Beginner's Mindset Mountain Biking as a Series of Firsts
Words by Blake Hansen | Photos by Micayla Gatto
I remember my first mountain bike ride like it was yesterday. I was 11 years old, and my uncle—thinking I might have a knack for it— lent me a 20-inch Mongoose full suspension bike that had to have been from Walmart or something.
He shuttled me and a crew of other neighborhood kids up for a rip down a trail in Trabuco Canyon outside Lake Elsinore, California. I had never ridden anything other than a BMX bike, so “gravity” riding was a completely new experience for me. There were switchbacks, baby head-sized rocks, and bone-dry soil. Until that day, I’d encountered none of those things on my usual neighborhood cruises. Amid a cacophony of squealing rim brakes, I remember really connecting to the feeling of not knowing how to stop. My skinned knees from that afternoon healed and faded quickly, but the thrill has stuck with me. Everything from that afternoon is burned into my mind—crashing multiple times, the colorway of my bike, the speed. As mountain bikers, our first rides are visceral experiences.
Four years later, my dad finally gave in and bought me a 4-inch travel cross-country bike that I rocked through high school. After high school, I moved to Utah and quickly realized that my bike wasn’t suited for the steeper terrain there. As a result, I unknowingly quit riding altogether. Snowboarding had some other plans for me back then, anyway.
Years later, at 27 years old, I yanked my then 14-year-old mountain bike out from under an entire neighborhood of spider webs and brought it back from the dead. It was at this moment that mountain biking returned to my life for good—never mind that I still had no idea what I was doing. On a whim, I threw the bike in my truck and embarked on Moab for my first ever solo camping mission. I’m not sure where my audacity came from, but for some reason, I decided Captain Ahab would be the perfect first trail to try out. I was in a red Pro-Tec skate helmet, had no dropper post, and carried no suspension pump or semblance of knowledge as to what pressure my suspension should be set to even if I did have a pump. I had no pads, no trail map, and no tools. I was a rolling relic from the early 2000s.
Despite fumbling down the trail, I was proud to be free, in the wild, breathing fresh air, alone! At one point in the ride, I met a group of older ladies on newer bikes. Their minds were blown by my outdated setup and one of them let me try her modern bike. It was all over after that. I went home and bought a new-to-me enduro bike within weeks.
My next leap in the sport would be trying my hand at racing. It almost killed me. I’d spent about a year riding at home in Salt Lake City, huffing and puffing my way through building conditioning, learning how to change a flat tire, how to tune a bike, making bike friends, and asking all the wrong questions in shops before I decided to register for a race. It was the 2018 Scott Enduro Cup, back in Moab ironically.
I signed up for the beginner category and jumped right in. I was more prepared this time than my first Moab mountain bike trip, but I’m not sure anything can truly prepare you for an enduro race in the summer heat of southern Utah with no shade in sight. Together, helped along by the camaraderie shared with other women in the beginner class, we all made it through most of the race. Then the process of natural selection took over. Slowly but surely, over the last couple of stages, we all became too desperate to continue carrying each other and the herd thinned. At the top of the last stage, cross-eyed as heat stroke set in, I realized I had no more water or nutrition. So, instead of dropping in, I found a bush and laid in it for a brief reprieve from the blazing sun.
I stayed there for what could have been five minutes or 35 minutes, I have no clue. Eventually, I got up and started the stage with the sole motivation of getting myself back to wherever water was. At the end of the stage, I found nothing but empty jugs at the water table. There was no one around and a couple miles of sand still separated me from any trace of human life. I had no choice but to trudge on.
I walked my bike through the sand for about a mile and a half before the race director himself came to save me in a rented minivan. My family had to call an ambulance when I got back because I couldn’t even drink water without throwing up. Strangers gave me electrolyte pills, Gatorade, and fruit bars but nothing was working. Seeking a shady place to live out my last moments, I rolled under a truck before being forced out by an older lesbian woman who wielded a five-gallon cooler full of ice water. Without warning she dumped the entire thing on me. Within seconds, I was a new woman— another core memory burned into my brain.
I finished the night off with another gallon of water—this time inside my body—a big cheeseburger, and a grip of new friends who shared the experience with me. The whole thing made me love mountain biking even more and I’ve never turned back since.
If these first riding experiences taught me anything, it’s to be patient with myself and to try to enjoy the learning process. You only get to experience something for the first time once. The fumbling, the bonking, the mansplaining, the gatekeeping, and the wrecks have all been part of the learning process. I’m sticking with it, if only because, like any adventure, I don’t know where it’ll take me next.
