Tales from the
Trail & Beyond.

I made it to Whistler. After everything, the broken wrist, the weeks off the bike, sitting out Snow Summit, squeezing that old grip in the car until my forearm burned, I finally made it. This was the trip all of that was for.

The first morning I was nervous, and not about the jumps. About my wrist. I did not know until I dropped in whether it would hold, or whether it would fold on me halfway down the way it did at China Peak. So I rolled in easy, tested it, and waited for the ache.

It never came. My hand held. It just worked, the way it used to.

So I let it go. I hit Crabapple Hits. I rode Dwayne Johnson, the D1 line and the full run both. And I sessioned the Dirt Merchant pro lines. These are the big lines, the ones I would have talked myself out of six months ago even with two good hands. This time I just pointed it and went.

I am not going to be modest about it. I rode well. I felt strong, I felt confident, and I trusted my body again, which is the exact thing I was most scared I had lost. Whistler is everything people say it is, and getting to ride it feeling like myself was the best few days I have ever had on a bike.

But I have to be honest about the other half of it. My dad did not ride.

This was supposed to be our trip. Whistler, the two of us, the thing we had been talking about for months. Because of the concussion he took at Big Bear, he could not get on a bike. He still came. He watched from the bottom, filmed my runs, cheered every lap. But he did not ride a single one.

I kept thinking about how backwards it was. I spent all summer terrified my wrist would keep me off this mountain, and in the end I was the one who got to ride it. He was the one standing in the dirt. I would have traded some of those runs to have him up there with me. I think he knows that.

So it is a strange thing to carry home. The best I have ever felt on a bike, and the person I most wanted beside me stuck watching from the ground. Both of those are true at once. I am grateful for the trip, and I already want to go back, with my dad on the bike this time.

One hundred percent. Next time, both of us.

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I have been on both sides of a trail emergency now. Last summer at Whistler, I watched my dad dislocate his shoulder and I froze. I had no idea what to do. Whether to move him, whether to call for help, whether to just stand there. I felt completely useless, and I hated it.

A few days ago at Big Bear, it happened again. My dad went down and came up with a concussion. But this time was different. This time I knew what to do, and I did it.

I have thought a lot about what changed between those two moments. It was not that I got braver. It was that the second time, I had something to follow. A few questions to ask. A list in my head. When you see someone you love hurt on the ground, your brain can go completely blank. Panic takes over. The only thing that pulled me through was having steps, and not having to invent them on the spot.

So I built one. It is a simple tool on this site. You tap what you are seeing, they hit their head, they are not moving, road rash, a possible break, and it walks you through what to do, one calm step at a time. It also tells you the warning signs that mean stop and call 911.

I built it to work offline, because the trailheads where you actually need it almost never have signal. Open it once at home, add it to your phone, and it is there in the dead zones.

I want to be clear about what it is and what it is not. It is not medical advice, and it is not a replacement for real first-aid training or for calling 911. If you ride, take a Wilderness First Aid course. It is genuinely the best thing you can do. This tool is just for the moment your brain freezes and you need something to hold onto.

I hope you never have to use it. But twice now I have learned that you do not get to choose when the trail asks something of you. You only get to choose whether you are ready.

It's on your phone now. Pedal on.

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After all my going back and forth about this weekend, I landed somewhere in the middle. I skipped the big trip with the crew. No group pace, no sending anything I had no business sending on a wrist that is not back yet. But I could not bring myself to sit at home doing nothing either. Whistler is a few weeks out, and the thought of dropping in there cold, after weeks off the bike, scared me more than a few easy laps did.

So it was just my dad and me. Up at Big Bear for the day, riding light. Mellow runs, nothing gnarly. The kind of day that is supposed to be the safe one.

On the last run, my dad crashed.

I was already at the bottom waiting for him. I did not see it happen. I just saw him coming down the last stretch on foot, walking his bike toward me. From a distance it looked fine. Then he got closer and it did not look fine at all.

He was disoriented. He did not know where the car was. We had parked in the same lot we always park in, and he had no idea where it was.

And then something in me switched on. All the concussion stuff I have read, the protocols, the page I wrote for this site that I never thought I would actually need. It just kicked in.

I said, look at me. I looked at his eyes and his pupils were dilated. So I started asking him questions, the way you are supposed to. He knew his birthday. He did not know how old he was. He could not remember anything from the past month.

He had no recollection of how he had even gotten to the parking lot that morning. That was when I knew. This was bad. Really bad.

I got him to the medics. They assessed him, and within a few minutes they were calling an ambulance.

I texted my mom. "Don't freak out, but dad had a bad crash." I read that back now and I do not know how I typed something so calm. Inside I was coming apart.

I held it together the whole way. Through the medics, the ambulance, all of it. I did not break down until we got to the hospital and they took him back and I was standing in a hallway alone, calling my mom. That is when it all came out. And the first thing out of me was not fear. It was guilt.

If something was really wrong with him, in my head that was on me. I could not let go of it. And this was not the first time I have watched him go down. Last summer at Whistler I saw him dislocate his shoulder. That one he walked away from. Standing in that hospital hallway, I was not sure this one would be the same.

Several hours and multiple scans later, they released him. No brain bleed. No cracked skull. I have never been so relieved about anything in my life. Thank god we both wear full face helmets. I cannot say that strongly enough, and I will keep saying it on this site until everyone who reads it does the same.

He was not allowed to drive, so my mom found us a hotel room for the night. I think I slept less than ten minutes. I just lay there listening to make sure he was okay, getting up to check on him, running the whole day back in my head on a loop.

By morning, most of his memory had come back. He is still missing the few minutes right after the crash, but the doctors said that part is normal and may never return. The rest of him is here. That is what matters.

I wrote the Be Safe page for this site months ago. Concussion signs, what to ask, when to get help. I never once imagined I would be using it on my own dad. Read the Be Safe guide →

I do not know what the future holds for either of us on a bike right now. I am not going to pretend I have that figured out today. But I am grateful he is okay, and I am grateful I knew what to do when it counted.

Not sure what comes next. Hoping we can both pedal on.

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I am supposed to be at Snow Summit this weekend. The plan has been on the calendar for a while. Bike loaded, friends going, a full weekend of laps. And I am sitting here seriously thinking about not going.

I raced China Peak last weekend because it counted. It was the first of the five races I need to upgrade to Cat 2, and you do not skip those. Snow Summit is different. It is a fun trip with friends, which I love, but it does not move me toward anything except the chance to hurt myself again.

Here is the math. My wrist is better, but it is not back. The bone is still healing and my grip gives out before the rest of me does. Snow Summit is not a place you ride at eighty percent. And in a few weeks I am going to Whistler with my dad. That trip matters more to me than anything else on my calendar this year.

So I keep landing in the same place. If I push it this weekend and tweak the wrist again, I put Whistler at risk. If I sit out, I lose a weekend but I protect the thing I actually care about.

It is killing me. I want to be honest about that. Watching the group load up without me, knowing exactly what those laps feel like, choosing to stay home anyway. That is harder than any crash. A crash takes the decision away from you. This one I have to make myself, over and over, every time someone texts.

So I am doing the work in the meantime. I gave up on the stress ball. I have been carrying around an old handlebar grip instead, squeezing it whenever my hand is free. It works better. A stress ball is round and soft and nothing like a bike. The grip is the exact shape and feel of what my hand has to do on the trail, so it trains the real motion, not just the strength. If I am teaching the wrist to hold on again, I want to teach it on the real thing.

I am bummed. I am not going to pretend I am not. But I am trying to look at the big picture. Whistler with my dad, as close to a hundred percent as I can get. That is the goal. Everything between now and then is just protecting it.

Sitting one out. Eyes on Whistler.

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My hand was sore on my practice rides. Not the sharp pain from right after the break, just a deep ache that got worse the more I rode. So I made a call I did not want to make. I rested for half the day, took some ibuprofen to bring the inflammation down, and tried to save whatever I had left for the run that counted.

Then I rode. And I did not ride well.

The pain and the stiffness were there the whole way down. My grip was not what it used to be. I was slower than I know I can be and more careful than I wanted to be, and I felt every bit of it.

Here is the part I did not expect. There was no fear at the top. After five weeks of wondering what would happen in my head when I lined up at the start of that trail, the answer was nothing. No hesitation. I dropped in clean.

But the hand decided how the run went, not me. I crossed the line knowing it was nowhere near my best, and I was disappointed in myself in a way that is hard to shake.

On the drive home my mom and dad reminded me that all I had to do today was get the first one done. And I did. That was the whole job. Everything else was extra.

It helped. It still stings.

The road back is tough and bumpy. I knew that before today. I know it a little better now.

One of five, done. Four to go. Onward.

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The cast came off yesterday. This weekend I race at China Peak. First weekend back and it is a qualifying race. My timing is impeccable.

This is the first of five races I need to upgrade to Cat 2, which I have been working toward. I want it. I am also aware that my wrist is stiff, my grip strength is not where it was, and the bone will not be fully healed for at least three months. The doctor knows I am racing. Her advice was to fall to the left.

Easier said than done.

I have been riding long enough to know that hesitation is where things go wrong. You commit or you do not. There is no halfway on a trail. But I would be lying if I said I was not thinking about the wrist. I am thinking about it a lot.

Will I be tentative? Will I send it? I genuinely do not know yet. I will find out this weekend.

I am nervous. I am also excited in a way I have not felt in five weeks. No soft re-entry. No easy warmup ride to shake the rust off. Just straight back in at a qualifying race at China Peak. Honestly, probably how it should be.

Race recap coming Sunday.

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Five weeks, two days. That is how long I have been wearing this cast.

Today they cut it off with an electric saw and then scissors. It looked more intense than it felt. And just like that, it was over.

Walking out without it on feels strange. My wrist looks pale and a little foreign, like it belongs to someone else. The doctor says that is normal. A few weeks of being careful, ease back into things. I have a list. I am not waiting long.

There was a moment in the appointment where they pulled up the new X-ray next to the original one and showed me the bone healed clean. I did not expect that to feel like anything. It felt like a lot.

They offered to let me keep the cast. I said no. I chose to leave it in the past and pedal on.

Went straight home. Got the bike out. Race is in two days.

Mobius brace on. ODI grips. Fox 40 Factories. Let's go.

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Two and a half weeks down. Two and a half to go. I have found a rhythm of sorts. Stationary bike when I can, grip balls to keep my hand strength up, planning out the rest of the year so I have something to move toward when this is over.

My friends are still riding. The texts keep coming. New trails. New lines. Someone hit a jump they had been working toward for months. Every update is great news that feels like a small punch. I am genuinely happy for them and genuinely miserable at the same time.

Mostly I spend time in my head. Visualizing rides I know well, trails I want to hit, lines I have been working out. Closing my eyes and riding a trail keeps me connected to something I did not realize I needed this much until it was taken away.

The other thing that happened was quieter. My mom and sister don't come on ride trips. No riding means actually being around. We are getting dinners. Walking the dogs. Watching sunsets. Having conversations that don't happen when you're always heading somewhere.

I did not expect this to be part of it. But here we are.

I do not have the full lesson yet. That comes when the cast comes off. But two and a half weeks in I can already feel something shifting. Patience, mostly. And a clearer sense of what actually matters.

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The group chat has been busy. New trail outside of Laguna. Someone got a new bike. A ride I would have driven two hours for happened last weekend without me.

I am not bitter. I am just aware of every single thing happening that I am not a part of. There is a difference. Barely, but there is one.

Two weeks left. I have been visualizing so much that I feel like I have already ridden half the trails on my list. I have planned the year down to the month. I have watched more MTB footage than I care to admit. I have done everything I can think of to stay close to something I cannot actually touch right now.

Two more weeks.

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One week in. This is harder than I expected.

I do not know who I am if I cannot mountain bike. That sounds dramatic. I do not mean it dramatically. I just mean that riding is the thing that makes everything else make sense, and right now I do not have it, and I am figuring out what that means.

Four more weeks.

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It happened fast. It always does. One second I was riding, the next I was on the ground and my wrist was telling me something was very wrong. GoPro was running the whole time. I will post that footage soon.

Clean break, they said. No surgery. Just a cast for five weeks and come back when it heals. Waterproof cast, which is the one silver lining. At least I could shower.

I reached out to Mobius from the hospital. Their wrist braces are what I will be riding in when I come back. They said yes. Probably the most productive thing I did that day.

If you want to know what to do when someone goes down on a trail, I built a whole page for that. Read the Be Safe guide →

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