My competitive, well let’s just call it spirit, knows no bounds including limitations of age, gender, or actual capabilities.

So, when my 13-year-old son, Spencer, suggested we go mountain biking I thought why not. Scott was headed off to the nearest truck stop to wash a few of our, um, essentials. We clearly have room for improvement when it comes to packing for camping trips. When did I think I was going to wear white linen pants traipsing through the forest?

With a reluctant younger brother in tow off we went.

The mile walk downhill to get to the park bike rentals and start of trails caused no concern. After all, I am a runner and I used to bike a lot. I have done countless 100-mile (also called Century) bike rides, multi-day charity rides (which included tent camping) biked across the state of Montana (also tent camping) and my honeymoon was a hike and bike trip through Arizona and Utah (again tent camping). Admittedly, those biking adventures were pre-kids but how hard could it be I mean isn’t riding a bike as easy as, well, riding a bike?

After renting our extremely high- tech mountain bikes, look shock absorbers wonder what those are for? My confidence was boosted by the fact that ALL the trails were marked green meaning EASY in terms of difficulty level.

We, of course, set out on the longest trail because, duh, we are competitive.

Hold on, let’s pause here for a brief moment while I catch my breath.

I will give you one guess how mountain biking in Virginia is different than “mountain” biking in Florida. Yep, you guessed it Virginia actually has mountains. Florida has hilly dirt trails with cockroaches the size of Texas (but that’s another story.)

Not half way through the trail my chain derails mostly from me desperately looking for a low enough gear to get my well rounded back end up the mountain.

After fixing the chain and a brief argument with my sons that no I do not need to go back to the bike shop to let the “man” fix my bike (thankfully bike chains, even on high-tech bikes, haven’t changed all that much otherwise I would still be stuck half way up that mountain determined to prove my womanly independence to my teenage sons) I climbed back on my bike covered in bike grease but ready to tackle the mountain. Ten seconds later I stepped off my bike.

Panting and pushing my bike up the hill I glare at my son who had completed the trail and biked back just to “check on me” and managed to push out the words “gym” “when home” “no excuses.”

Finally, at the top of the mountain trail I looked down, way down, no I mean the trail went all the way down the mountain. I no longer wonder what my shock absorbers were for because the path down was riddled with tree roots and rocks. I am terrified. I look at Spencer, who is grinning from ear to ear and quickly attaching his GoPro to capture the descent. Then I look over at Dylan, who shakes his head from side to side to indicate an emphatic NO WAY and quietly begins to walk his bike downhill. I pause for a moment, contemplating my options, but I already know that I am walking down and I know I will regret it.

There was a time that I was fearless. Maybe not the base jumping, cliff diving, adrenaline junkie kind of fearless but the younger me would have flown down that mountain without hesitation. Where did that girl go? Am I really a cliche lost somewhere between diaper changes and braces? Or, is that fear now comes in a different form?

Maybe standing at the top of the mountain what I was really contemplating was the responsibility, along with my husband, of raising two teenage boys, while working my tail off for a career in a non-profit that will hopefully leave the world a little better somewhere in the future, all while carving out family time and maintaining a healthy marriage through financial hardships, career ups and downs and a myriad of other challenges that life throws our way to a backdrop of a constant barrage of news about every disaster imaginable, even in the remotest parts of the planet, all on my smart phone only seconds after happening. Or, maybe I am just a big chicken s#*! afraid of what would happen to my 40ish-year-old body should my descent wind up bottom over tea kettle.

Here’s what I do know. When it comes to my life, I am standing at the top of the mountain, looking down, way down, and without hesitation or contemplation I am holding on for dear life as I fly down the mountain and despite hitting some serious bumps along the way I know I will have no regrets.

Until next time, happy camping.