Skurtzendirt turns timidity into fortitude

I‘m on my way to my annual estrogen fest.

Some people work with children, others feed the poor. My volunteer activity of choice is helping women learn better mountain biking skills. Sure, there are more noble causes, but in eight years of volunteering for Skurtzendirt, I’ve seen women of all ages transform from timid and tentative to strong and confident. I can’t help but think those traits carry over into other parts of their lives as well.

Skurtzendirt is an annual weekend-long event at Farragut State Park in North Idaho. About 100 women from all over the Northwest attend, and it’s entirely run by about 40 volunteers, most of whom are also women. The event includes riding instruction, mechanical workshops, small group rides and catered meals.

Every year when I arrive, I’m astounded that the frantic phone calls and planning meetings over beer and pizza turn into the organized, professional event spread out before me. For the volunteers, the organizational work shares time with our full-time jobs. By day we’re journalists, massage therapists, Forest Service employees and graphic designers. By night, lunch hour and weekend, we’re begging sponsor donations, making copies at Kinko’s and arranging catering.

At Skurtzendirt, the participants are organized into three groups: beginners, intermediates and advanced. I’ve always helped with the beginners, because that’s where you really see the light bulbs going on. As opposed to more experienced riders, who are honing skills, rather than acquiring skills for the first time, many of the beginners have never been off pavement.

Every year, I see the fear and intimidation as they stare down a steep drop or at a log in their path, wondering how they’ll ever negotiate it. And every year, I get a jolt of satisfaction when those nervous faces become delighted smiles when they discover that they can, in fact, do it.

So many women I know who are into the outdoors express discomfort at how heavily they rely on their husbands and boyfriends to take care of them out there. I understand, because in many cases, I do the same thing. In response, I took an avalanche-awareness course because I wanted to start learning how to interpret the safety of the snowpack on my own.

Likewise, if my tire bursts or my chain breaks when I’m miles into a bike ride, thanks to Skurtzendirt, I can fix it myself and keep on going.

Every year, the women who volunteer swap statements of frustration, when we struggle to fit event organization into full-time work days. Inevitably, we make statements like: “This is the last year I’m doing this.”

But every year, some inspirational moment draws us back.

Last year, we watched an older woman named Joy go from being uncomfortable riding on narrow dirt trails Saturday to selecting one of the more challenging group rides Sunday.

Another year, a shy teenage girl won a coveted riding jacket when her “poker ride” hand delivered a full house. On the poker ride, people gather playing cards at several stations throughout the park, then make the best poker hand with the cards. Her smile alone was worth all the hard work.

And there was the year a columnist friend at The Spokesman-Review participated in the beginner group to write a story about her experience. She stalled at a particularly steep drop, growing more nervous the longer she looked at it. But after cheers and encouragement from women down below, she took the plunge and rode down the drop successfully, much to her delight.

And that’s perhaps the thing I love most about this event – it’s totally noncompetitive.

Too many people have been turned away from new sports because of a negative first experience when perhaps they were pushed too hard. Everyone needs to adopt new activities, especially dangerous ones, at their own level. We want participants to challenge themselves, but within their own boundaries. If that means you’re the only one walking down a steep pitch, everyone will support you in that decision.

And maybe next year, you’ll ride it.