Wiped out by a flat

Thursday, March 21^st

First, they give me poisonous flowers, then they take me to the home of a diamondback rattler and now it is the shooting range. What is this about? The oldest and I head out for a big MTB ride. He has a trail map that shows the 9-mile route. The shortcut is distinctly marked on the map. We will do half of it—was I not clear?  The route starts on the shooting range. Yes--a shooting range. There are warning signs but the trail map says to ignore them. We head out. There are no other bikers. We ride mostly up and over smooth gullies. We start at 5 pm. I hear a shot to my right and left. The oldest heard it too. The range is open weekends and Wednesday. Today is Thursday. Someone has the days of the week mixed up. Fifty minutes in and I am parched and exhausted. He does not know where we are—neither of us can decipher the map. We bear right into the hills on a single track. We wind up and roll down through undulating gullies. The bikes seesaw in the bottom of each increasingly treacherous dip. I begin to jump off and on the bike repeatedly, biking up half the super-steep hills until I can’t go any further.  We ride narrow slips on the crest of hills banked by loose shale and cacti. The oldest waits for me repeatedly as I walk/run and chicken out along the edge again.  “Keep moving,” I say. The light is fading and we have no idea how hidden we are in the purpling hills. We ride through a narrow wash filled with sharp rocks. I have to concentrate to stay on the single track, keep from spinning out in the loose gravel and repeatedly even out the pedals so they don’t get stuck on jutting side boulders. I work harder. I slip off the bike and the pedal smacks my shin. Searing pain—and a purple souvenir for tomorrow. We ride out of the gulley and up through more undulating hills. I can’t seem to keep on the single track. My bike handling skills are falling apart. I am working so incredibly hard and my son keeps cresting the hills and waiting. I finally reach him and advise him that I must be exhausted because nothing is working for me. Have I bonked? Is it heat exhaustion? “Mom, you have a flat.” I look down and see the front tire is completely flat. We have no repair gear. I spend the last 45 minutes of the ride walking, jogging, pushing, heaving and rolling the bike over and over endless hills. I catch him. “Keep moving,” I repeat. “I’m sorry, mom,” he says. There is nothing we can do. He assures me that he now knows where we are on the trail. The sun is long down; we make our way through the dusk-swaddled hills. At the van, I am not talking. He drives back to the hotel. My husband greets me, “I didn’t know if I was going to have to call Search & Rescue.” I do not respond. I head to the bathtub and inform the family I may not be coming out for the rest of the night. My husband has never seen me so wiped. He delivers some serious lemonade. He makes dinner. I cannot remember a time I have been so beaten. I eat ravenously. I drape my body sideways across an armchair. My feet need rubbing; and, make no mistake, I am smart enough to milk this for everything it is worth. 
By mom.
P.S. The oldest wants it duly noted and on the digital record that he was never lost at any point in time.