We’re climbing up single track, and The Clairebarian seems to have quickly rediscovered her rhythm. Where the sun pierces through the trees, it boils, and the sports surface is wickedly loose over rock-hard, so we’re seated grinding or half-squatting-half-standing, for traction. She’s pedaling a gear one lower than usual, but it’s still friendly to standing on the steeper bits. I’m turning over the single-speed.
We head up a ladder bridge. Maybe ‘boardwalk’ would be a better term. It crosses a creek, turns, and continues up until some bench-cut puts us back on solid ground. It’s wide enough to be almost-worry-free, but there is a decently large drop to the left, and I’ve seen three riders absolutely eat ‘it off the side.
Right near the end of the boardwalk, there’s an innocuous-looking chunk of root sticking out of the right bank, and, in the examples I’ve seen, failure to give it enough of a berth or time one’s pedal stroke delivers an unfriendly sequence of events. Clip pedal. Bike pushes left. Rider swears loudly. The rider and two-of-three times the bike as well, goes over the side.
If I’m entirely honest, I always hold my breath for a split second as Claire pedals past the outcropping. Every time I’ve seen someone go over the side, I’ve been riding behind them, but more than that, her pedal passes oh so close. But, to my credit, I also always manage to say nothing. The kid knows her bicycle so well, opening my big trap would be no different than warning one of my adult friends about the clearly visible hazard.
Dadsplaining, unlike mansplaining, isn’t a capital crime. At least, not at this point. But I do try to save my input for opportunities where it can actually make a difference. In this case, unsurprisingly, Claire pedals uneventfully through the section for the hundredth time.
I’ve experienced both sides of returning to mountain biking after an injury multiple times. The full physicality of pedaling, pumping, pivoting, plus the psychology of it all. We have to trust our riding friends to make their best decisions while they’re relearning to trust themselves, and the same goes when the shoe is on the other foot.
I don’t think twice when I’m on the trail with friends, but with my grom, I spent the remainder of our time pedaling up the No Quarter Climb to the Baden Powell trail, simply reminding myself over and over of this concept. Coming back from her first-ever walk out of the woods crash, Claire is pedaling like she didn’t miss a beat, but I’m prepared for the hesitation on the plunge back down.
She walks both of her ‘sometimes features’. I can’t help but think of how amazingly smooth³ she was on both of them the last time we were here, but, of course, I say nothing. That’s my standard for all her sometimes features all the time. When she’s confident, I trust her to ride them well. When she’s not feeling it, I trust her to remember that North Shore riding can generally be summed up with the phrase “commit, or eat shit.”
Our pace down is calm, confident, and controlled. It’s not our quickest lap, but Claire’s riding dynamically and, since smooth is fast, we still make surprisingly short work of our return trip. She rides everything other than her sometimes features, and one rock move where she’s always defaulted to the b-line. At the bottom, she’s tired and stoked.
The ride went flawlessly, we had a great chat on the climb, and Claire was smooth and confident, self-assured, on the descent. We’re both laughing and smiling. We’re nerding out about some small future bike setup changes and some upcoming component test-writing.
I’m exhausted. Yes, just from keeping my mouth shut and trusting my kid to do her thing.
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