I never rode a mountain bike before moving to Nicaragua two years ago. Then I rode nothing but a mountain bike for a year. I learned quickly. After a couple weeks of shorter rides, one weekend I rode around Volcan Maderas. It took 3h (I later did it as fast as 1h45m).
The next weekend I rode around Volcan Concepción. It took 4h30m. As I was riding the last kilometer through the village of Mérida I approached a very small ditch. Rather than move 10 feet in either direction I decided to roll right through it. I was tired. My front wheel rolled down one side of the ditch. Just as I was expecting it to roll right up the other side my bike came to a complete stop. Before I could get my feet off the pedals I just fell over sideways.
It didn’t hurt. But there were a lot of locals around, and many people saw this. It wouldn’t have been so bad had there not been a group of half a dozen adolescent boys right in front of me. Of course, they laughed hysterically at the sight of a gringo falling over on a bike.
One of them somehow knew enough broken english to explain to me what had happened: “You fall! You fall! You the fall king! You fall!”
I fell one other time in Nicaragua, under similar circumstances. I reached a steep uphill without enough momentum. I came to a stop, couldn’t put my foot down fast enough and fell over sideways. This fall had a much smaller crowd, thank goodness.
Today I fell while mountain biking. Well I wasn’t actually mountain biking. I was standing still in the gravel parking lot ready to start mountain biking. I had one foot on the pedal, shifted my weight that direction, couldn’t get my foot off the pedal fast enough, and fell over sideways mid-conversation with a friend. This one actually hurt a little bit more than I initially let on. Now my leg is scraped up and my knee is bruised. ¡Que terrible!
I am the fall king.