On Crashing & Carnage

By Mel Bearns

Photo courtesy of www.mountainbikebill.com

We probably all remember our first great encounter with Mother Earth, when gravity cruelly conspired with physics to cause untold pain and suffering while we merrily rode our bicycles. I know I do, and I still have a couple of faded scars to show for my efforts. But man, they were well-earned and it sure didn’t stop me from getting back on to ride some more, only to crash again. And again. And again.

My first huge auger goes way back to when I was a scraggly little grom and had just graduated off my (ahem) training wheels. I was still rolling wobbly arcs on the street, sawing the bars to and fro with a lump in my throat and white knuckles on the handlebar trying to keep the beast upright. But it wasn’t long before I started to feel a bit cockier, and with that stoking my ego, well, it wouldn’t be long before I reached the gummy edge of my personal envelope. I remember getting up some “real” speed and turning curves more quickly when I suddenly tucked my front end completely under and launched over the bars and headfirst into the embrace of the asphalt. My friends laughed, my mother (who of course just happened to be there) shrieked, and I just sat there feeling really shitty as tears welled up in my eyes and the blood began to flow from my knuckles and knees. And I can also still recall how I immediately turned my concern to my bike to make sure it was OK. Some things start early and never change.

There were of course many more incidents as I grew up. Lowsides and highsides. Mud and gravel. Asphalt, dirt and rocks. Cars, bikes and buses. Drainage covers, potholes – you name it, I’ve crashed into or onto it. And doing tricks? Let’s just say I never really got there. For me, learning to wheelie was always vexing and seldom produced satisfactory results. I began to harbor secret grudges against my friends who could effortlessly balance their bikes on one wheel. My wheelies have always been puny and underfed, or glorious at first and calamitous immediately after. I’ve landed on my ass many, many times, usually to the delight of one or more spectators. And have I learned that I do NOT have the genetic composition to wheelie? Of course not.

The all time wheelie spectacular was witnessed by my loving and very patient wife just a few years ago. It was truly grand. For the first time ever my front wheel lofted just so, my gearing was just right, the pedals turned and I was feeling fabulous. But looking back I’m sure that the Gods must have been looking away for a moment, because when they saw that I had rolled a good 20 or so yards on one wheel, well they put an end to that right away. Yeah it hurt. Yeah my wife laughed her ass off.

Then there were the Jumping Incidents, always fertile ground for hatching awesome war stories. My first biggie was when I pretzeled my brother’s fork on re-entry. This immediately followed a huge launch when I took off a board jump me and my mates set up. All was going great as we progressively ramped the board higher – you know the drill – and hucked bigger and further. We all had a couple of miscues here and there, but nothing spectacular happened until I landed on the front wheel – rolling a wicked nose wheelie for a bit until the forks said no más and just folded. Yeah, that hurt. And my friends laughed. But my pain was compounded by the pissed off little grom that was my brother, who had just seen his very cool NEW bike pretty much totaled by his idiot older brother. And then there was the time I lofted high and mighty on my new mountain bike – and landed hard and mighty into several inches of powdery dust. Naturally I was drenched in sweat so I came out of that one winded – and covered in brown dirt from head to toe. It truly provided an outstanding and entertaining spectacle to all who watched but me.

Every so often I look at people’s tattoos and wish I had some cool design to show the world. But then again, I see what some tats look like when us humans get long in the tooth and opt against inking my flesh. Besides, who can match the very cool chain ring tooth design I self-administered when standing completely still? That’s a conversation piece for sure. Usually I tell the person querying me that I got it while rolling off a rock-strewn gnarled chute in the high Sierras when my bike and I got tangled up only to plunge into a river bed many, many feet below. But truly it was nothing quite so cool as that. It’s just that when one comes to a stop on a slight incline it’s best to stand in such a way that when the bike rolls away from you that it won’t take you out as well – by sticking the large chain ring right into the meatiest part of your calf. Presto! Instant tat – the chain lube providing the ink. And of course there was a witness. He laughed hard and long.

Years ago I split my upper lip open wide and stuffed it full of moss and dirt while on an epic night ride on Mt. Tam. I was miles from my car, riding unknown trails. It was only thanks to the huge noise I made going headfirst into a big ass rock that a couple of my riding buddies held up and helped me ride it back down. I then visited my good friends at the local ER late that night, once again accompanied by my wife – who was seriously wondering if her husband was totally mental. Although later she admitted that it was kinda cool to watch them clean and suture my proboscis. That left a nifty scar too.

And then there’s road rash – I’ve discovered that it leaves cool patches that never quite tan like the rest of my legs and arms. I usually start showing a mosaic of sorts a few months into summer, which accentuates the other numerous scarifications rather nicely, if I do say so myself. Along the way I’ve also cracked several brain buckets and knocked myself unconscious more than once. I’ve bled fortuitously all over mountain, hill and dale and used up countless gallons of Neosporin. And still I ride. Perhaps just a bit more cautiously than before, but where there is an opportunity for mayhem, there go I – tempting the Gods once again.

So I guess it’s safe to say that I’ve used my skin as a living canvas over the years. Albeit one that tells of the many sordid tales of crashing and carnage that I’ve put myself through. I didn’t set out to acquire all these “badges of courage,” as me and my crusty riding mates call our epidermal exfoliations and gnarled puncture wound tats, they just sort of happened along the way. And I’ll bear them with pride until my pedals no longer turn. But while I’m still able to ride I’m sure I’ll acquire a few more – you know, to complete my collection.