skating world narrows a bit every year...I tried short track and found it too scary; I no longer skate pack style races because they freak me out too much; I rarely do inline road races because of the possibility of crashing.

Yes, I'm envious of, and in awe of, women my age who are risk takers; who do mountain bike races and skate short track and crash and get up smiling.  But I've finally learned, that's just not me.  I'm clumsy and cautious and I like my (relatively) safe little long-track world where I can skate as hard as I can and not worry about going too fast down a hill or someone cutting in front of me or crashing into a tree.

I'm a wuss, and I'm OK with that.