“Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones. A legacy is etched into the minds of others and the stories they share about you.” – Shannon Alder
It’s Wednesday, May 1st, and the world does not feel right. It’s an off-kilter day where everything is slightly out of place in an unfixable, bothersome way. It’s not just today. It’s been a stretch of days feeling like this.
My entire body goes rigid, as my bike tires skid dangerously close to the edge of the trail. I side-eye a cactus, as I speed past it. Please God don’t let me end up in one of those things. I said yes to mountain biking tonight because I’ve learned moving a muscle helps me change a thought. We’re in the foothills of the Sandias, near the Michael Emery trailhead. This fast moving, hard packed, smooth trail is arguably one of the best mountain biking paths in the entire country. This pisses me off, as my heart is just simply not in it tonight, even with the knowledge that the ride I’m on is incredible.
In the past, I didn’t speak openly about my struggles with addiction or my mental health. I buried these problems as best I could, but the more earth I piled over them, the heavier the burdens became. I didn’t know any better. Today, I’m over two years sober, and in general I’m the happiest and most stable I’ve been since childhood. But this does not mean my life is without struggle. Every couple of months, it seems I slip back into a few day spell where everything feels as unmanageable and miserable as ever. Today, I’m in it. Deep.
My pulse is pumping in my temples. I pedal hard to try to keep up with the group. I’m the slowest member of our party. It’s been over a year since I last mountain biked, and I’m riding a borrowed bike that I’m still trying to get a feel for a few miles into the ride. The bike rides well, but the terrain is unfamiliar. Soft patches of sand in the path threaten to throw me over the handlebars. Whether or not the final destination is into a cactus, it’s not a journey I want to take.
The sun is starting to set on the mountains. It’s undeniably beautiful. Brilliant hues of oranges and reds are cast down from heaven onto the surface of the Sandias like they’re a freshly stretched canvas eager to bear witness to something magnificent.
Again, this pisses me off. How can something so beautiful not cheer me up? The deeper the mind-blowing saturation of the sunset becomes, the more I’m aware of how not in a good place I am today.
I don’t see the rock until the last second. I swerve hard to the right, managing to miss its apex and instead clip its edge. Unexpectedly airborne, I brace for the impact of my tires reconnecting with the ground. As soon as they hit, the back end of my bike kicks out hard to the right. I over-correct the handlebars, spraying gravel into the air as my tires cut unhappily sideways back left across the path. Finally, I roll slowly to a stop. I’m upright, unharmed. “Why am I doing this,” I seeth through gritted teeth. My heart beat pounds, accelerated by the fear.
Fear. I’m feeling it more than ever before. One of my best childhood friends died in a freak accident five months ago. Just gone. No warning, no goodbye, no logical explanation, and no evil to blame, curse, or fight. Just gone instantly.
In highschool he and I had serious conversations about how we thought we were invincible. How could we not be? After all the sports games, all the nights raging against the dying of the light, all the country-road-turns we took too fast, all the cliffs and bridges we jumped off into the unknown waters below – and we never woke up with more than a scratch. It was mostly a joke, saying we were invincible, but deep down, I think we both possessed enough boyhood-ignorance to believe it just a little bit.
Why am I still here? The question haunts me sometimes. Why is he gone forever while I get to ride this bike through the beautiful New Mexico mountains at sunset on a warm late-spring evening? Wandering too far into these thoughts only leads me to self-pity, so I focus on my pedaling.
We’re nearing the end of our ten mile ride. The last few miles are the payoff for the hard work of climbing the elevation in the first half. The cruising, serpentining path cuts between cacti and shrubs across the open landscape in the foothills. It’s like a rollercoaster with no predetermined course or safety bar. I appreciate the easier portions as much as I can. The faster, tighter, steep turns leave me feeling out of control. I’m too aware of my own mortality; too aware of the fragility of my body. I picture my bones snapping, my blood leaking out, my voice yelling out uncontrollably as I sail off the side of the trail and launch down hard onto the rocky earth below.
These are all obviously terrible thoughts to have while doing any high risk sport. Any misconception that I’m invincible has undeniably left my mind.
Thankfully, I arrive back at the parking lot safely. No falls. I’m glad it’s over, but I’m also thankful I went on the ride. It’s better to face all the negativity and darkness in my head while actively doing something in the mountains than alone in my room.
A few days pass by and I’m back to loving my life again. I’m full of gratitude for everything I have, for all the people who love me, and for the fact my lungs are still pulling oxygen out of the atmosphere. The struggles inside my head seem like a distant memory. Who even is that person? It can’t be me. Not when I feel this good again. The truth – I’m a mixture of bliss and despair. I think we all are. It’s what makes us interesting. I’m learning how to mix myself into a concoction with a heavier pour of bliss