Studying myself in the mirror I turned side to side. “Stacy and Clinton would definitely disapprove of this look” I thought. (Stacy and Clinton are they are the hosts of one of my favorite shows “What Not to Wear”) Nothing felt right, but then again, I wasn’t headed to Fashion Week, I was going mountain biking on the greenbelt. I stood staring from bottom to top. I was well equipped for the quest, clunky but sturdy black hiking shoes, padded spandex biking shorts underneath my camouflage pants and a breathable hot pink polyester shirt to top it off. Eeek! I felt like a fish out of water. “Okay, why am I doing this again?” I asked. “Ahhh..I know” Like finding my favorite little black dress, I smiled and thought back to where this all began.
I wanted to change my name to Kirk when I was five, only problem was I was a girl. I guess tomboy-hood is not every girl’s rite of passage, but as fate would have it, I seemed to be cut out perfectly to fit the role. Our family lived in a neighborhood packed with boys, so naturally I was forced to either to hang with them and be one of them or bored to tears at home. My buddies and I built forts, took long bike rides, got dirty making mud pies and climbed trees as far as we dared. We had a blast. Some girls never stop being tomboys, but not me. The spark to transform was lit under me when I was around 12. It didn’t take long to realize that I could either continue being the girl who ran with the boys or be the one the boys ran after. Boys didn’t run after girls with dirt on their face, mud under their nails and holy jeans. As it turns out they tended to like girls who did up their hair, had polish on their nails and wore sweet frilly things. After trying it out for a while, I decided it was definitely more fun being run after. I never grew out of being prissy, but deep down I’m still the tomboy who threw rocks and ran around climbing trees without a shirt.
Flashing back to present time I took one last, less-disapproving look in the mirror and headed out. I was in for an adventure. When my husband Ron and I arrived at the bike shop to get our bikes, the snotty bike clerk with nose rings and tattoos up and down his arms looked me squarely asking my husband “you’re taking her on the greenbelt?” Who the heck did he think he was talking to? Obviously it was my pink top and Coach purse sitting on the counter that threw him off. “Don’t let my good taste in handbags throw you off buddy” I thought. “Sheesh!” I was determined now.
Soon we were off, crossing Lamar and headed down Barton Springs to the greenbelt. Arriving at the greenbelt entrance near the Barton Springs pool. Most of the people coming out of this area were rugged, serious-looking mountain bikers. I didn’t notice any women. Some of the guys were beat up, bruised and worse – bleeding. “No missing teeth” I thought “that’s where I draw the line”. “Are you sure you want go?” Ron asked “Heh”, I laughed nervously “of course!” “Oh crap, what have I gotten myself into” I thought.
The beginning of the trail wasn’t so bad. Despite the dust, large rocks, pot holes and occasional tree trunks sticking out from the ground it was pretty easy to navigate around the major hazards. I soon found my trusty mountain bike easily would hop right over these painful roadblocks. We continued on about a mile and a half passing a spot Ron pointed out. “Look honey there it is” he shouted. Just a month earlier he had taken a nose dive after his front tire got caught between two rocks and chipped his front tooth. At this point, the trail started to get scary. I underestimated a large boulder and took my first fall, breaking the skin on my shin with the metal pedal. I had been initiated now and soon the dirt from the trail covered my bloody leg in a fine dust that looked like cocoa powder. “Good thing my shoes are black” I thought. Then under my breath, “what’s wrong with me? I’m riding a stinking mountain bike with bleeding, bruised legs risking my neck and I’m still thinking about my shoes?”
We proceeded on to an even narrower, unforgiving path that seemed determined at each twist, turn and bump to knock me off my bike. To my left was a steep ledge, to the right boulders the size of an 18-wheeler tire. Neither was an appealing place to fall. Thankfully, I could see Ron too had had enough and he soon asked if I was ready to turn around to gentler paths. “Sure” I huffed thinking “thank God almighty – I made it through alive” I proudly rode my way out of the greenbelt hopping curbs and even racing down a steep hill.
We ended our journey with what I thought would be a smooth ride on the 8-mile Town Lake jogging trail. Wouldn’t you know it, a rude biker ran me off the trail? Oh, the irony. I flew off my bike with such force that my helmet came lose. My newly inflated ego was as flat as a pancake now; it had taken a swift jab from the trail which along with all the joggers around me seemed to be snickering hysterically. Beaten, bruised and fresh blood on both my legs I hopped up quickly, whispering loud curses at the man who ran me off. We continued our ride back to our car where two very sympathetic tourists offered me peroxide and band aids.
Satisfied my adventures for the day had settled all doubts in my husbands’ head that I could still run like a boy; we headed to a local restaurant where we sipped strong fruity margaritas until dusk. Maybe it was the tequila, the mariachi music or maybe it was the satisfaction that I had truly proven myself to still be a tomboy at heart; whatever the case, I couldn’t stop beaming ear to ear. After dinner, buzzing from the alcohol we strolled into a swanky shoe store. Me in dirty, blood-stained cloths and Ron still looking fabulous of course, paraded around the store getting lots of second looks from the other shoppers. I didn’t care, after all I had been through I deserved to be here! I tried on heels until I found the most marvelous pair of stilettos. Sold! Maybe a girl can have her heels and still kick butt on the greenbelt.
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