I have a question for you at the bottom of this post. But first, I need to come clean about the time I ruined mountain biking for my sons.
The plan
A few years back, I decided it was time to introduce my boys to my passion for mountain biking. I had a plan. A simple plan. A foolproof plan. Or so I thought.
Step one: a couple weeks of lessons with a local MTB coach. Basic skills, mostly on flat ground. Easy. Peasy. Box checked.
Step two: enter them in our local Wednesday night MTB race. All ages, all skill levels, super casual, family vibe. What could possibly go wrong? Worst case, they'd love it toooo much. Right?
The race
Here's what I didn't account for: my boys had never actually ridden a real trail. Having never mountain biked as a kid myself, I failed to realize that wooded trails look very, very different through a child's eyes. Roots become boa constrictors. A gentle downhill becomes a cliff. A slight climb is Everest. And the creek crossing might as well have been a croc-filled Nile.
My oldest (11 at the time) hated the experience. His post-race wide-eyes and disapproving head shake communicated volumes - and none of it good.
My youngest (6 at the time) hated it a bit more. (Writer's note: "a bit" might be a gross understatement.)
Christmas Wishes
When the race was over, my youngest stomped up to my wife. Keep in mind, it's July and Christmas is half a year away.
Red-faced, and pissed, he declared:
"Mom, I wish it was Christmas." (Aww, sweet, right? Wait for it.)
"Why, buddy?"
"Because I'd ask Santa for a new Dad. And he'd HAVE to give it to me."
A new Dad. Ouch. Savage.
Somewhere in the distance, my "Dad of the Year" trophy fell off the shelf and broke into a million tiny pieces.
The long wait
That night, I sufficiently ruined mountain biking for both of my boys. For years afterward, I'd ask if they wanted to give it another shot. My oldest would occasionally acquiesce.
My youngest declined. Every. Time.
My dreams of flying through the woods with both of my boys were over.
Then, just last week…
My youngest (now 11) said yes. We went for a ride together. Real trails. His pace, his choice of lines, zero race plates, loads of encouragement from Dad (That's still me. Turns out Santa doesn’t hand out new Dads).
He smiled the entire ride. And when we finished, he said: "Thanks for taking me mountain biking, Dad. I had fun."
From "I want a new Dad" to "Thanks, Dad."
It took five years, but my heart is full.
Where I went wrong
Looking back, my mistake is obvious: I moved too fast. I tried to skip steps.
Before entering my kids in a race, on a course they'd never seen, I should have taken them on some chill rides. No clock. No crowd. Just dirt, snacks, and fun. Instead, I turned their first date with the sport into a trial by fire.
Here's the thing: I did it out of love. When we love something, we desperately want the people we love to love it too. So we’re prone to rush them. But you can't shortcut your way to loving something. Not a sport. Not a business. Not a fitness journey. Skipping steps doesn't fast-track passion, it flattens it.
And the flip side, which took me five years to learn: sometimes the most important step is the one you're patient enough to wait for.
I should've known better. It took my Dad and me years in a leaky basement before ROAD iD looked anything like a real company. It took me multiple years and loads of training before I was ready to earn the big buckle at Leadville. Nothing worth loving happens on step one.
So, here's my question:
Tell me about a time you moved too fast. A step you skipped that you shouldn't have. In a sport, a goal, a career, a relationship, anything. Or, tell me about your second chance: the thing that finally clicked years after it first went sideways.
And if your story has a redemption arc like mine, don't you dare leave that part out.
Shoot an email to edwardw@roadid.com and let me know. I read every response, and so does our team. I can’t wait to hear from you.
It's Who I Am,
P.S. Proof of the smile. I'd frame this photo if my son wouldn't disown me for it. (Again.)
