Last Saturday I broke my kneecap. I was near the end of the Los Angeles Invitational, a simultaneously non-serious (attitudinally) and serious (difficulty) annual bike ride I've done for a few years in a row. This year it was hot, with no morning marine layer to keep the sun off as we climbed the Chaney Trail to Mt. Wilson. The climb was grueling in the heat, and I could have gladly descended from the first aid station (which featured ceviche and tequila shots). But I was lured by thoughts of the serene interior of the San Gabriel mountains and decided to try the next-longest route option– the "Double Scoop", 56 miles with 7000 feet of climbing. This area, along the Rincon Road that descends from Mt. Wilson Road toward the West Fork of the San Gabriel river, was burned severely in the Bobcat fire in 2020, when the trifecta of pandemic, uprisings, and wildfire smoke made for maybe the most memorable summer of my life. Now a few years later, there are still blackened trunks, but the valleys are filled with resurgent chaparral. It's exceptionally quiet back there - it's far from the Angeles Crest highway so you can't hear engines revving. The fire roads I was riding on were a bit sandy, but I rode on wide, floaty tires. The aid station at the West Fork campground was run by Lowe Lifes, prolific trail builders famous for feeding their volunteers big backcountry meals after work days. I wasn't expecting a hamburger cooked on a flat top in the middle of the forest, but it was welcome in the middle of such a hard ride. I took off my shoes and cooled my legs in the West Fork. Little fish darted around my toes. After a break, I began the climb out – another few thousand feet of elevation to get to the Monrovia Truck Trail where I'd descend into civilization. Rests in the shade were kept short because swarms of biting flies would gather when I stopped. After a few hours of grinding uphill, I reached the apex and descended the smooth fire road for miles. My bike felt planted and confident on the windy but mostly smooth fire road. I looked forward to being done with the ride. Then I crossed a short concrete pad, the kind installed along dirt roads to prevent erosion from small streams. I crossed the trickle of water and leaned into the next turn, and instantly slid out. The smooth concrete, covered with a coating of sandy dust, had almost no friction. I went down fast, directly onto my right knee. I pulled myself to the side of the trail, splashed some water on my scrapes, caught my breath. Other riders stopped, but there wasn't much to do but assess my injuries and make a plan to get out. I had a few more miles of trail left, but it was all downhill. I couldn't pedal, but I could walk a few steps, so I coasted the rest of the route until I met the road and a little ranger's station. I sat down on a bench while I waited for Clare to meet me, and some friends stopped and kept me company. We passed around gummy bears and watched as tough riders who'd done the even longer route zipped past.

My injury could've been worse. I won't need surgery, and I can even put a little weight on my leg, as long as I have the knee immobilized. After a few days in bed, the past few days I got out of the house. I went to a concert and a movie. I can get around on crutches and I'm not really in pain. But I'm sad that I won't be able to hike, or bike, swim, or swing a kettlebell for a while. Especially since I've been glued to the computer for months, prepping our new website for launch. I'd been excited to ease off of screens and be out in the world. After an un-athletic childhood, movement and physical challenge have become increasingly central to my existstance as I get older. Enough so that being out of commission can feel like a profound challenge to my mental health as well as physical.