The Desert (and My Brush With Death)

Chalk another one up to the Fucktard, also known as Scott's best friend, Kris.

Yesterday, Scott, Kris, Nev and I decided to go downhill mountain biking. Scott has been trying to take me on this trail for months now, because apparently he doesn't realize that he can't collect life insurance money on me until we're actually married.

Anyway...with downhill biking, you "shuttle", meaning you leave one car at the bottom of the trail and take another to the top. Then, once you're at the bottom, you have to drive back up to get the other car.

I prefer cross-country riding, because it has done a hell of a job of shaping my legs and keeping me a little less fat. But since we were downhilling it, I decided I'd better go to the gym and burn some kcal before we left.

The desert was beautiful, albeit dusty and a little hot, and the ride was fantastic, despite all the shit I ate and being the slowest one on the trail. Until after Man Challenge Number 6, when Scott took a giant drop and busted his bike. Strike one.

But, since gravity was on our side, Scott was able to continue to ride his bike down the trail. And then Kris took a drop (Man Challenge Number 10? 20? I lost count) and broke his bike. Strike two.

They still beat me down most of the trail, until the last 2 miles, which were uphill. I pedaled up, no problem. They struggled to push their pigs to the top. We were just about to the car, the last leg of the trail, when Fucktard tell us he left his car keys in our car, which was back at the trail head.

And you're out. Officially the biggest loser I know.

Scott and I had to turn around and ride back to the top to get the car. Fucktard and Nev waited at the bottom like the little bitches they are. Which, actually, was because Scott and I insisted on going. We left them with the 2 broken bikes and no shade.

I was perfectly happy to go back, since it meant I would burn, like 50,000 more calories. And the ride wasn't bad....until Scott decided we should take a shortcut.

At first the shortcut (a fire road) was a good idea, because it was much easier than trying to push our bikes up through the steep, sandy trail. And then we made a turn, and about half a mile out, I realized we were going the wrong way. When I told him to stop, he turned and yelled:

"Shut your Goddamn mouth and ride!"

(I should say that, when Scott wanted to take the shortcut, I was hesitant because we didn't really know if it was a shortcut. Scott asked me to trust him. I did. Kind of.)

At this point, we were both pretty spent. We rode in the wrong direction for a couple miles, and then, finally, Scott stopped and said,

"Well, I don't know exactly where we are, but I think if we just..."
"Nope. Let's just go back to the trail."

At this point, we were out of water, starting to get sunburned, and tired as fuck.

Then we had a brush with a rattlesnake.

Good times.

I began to have visions of news stories, about how we wandered off the trail and dehydrated. Or ran into a nest of rattle snakes. About how our friends were waiting merrily at the bottom with no clue that we were fighting for our lives.

And then we found our trail head. At this point, my legs were wobbly, my arms strained from pushing my bike up the 45 degree inclines, and I was, for the first time in my life, completely out of energy. I could barely lift my 26-pound bike over the rocks and other obstacles. Fighting for every step.

Scott promised the top was just over that last 20,000 foot rock that we had to lift our bikes over. And I was promised a new Coach bag if he were wrong.

But he wasn't.

After being on the trail for about 5 hours in the hot desert sun (and me with a very gnarly cut on the back of my leg from one of my many shit-eating stunts), we made it safely back to the car.

The moral of the story is: Don't trust a Fucktard with anything. But if you do, it's okay because you won't necessarily die, and you can totally eat a whole pint of Ben and Jerry's afterward, completely guilt-free.

The end.