By Max Beard

The chairlift ride was very quiet that Sunday summer morning. An eerie silence gave me goose bumps from head to toe. As I turned my head and looked back down the mountain, I could see the entire Angel Fire resort below me. Vast New Mexican mountain ranges followed, blooming out to the horizon. It was the end of May, and the forest was green with life. I turned around, and stared up the mountain to the top of the chairlift.  "This is only my first Downhill Race," I thought. "This can't be so bad." My best friend introduced me into the sport after he went to the 2001 Mountain Bike World Championships, in Vail, Colorado. As he got into the sport, I did as well.  In Downhill Racing, each racer in a skill class has an individual time trail down the same course, and fastest time wins. I saved my money and bought my own bike. I eagerly waited to start Downhill Racing, and my time had come.

A headache became trapped underneath my garage sale helmet, and my limbs itched under my large clunky plastic pads. My four year old, white and red bike hung beside me on the chairlift.  A cool breeze blew between my padded legs, dangling thirty feet from the ground, as the chair inched its way to the top. Staring up at that mountain, I was very intimidated. The majestic peak loomed above the gloomy shaded forests. I could see bits and pieces of the fast, rough, future World-Cup track where I was about to race. The features on the track were suitable for the fastest riders in the world. I was scared. When I got to the top the lift I hopped off, and the attendant handed me my bike. It matched my race outfit, which made me feel somewhat cool, though in reality I felt as though I looked like a goof. Sitting on my bike, I cruised down the straight dirt road to the start of the racecourse. It was a pleasant ride. One could just glide along the bumpy gravelly road, only to get a taste of what was to come. I wasn't sure what to do when I got there.   There was a small crowd of racers at the start. Luckily, they were lining up my Junior Beginner racing class as I arrived. When I stopped, my arms and legs began to stiffen up.  My throat swelled as if I was a criminal entering an interrogation room. A man with a baseball cap and a clipboard was putting racers in order for the starting line. "Max Beard?" He announced. I raised my hand and got in line. With fifteen people in front of me, I had some time to think.

That day I saw all the other racers with sponsors on their jerseys, and with shiny, exquisite, sought after bikes in their hands that were all out of my league. I was merely a jester to them, at the bottom of the hierarchy of Mountain Bike Racing. I could feel the fear build.  It was crawling up my legs like an army of ants on the verge of attack. My goose bumps returned, and I could feel the hair on my back stand up. Suddenly worst case scenarios were clawing at my conscience.  "What if I crash? What if I get hurt? What if my bike breaks? What if I crash and don't get up? What if I hit a tree in front of some pretty girls?" What if I get last place?  I felt as if my whole 16 year old world might fall to pieces

Everything from the racecourse that scared me began to haunt my mind. The vast, New Mexican forest floors were flooded with jagged rocks, unforgiving logs, and abrupt stumps. Drop-offs sent racers down through trees into steep gardens of rough, bike breaking terrain. I thought of the aspen trees that nestled to the side of the trail, inches from your handlebars, waiting to grab your bike and throw you to the ground with brute force. The start gate timer beeped, and there were only five racers in front of me now. The anticipation increased as each one of them went before me.

"How am I going to do this?" I thought. "The Pro's are going as fast as humanly possible, and here I am just trying to make it to the bottom in one piece."

I swallowed hard. Trying to swallow my fear and emotions. Trying to bury the nerves that rattled me. There was only one racer in front of me now. It seemed I had been waiting in death row, and it was now my time.  As the time trail gate beeped, the person in front of me rode off.  I and watched him speed into the meadow before me, and disappear into the trees. I entered the starting gate, saddled my bike, put my white goggles on around my bulky helmet, and looked down the trail. I began to breathe heavily.  My body throbbed from my chest to my fingertips.

"You have thirty seconds Max," the woman beside me stated. I grabbed hold my handlebars. With each frightened breath I tried to calm the trembling. This was my moment of truth. "Ten seconds," the woman announced. The time trial clock beeped every second. My stomach dropped. "Three, two, one, go!"

I pedaled out of the gate and dashed through the meadow into the trees. The next seven minutes became a blur. The ride was surreal. I hung on for my life. As I burst out of the trees at the bottom, scared out of my mind,  the finish line was in sight. Reality was slipping back into place. My legs churned as I tried to get in every pedal stroke that my body could muster going down the last hill. I could hear the announcer say "Here comes Max Beard from Englewood, Colorado…." As I flew across the finish line squeezing the brakes as hard as I could. My arms ached in pain as I came to a stop. "…And it looks like he is in sixth place." The announcer said.

What?" I thought to myself. "How cool is that!" I could barely breathe. I scrambled off of my bike and looked back up the mountain.  "I survived!" I thought to myself.  Sixth place was just a subtle reward. I was so satisfied just to make it down the hill! "That was fun!"

Deep beneath all the fear and emotions of that epic day, a passion was born. From then on, downhill racing became a prominent presence in my life. As I look back on that day, with sponsors on my jerseys, and now having bikes that I sought after for so long, I learned to appreciate the hardships one must overcome in their life that can lead to such great opportunities and adventures in the future.