When I was 11 or 12, a girl that lived across the street from us was killed when the three wheeler she was riding rolled over on her. She was a year or two younger than me, and I can’t even say that we were friends; we had that “elementary school” dislike for each other. I can honestly say had it not been for her death, I wouldn’t remember her. I know she had a sister, but I can’t for the life of me remember her name, or even her face. Yet, after all these years, I remember Sarah in shocking detail.
I grew up in a rural town in Alaska. You were just as likely to see a three wheeler or snow machine coming down the road as you were to see a car. I grew up around these machines. We had three wheelers, snow machines, a dune buggy, and even a ski machine (it looked like a snow machine cut down the middle, one ski and half a tred). About the time of the accident, we had moved to a new house, and the machines had started to disappear. We moved into town, and then to Montana, and the frequency of seeing, let alone the opportunity to ride a ATV, dwindled.
That is, until I met Mark. Mark had grown up in rural Utah. He had spent his childhood riding in the mountains that surrounded Manti. He knew every curve and every hill. He didn’t own an ATV when we met, but shortly into our relationship, he told me he wanted to get a bike… one that was street legal, but also allowed for off roading, it was called an enduro.
It’s hard to explain what happened next. It started as a huge weight in my stomach, and slowly grew until I felt as if it was choking me. I have experienced panic attacks before, but I never expected that the mention of a motorbike would bring on one. Okay, it was more than the mention of it. It was the thought of someone I loved being ON one. I didn’t realize how much the fear had grown until that moment.
In my mind, I started to rationalize what had happened all those years ago. Things I already knew, but they weren’t connecting. I knew that Big Red 3 wheelers were notorious for their instability; in fact they had been taken off the market because of it. I knew that a 10 year old, especially a small 10 year old like Sarah, had no hope of controlling the huge machine. I knew that a helmet could have possibly saved her life. I KNEW these things, but I couldn’t get the image of my brother’s best friend lifting the machine off her body that afternoon.
Slowly, after several years of marriage, I was able to come to grips with at least part of my fear, and no longer freaked out at the thought of my husband (and new born son) on a motor bike. I knew he could handle it, he was responsible, and had the experience to keep himself safe. A bike was purchased. I trusted him beyond doubt with my son, and so as soon as Evan could hold on, he was enjoying rides with his father.
I, however, still had that image pop up in my mind whenever I climbed on, and would spend the short trips with my head buried in my husband’s shoulder fighting back the panic. Soon, that became easier, and I started to loosen a little, but the panic was still there.
I have irrational fears (like sharks in swimming pools) that cause panic attacks, but this one just annoys the hell out of me. I can’t laugh about it, like the sharks. I can’t seem to shake it either.
Every summer has brought the talk of purchasing a 4 wheeler, I knew that once we bought the property it would only be a matter of time. Each year it has been sort of half hearted on the part of my husband, but this year was different. His office was getting rid of one that was rarely used. They were going to give him a great deal. I couldn’t say no. I knew that I trusted him. I knew that it was different than the Big Red that had killed Sarah. It was something he really wanted. So we got it.
The bike had been different, it weighed to much for me ride, and I could barely move the thing. The four wheeler didn’t tip if you lifted the kickstand (okay, it didn’t have a kickstand). My excuse was that Mark and Evan could ride it, I didn’t mind sitting at the fire making dinner as long as they were having fun.
And then there were TWO four wheelers, a gift of a salvaged machine that Mark was going to rebuild, and then was no excuse, except my irrational fear.
So, to make an already long story short, Mark started teaching me to ride. Scared out of my mind, a few weeks ago, we took a trip up the mountain. I did okay, the panic was there, and barely contained, but I got through it.
This weekend, Mark took me on a more difficult ride, one with not just rolling hills and little bumps, but steep climbs over rocky fields. Again, the panic was there, but I made it to the top of Skyline. I wouldn’t say I had fun, but I wasn’t terrified the whole time.
There’s that whole cliché about getting back on the horse… in this case, it took me over 15 years, but I got back on, and standing on the top of that ridge, looking back at the trail I had just conquered, made me incredible proud and satisfied.
