Richard J. Cunningham
Slow motion is a cinematographer’s technique to capture a great sporting moment or add drama to an otherwise mundane moment. Slow motion is often experienced by anyone who engages in active sports, especially those that go more than twenty miles per hour. This happens in the immediate aftermath a tactical error.
I was still riding up to this point. Eddie and John, my two oldest mountain biking friends, had set a blistering pace along an unknown singletrack in California near Lockwood Valley. My front tire slipped off an innocuous-looking rock, causing a massive washout. I was trying to keep the pair in my sight as we climbed through the pines. It wasn’t a big deal. I would just wait for the slide to end. I would expect the front tire to eventually connect.
The washout seemed to go on forever, which should have been my first sign that things weren’t in order. It felt like time stood still, even though I was percolating at an excellent pace. ?Slow motion,? I thought, ‘this might hurt. My front tire was scraping over the sun-baked, decomposed granite soil. It eventually became a half-buried rock the size of a grapefruit. At this point, my GT i-Drive 1000 & I parted ways.
I flew low and passed my GT and the pink Granite stone, which marked the edge of the small ravine. I was two feet above the ground when the embankment curve became a parabola. This allowed me to follow the curve until gravity dropped me into the stream bed. I noticed a large, smooth-looking boulder in my path before impact and I adjusted my flying form to follow its contour. I wondered if it was the big crash that ended a 15-year streak of good fortune.
I felt some cartilage crunch in my left hand and a dull impact on the right hip. I felt a fist-sized rock roll along my ribs, like a picket fence, until it was all gone. It was sweet silence. Then, a moment to stop and evaluate the damage.
Katrin, who was wearing an old green Curtlo hardtail, ran towards me. I knew that the ruckus was a signal that I was back on real time. As she passed, I stood in the gully. She gave me a quick look of concern.
?Yes, everything is fine. I said, « First crash of the day. » ?
Katrin floated off into the distance. I stood up, wincing at the pain in my thumb and forefinger from a jammed thumb as I turned the left shifter. I slowed down to try to get my rhythm back. It wasn’t too bad. I murmured loudly,?I could take a big hit back then.? Confidently, I let go of the brakes once again and opened the door. It would take me just a few minutes to close the gap, and then I could return to the hunt. I was wrong when I saw a root that ran through a deep motorcycle rut.
As I sailed over my GT, I was able to see every oval-headed screw attached to the Shimano disc brake. As I drifted over my GT, the stainless steel disc reflected the noonday sunlight like a mirror. It blinded me for a moment as I pulled my shoulder under to prepare for my second unscheduled meeting with mother earth.
Frame by frame, my bike passed by and I looked under my arm to see where it was going to land. I saw a sandy area and what looked like tall reeds down below. The scene would have ended happily, but I decided that the script needed to be rewritten. I would ride slower and eliminate the need for another slow-motion sequence at least for today.
