I rode with a friend up the twisty Hwy 25, to the 29 Dreams Resort. He followed me to critique my riding (at my request). At first, I was fine — the curves were no worse than the roads near my house at home. But parts of the road are tight and blind, and the thick woods come right up to the edge of the road. There’s no hint of the lay of the land ahead, no way to anticipate if the curve tightens up or opens onto a straight section. Thinking “go in wide to get a better view of the turn,” I found myself feeling horizontal as I pushed the left bar more and more to stick to a banked lefthander. I overpushed, or underthrottled or some combination, and found myself sinking down to the centerline, just as a big black car came around the other direction. I don’t know what I thought, but I pulled back from the centerline, gulped, and took subsequent curves with my sphincter firmly latched to my Corbin seat. After the curve, my friend passed me, and pulled over. I followed and stopped. There followed a heated lecture about racing lines being inappropriate on blind mountain roads, and we took off again.
Funny thing: I had dreaded the last hairpin on Hwy 25, but that was actually easy, because it’s open and well-lit on one side and you can see the entire corner as you approach it. Going back, I followed my friend, who went much more slowly than I probably would have, but I went along with his admonition that I stay in the center of my lane and forget all that “proper racing line” stuff left over from my old SCCA days.
It could have been very bad, and I have run it over again and again in my mind, trying to figure out how I sank, how I recovered, how my body was positioned (my friend says I don’t lean: all I know is that I felt quite horizontal. Maybe I just lean my head, not my body. I don’t know.) What I have to do is ride, ride, ride on the curvy roads near my house, and analyze what my body is doing.