That would be chicken blood. If there had been any blood. Let me explain.
I am a world-class chicken. By which I mean “coward”. I am deliberate and careful to a paralyzing fault. I’ve never had a single stitch, or a broken bone. The one time I came close to causing myself serious injury, it was because I was thinking so hard about something that I tripped on my way to the library. (I was fine though. Because I told everyone I had injured myself while break dancing.)
This may seem, at first blush, a bit paradoxical. There is no doubt that I am a coward with regard to physical injury, especially at uncontrolled speed, but I really do enjoy riding my bike as fast as possible through the woods, over rocks or roots, across streams, sand, gravel… whatever.
It could be that my pessimistic, overcautious brain is so excited - just to have survived - that the experience of riding is always better than my inner-chicken anticipates. The unexpected reward of surviving makes it fun. That idea actually agrees with current research in the neurobiology of reward, which means I ride around in the woods imagining the medium spiny neurons in my mediodorsal striatum going:
Oh no! Oh no! Oh No! Agghhhhh! …. ?!! …Phew. - Hooray!”
When I tried to explain that theory to Don, however, he said he has the opposite experience. His inner monologue is something like:
“I’m gonna make it! I’m gonna make it!” [CRASH!]
Perhaps the data reflect gender differences.
Or, it could be that I really like the control. Like, alot. When I taught myself to ride on dirt, it was hard not to come to an almost complete stop on top of obstacles, often at the very point that was most difficult to pass over. I’d be trackstanding at the top of every log, bump and rock along the entire River Trail, with a stupid grin on my face thinking “I own this rock!” That, my friends, is not a recipe for speed.
And though the rational brain is convinced that momentum is our friend, the chicken brain has yet to fully relinquish the brake levers. So, you can imagine how excited the brains were this week when I got to go snowboarding for the first time in three years.
The chicken brain is winning. I have yet to fall. Once. In my defense, I am the Queen of Turning. If there were some sort of contest for most turns, you could probably measure my results per square inch. I kinda like the control, you know?
I used to ride goofy, which probably had something to do with learning in a pair of floppy men’s Sorels three sizes too big. I switched with the advent of modern bindings, though my left ankle still comes up a ton and the lean back into the hill is always less precise than I’d like.
And then about half way down the first run I remembered my hips and the way you can lean and kick that leg around and suddenly I was in business again! Sweet, wonderful, flowy control. I started thinking I should snowboard more because somehow I always seem to forget about the hips when I’m trying to steer a bicycle. 
Mission for the rest of the week is get up to speed and biff it, hard. Just once. You got to go faster to go faster, right?



























Pull My Strings: The New PuppetryBike Snob NYC
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