In the world of mountain biking, and general adult tomfoolery for that matter, I’m an outlier.

Correction. I was an outlier.

When post-ride discussions turn to tales of broken bones and other assorted injuries, folks point to different parts of their bodies, rattling off injuries like they’re padding a résumé of misfortune. Whenever the proverbial talking came to me, I’d do my best to regale the group with the story of my one and only stitch, the consequence of 8-year-old me stepping on a sewing needle.

After 41 laps around the sun, my poor decisions

Estás leyendo una vista previa, regístrate para leer más.