I felt my tires start to lose traction as my pedal strokes became slower and slower. Crap. I can’t stop now! I’ve made it up this hill before without stopping. In the distance, I could see the gap between my fellow riders and me becoming larger and larger by the second.
It wasn’t a race, and I knew that no matter what, they’d be laughing at the top of the hill, unphased by my slower arrival time and just stoked to be out riding. The thought was comforting but didn’t ease my feelings of wanting to get off the bike and walk, coupled with the frustration of wanting to improve my time to the top. A few songs jumped around in my head, but the distraction wasn’t as overpowering as I had hoped.
Suddenly the vision of an upward-moving escalator entered my mind. I stopped thinking altogether and as hippy-dippy as it sounds, I became the escalator. No thinking at all, just the feeling of steadily moving upward at an unwavering pace. Before I knew it, I was at the top.
The uphill often presents itself as my arch-nemesis, but not the downhill. I never seem to have to hop on the escalator to get down the trail. Reason being, my mind is already displaced. I don’t have to consciously tell myself to suck it up and enjoy the ride. As soon as I’m dropping into the trail, I’m the fearless kid on a dirtbike that six-year-old me would have envied.
“See yah at the bottom!”
With a shot of adrenaline I began the descent, chasing my friend down the trail, with the rest of the crew hot on my heels, forming our own gravity-fueled convoy. Having a group of like minded and similarly skilled riders all together, has a weird way of granting me the invincible sensation that even Superman would envy.
That’s all fun and good on a group ride, but what about on a solo? Even with no one appearing to be ahead of me, that inner six-year-old is having a blast (most of the time).
Fast forward to a new trail. A tantalizing mix of technical challenges, gnarly roots, and rugged terrain. There is just something about a good tech trail that lights me up. This gem, happened to be nestled within the lush green oasis by the name of Bolton Valley, Vermont.
With no one ahead of me, I started descending. I was flowing for a while until the trail turned into a slippery mess. It wasn’t exactly muddy, but it was slick. Every 20 feet or so I would slide on a root and have to reset. I felt frustration setting in. The more I grabbed the brakes, the more I slid out of control, thus resulting in nervousness and causing me to grab the brakes even more. Ah, the endless cycle of building fear.
Knowing this trail was in my limits, I recognized that I wasn’t used to riding anything slightly wet. Did I really miss the moon dust? Rather than submit to the frustration, I envisioned a better rider than me and put myself in their (bike) shoes. The same way a little kid might dress up to become a superhero, I became that better rider. I loosely focused my vision far out in front of me, and mentally became a seasoned racer. Was I as fast as a racer? You bet I wasn’t. But boy was that trail fun.
Now displacement is a regular tool in my mental toolkit when the riding gets rough. Some athletes even go a step further and develop an entire alter ego, to help keep emotional baggage from creeping into their training regimens. Simon Marshall and Lesley Paterson exemplify this in their book The Brave Althlete: Calm the F*ck Down and Rise to the Occasion which addresses common mental roadblocks that athletes face in their everyday training and racing. They refer to this emotional baggage as your “Chimp brain.”
So next time you hear that inner voice reminding you how hard the trail is, check your toolbox. Because no one really cares about your bike persona except you.
