I spend plenty of time failing. I’m sometimes the slowest, I might jump the lowest or I may be panting away at the back. Generally, it doesn’t bother me, I know I’m not useless; I might be racing against men or riding with pros who’ve been airing ten foot out of a quarter pipe since the age of three. I’ll ride with whoever’s heading out and if I want to race, I’ll race, why not? Coming last isn’t great, but not taking part is worse.
But sometimes it does get to me; there are those bleak moments where I’m puffing and panting my way up a hill, chasing a gang of silky limbed, lycra clad men atop Carbon machines, and I just feel rubbish. ‘Why am I bothering,’ I ponder, ‘why do I put myself in situations where I know full well I’ll struggle?’