It’s important to note, first, that I’m an athlete—talented in all sports, from badminton to baseball, from ultimate Frisbee to football. My definition of “talent” is not looking completely ridiculous while engaged in a particular event. And by that definition I am talented. I throw fluidly, dribble ably, run effortlessly, and use adverbs excessively.

Even in sports where I am less capable—like lacrosse or spelunking—I still manage to look as if I belong. I attribute that to my overall coolness, and ability to wear Oakley sunglasses. I’m invincible, incapable of being owned by a sport. A recent trip with some “expert mountain bikers” called my bluff, however.

We loaded up the Nissan Xterra (which I learned is the only vehicle you can own if you’re a mountain biker) and left Las Vegas. Thus began our trek to Utah. When selecting a bike on arrival, I nonchalantly explained to the bike rental employee (a scruffy looking guy who owned a Nissan Xterra) that any bike would do. To an athlete, these little things—like picking out a bike—need not matter. Just get me on one and let me go.

It only took a mile on the trail before I started to get praise from the group, which I expected: “Wow, this is really your first time biking?” I’m an athlete, damn it, I can ride a bike, even if it is on an 89 degree downward slope over rocky terrain through thick brush hugging a cliff aptly called “The Cliff of Doom.” When riding, I was mere seconds off the front rider, adrenaline coursing through my veins, cool mountain air blasting my face.

As proper etiquette dictated, we (the faster riders) would wait for them (my wife, and the slower riders). Inside I was snickering at the more experienced riders who were well behind me, a mere rook. Some were even walking their bikes down the more difficult sections! What a waste, I thought. Just ride.

After they’d catch up I’d salute, and then take-off with the studs, continuing my frenzied decent to the bottom of the 14-mile trail. The leader, an alleged “down hill master” pulled away from me. Determined to be a master like the 10-year veteran, I, a 10-minute veteran, rode with a reckless abandon, leaving the rest of the party well behind.

Things were going good. I was ripping downhill in euphoric solitude, a smile plastered to my face. I felt like a meth-junkie, the high was overwhelming. Then came The Crash. I struggled with the bigger rocks, and had escaped disaster several times while consumed by my ignorant state of invincibility. The fall, according to the expert-riders, signified my initiation into the sport. My wrists broke the fall. I was shaken but not shattered.

After the tail group caught up, I explained my wipe-out, and they all congratulated me and continued to praise my prowess. This was good for my pride, but bad for my body. Since the fall was bearable and left me relatively unharmed, I continued to disregard safety. I was a child determined to play on the ledge of a pool until I fell in, drowned, and died.

Less than a mile later—still ripping at ridiculous speeds—I took my second spill. My flight through the air lasted about six and a half hours, giving me plenty of time to decide how I was going to die. I asked myself if I should just go head first, I had a helmet on after all. After much debate, I figured (again) going arm first would be best.

I put my arms out then waited for darkness.

It never came. Instead I heard a pop like bubble wrap. Only the sound I heard was angrier, louder. It was my elbow. I cried out in pain, something I’ve never done. I think I even threw in “Help, please, someone help!” Thankfully nobody heard my cries. After a few minutes lamenting in my pain (the people behind me still hadn’t caught up) I composed myself.

I rode the final few miles of the trail with painful hesitation, oftentimes getting off my bike to walk it down the more difficult parts. I hid my pain, but my timidity indicated my defeat to the group. I overheard a rider say to my wife “He’s not doing this again, is he?”