My bike struck a rock and began skidding from beneath me. As I attempted to regain my balance, I hit another rock and my bike immediately began falling forward.

Have you guys read my scooter incident story? If you have, you’ll know that I can sometimes be a bit of an adrenaline junkie, even if it doesn’t seem like it. And normally, it doesn’t really pay out for me, because, 99.314159265% of the time, I will crash. 

Well, I found a new situation. This time, a designed hill for mountain bikes, located at a bike park near my house. We pulled up to the park in high spirits. The sound of grinding dirt rang everywhere, and the dust stung my eyes. But I was happy. This would be amazing…or so I thought.

After unloading the bikes, we rode them over to the main gate of the park. Three small, brown, mossy boulders were placed in front of the gate to keep cars out of the main trails. My dad was already grinding some laps around the main edge of the park.

As soon as you enter the gate, you’re met with the dusty, rustic color of dirt. There is absolutely zero concrete. Just mud and rocks. Towards the right are the  three closest bike trails, each getting progressively higher and longer. In the distance, trails as twisted and narrow as black licorice . Further out, the dense tree line creates a thick, green wall around the park. The scent of damp earth flew roughly, mingled with the crispness of the morning breeze. Right after walking, or riding, through the gate, you’re led to an open area which contains a solid map, and a lot of space to regain control after any sharp turns ahead. Yes. This was perfect.

The first few practice runs around some of the smaller runs proved to be easy, and it was evident that we needed some heftier challenge. I prepared to ride the smallest and shortest trail, just to get the final warm-up in.

The first part of the trail features a steep but easy-to-manage hill, which immediately leads into three small jumps, evenly spaced apart. At the end, there is a sharp curve that leads you back to the opening area. At the sides of those three jumps, there are some large, grey, granite rocks, plus more dirt.

I adjusted my helmet, lifted my foot onto the pedal, and pushed off.

The hill gave me some solid speed to go into the jumps with. First jump. My tires hit a rock on the way, but I quickly regained my balance. Second jump. The wind picked dust up and slammed it into my face. Third jump. I was feeling very confident, until I hit the sharp curve. I had no chance. My tires screeched, slid from beneath me, and let me fall straight on my bike. The handlebar jabbed into my left leg, and my right knee landed on the chain.

Although extremely painful, I managed to get up and walk my bike to the opening area.

It turns out that the one sharp curve on that one tiny trail had made countless bikers fall before me, and, as I was about to witness, countless after. It was the single most dangerous part of the park and I had succumbed to it. Luckily, I was not seriously injured.

We next rode gracefully across a rocky path to the back of the park, where the more intense trails are located. There was one hill that led up to the launch area. That was the steepest hill I’ve ever attempted to climb with a bike. The clicking and jolting from the changing of gears could be seemingly heard for miles, as I had to frequently change to keep myself from falling backwards.

After the grueling, narrow trip upwards, we stood on the launch area – a plot of space that could hold up to 20 bikers at once, although they would have to be crammed tighter than sardines in a can. Towards the back was a tall ledge that featured layers of sediment, and some lush, sideways trees. At the front were four trails, which, starting from the right and going to the left, were harder than the last.

What cracked me up, figuratively and soon-to-be-literally, were the names. The first and easiest was a smooth trail named “Small Fries”. I rode this one first and realized that it was a lot of fun. The first part was a narrow hill leading to a nice curve. After a few more rather graceful curves, I was led to a gravel road which I nearly slipped on. Other than that, it was a decently breezy trip, and I was ready for the next trail, “Thin N’ Crispy”.

Unlike its name, this trail was NOT thin, but the sounds from the rocks crunching underneath my bike tires did sound pretty crispy. After a few easy jumps, there was a twisting downhill curve which I surprised myself by clearing (I don’t do well with curves for some reason). This was definitely my favorite trail from the entire day. After climbing the hill again back to the launch area, I was ready for the final trail that I would be riding – “French Fry Taters”.

The trail started with a sheer drop, higher than anything I’d ever faced before. My stomach lurched as my tires left the edge, the wind slamming into my face like a warning. Before I could even process the fall, I was launched into the first massive jump. For a fleeting moment, I felt weightless—majestic, even—soaring through the air. But the second my wheels reconnected with the dirt, everything went wrong.

Both feet slipped from the pedals. Panic clawed at my chest as the next sharp turn rushed toward me. I fought to regain control, barely managing to swerve out of disaster—only to be thrown into another jump. This time, my grip failed. My right hand slipped from the handlebar, leaving me to steer with only my left. The bike wobbled wildly beneath me.

I squeezed the brake, but it was too late. My front tire struck a rock, and in an instant, I was airborne again—but not in the way I wanted. The world flipped upside down as I was flung over the handlebars.

Pain exploded across my back as I crashed onto the jagged rocks. It felt like a thousand needles stabbing through my skin. I leaped up, eager to escape the fiery torment.

Luckily, my Dad was riding right near me when he saw me sprinting, groaning, rubbing my sore back, trying to get rid of the sharp, nagging pain. We then heard another crashing sound, and as we glanced over, we saw that my brother had crashed as well, although not nearly as severe.

I was in too much agony to remember what happened exactly after this, but we walked our bikes back to the beginning of the park.

My brother and my sister continued to ride the smaller trails in the opening area, but I waited. When I regained confidence, I rode up to the small hill. My dad raced me on his bike and jumped onto a trail. I didn’t think much of it at first, but as I was about to push off, I heard my brother exclaim, “He crashed!”

Our trip was officially over. My dad sat on the ground, his face tight with pain, one hand clutching his ribs, the other pressing against the dirt as he tried to steady himself. A groan escaped his lips as he shifted, his breath coming in shallow gasps. My mom and I rushed to his side while my brother retrieved his bike.

“I think I broke a rib,” he muttered, wincing as he tried to stand.

The color drained from my face. This was no ordinary fall—he wasn’t shaking it off like he usually did. And the way he was holding his chest sent a wave of unease through me.

Carefully, we helped him to his feet, but he could barely straighten up without flinching. He moved stiffly, his breathing strained, and for the first time that day, the rush of adrenaline gave way to something else—genuine fear.

The ride home was quiet. My dad, who would normally be making jokes about our crashes, sat still, his jaw clenched. We were all thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it out loud: What if it really was a broken rib? What if it was worse?

Days later, he went for an X-ray, and we braced ourselves for the results. The doctor confirmed that the rib was broken, but it wasn’t too severe. That one dangerous curve had claimed more than just a few scrapes and bruises; it had left us all humbled.

And yet, as I looked back on everything that had happened, I realized just how much worse it could have been. I could have landed on my head instead of my back. My dad could have hit his ribs harder or even lost consciousness. But through every crash, every scrape, and every near disaster, God had been there, watching over us.

We had walked away—shaken, sore, but safe. It wasn’t luck that had kept us from serious injury. It was His protection. And as I thought about that, I knew one thing for certain: No matter how wild or unpredictable life—or mountain biking—could be, God was always in control.

P.S. I actually posted this story once before this, but in the other story, the results came back negative for a broken rib. However, about 30 minutes later, I learned that the results were wrong, and that the rib was broken.