Overriding Your Fear of the Unknown
What mountain biking taught me about failure and not giving up when life gets difficult.
It began when a childhood friend asked if I wanted to go rock climbing. Newly certified by the climbing club in Phoenix, he needed a belay partner later that week. Before I could consider what I was getting myself into, my soft and out-of-shape ass found itself grasping at quarter-sized broken granite holds on Camelback Mountain, 40 feet above the ground.
I’ll never forget the relief and exhilaration I felt when I topped out on that first climb.
They say lots of people fall in love in college, and so did I—with outdoor sports. Fast-forward two years, I had become a student of ropes, knots, specialized safety gear, and how to tape my hands to withstand the sharp, desert granite cracks. Climbing had become a regular part of my life. My buddies and I routinely took weekend trips to Northern Arizona or California, and weekday jaunts out to the McDowell Mountains to climb on the shady, north side routes.
I’m remembering this story because I’ve been considering the ways in which we are wired to override our fear of the unknown—and the incredible opportunities that can open when we do.
Another pivotal time, my climbing group decided to go mountain biking instead of roping-up and scaling yet another local route. These were still relatively early days of mountain biking as a sport. I had heard about people riding the steep, rocky trails of South Mountain Park, a stone’s throw from my house in Tempe, but I hadn’t ridden a bike since my green Schwinn Varsity—and I definitely did not own a fat-tire bike. Luckily, I found one I could borrow.
That day, after a couple of hours on the smooth and swooping mountain trails, I found something that would dominate my free time for the next 25 years.
Mountain biking was fast and exhilarating with a slight sense of danger, appealing to my appetite for adventure. It quickly became clear that “keeping the rubber side down” was important, lest you land on a slab of cheese-grater granite or, God forbid, a prickly pear cactus. And, just as that first ascent of the Camel’s Head sent me down a rabbit hole of climbing, mountain biking hooked me harder that any drug could. It was only a matter of weeks that I was at Bicycle Masters in South Tempe, plunking down cash for a red Diamondback Apex, the first of many—and many more expensive—bikes to come.
Soon after I bought my first bike, I took a spin up National Trail at South Mountain Park with my buddy Dave. With sections named “The Widow Maker” and “The Waterfall,” National Trail was no place for a beginner, but here we were. As we rode off from the parking lot, Dave looked at me and said, “If things get hairy, let your bike go.” Tough advice for a shiny new bike …
But I didn’t crash that day. Instead, thoroughly exhausted and beat up, I wanted more. I began logging increasing hours in the desert, searching for, and finding new trails that climbed higher into the looming peaks above Phoenix. Occasionally I’d see other riders, but not many. I eventually cleaned the Widow Maker without stopping—a badge of technical uphill honor—and promptly vomited from the effort. I often crashed, leaving flesh and blood behind. Scabs, scars, and broken bones were a new reality of this grand adventure, and I loved every minute of it.
As is the case with many sports, eventually you want to compete to see how you stack up. Back then, there were not many races to choose from, but the Mountain Bike Association of Arizona had an annual series that moved around the state, ending up in the higher, cooler elevations.
The last race of the season, the Rock Rabbit, was in Flagstaff, elevation 7,000-plus feet. It also happened to be the state championship race. I signed up. After all, what did I have to lose? When the time came, I threw my bike and camping gear in the bed of my Mazda pick-up truck and, with a stroke of luck, threw in a tarp as it looked like it might rain.
It did. All. Night. Long.
The morning of the race, I woke up cold and damp. The powdery dirt I’d come to expect of the single track was replaced with mud, but nothing was going to stop me. I choked down a first-generation Power Bar that ate like concrete and chugged some water.
There were about 50 of us in the Sport Class (one up from beginner, but miles away from the expert and pro classes) at the starting line, feeling the familiar cocktail of dread and excitement for what was about to happen.
After an eternity in the staging corral, the gun went off and I quickly learned why they called it the “Rock Rabbit.” Pedaling harder and harder and feeling every bit of the elevation in my lungs, I struggled to hang onto the pack as I rolled and slammed into fist-sized rocks spread out on the trail. The thick, sludge-like mud immediately began clogging my gears and rear derailer.
Then it happened. My front wheel slammed into an embedded trail rock, and within seconds my tire was flat. I pulled off to the side, flipped my bike over and removed the wheel. With cold, wet hands I worked the tire off, put in a new tube, and got back on my way.
Then it happened again. But this time, I was out of fresh tubes, and my rear gears were so caked with mud that my wheel would barely spin. I couldn’t even patch the snake-bite holes because my pump and valve tube, also caked with mud, were rendered useless. I stood contemplating my fate while other bikers slowly grinded past, and others in the same predicament weighed their options.
My race had lasted a grand total of seven minutes. I walked the mile or so back to my truck, flung the mess of my bike into the bed, and drove the 2.5 hours back home as chunks of mud dried on my legs and fell to the floorboard.
I was forced to swallow a healthy dose of humility. Exhausted and disappointed, I felt a little silly for investing that much time, effort, and money only to fail unceremoniously. But the weird thing? I loved every minute of it. I knew I had found my sport and couldn’t wait to do it again.
Countless rides and races followed over the next 25 years, including the Leadville 100 in Colorado, the Whiskey 50 in Prescott, Ariz., the 24 Hours of Moab in Utah. I made lifelong friends and learned valuable lessons about dealing with challenges on and off the bike: Work hard. Don’t quit when things get difficult. Prepare for the unknown. And, possibly most important of all, find joy in suffering.
It's not dissimilar to many new projects in life, including attempting to launch a new career. Failing is never a fun experience, but it is experience, and that’s the most important part—especially when you know, deep down, that you’re on the right path.
Maybe you’re in over your head and feel the slow creep of imposter syndrome, or maybe you’ve even tried and failed miserably. Don’t let it get you down for long. Get up, dust yourself off, and continue to go for it. I promise you won’t regret it.
Well done and very inspirational. Thanks for taking that on.