Once again, I am adding to the long list of things I should no longer try at home. Mountain biking. I’m sure on hardpacked trails of . . . say, a mile or so and FLAT, it can be fun, but like many other of life’s activities, there is a fine line between a good time and wishing you were dead. Day before yesterday, I crossed that line.

It was a cool day, no breeze, and both my husband and I had the day off —a combination for disaster, especially the part where we’re both off.

My husband is a thrill-seeker, which means he always looks for trouble. So much so that if there was a king of thrill seeking he would be it. When we go out to have fun, if he doesn’t see the bright lights and hear the dead relatives calling, it hasn’t been a good time. For me, a near death experience in no way enhances my day off, and mostly, that’s due to the possibility of death.

Some people have memories of walks on moonlit beaches. I remember the time we slid down a mountain until tree branches stopped us just short of a cliff. Then there was the offshore trip. We ran into the Pacific Ocean’s version of the perfect storm. Thirty-six hours of screaming winds, raging 30-foot seas while we drifted toward Japan, and I hurled the entire contents of my colon. Ah . . . the good life.

And so we got out the mountain bikes, whose use had pretty much been, up to this point, restricted to city streets (and not ones in the mountains either). Our destination was a lake four miles down a one-lane sand track into the wilderness. Note: the use of the word “sand.” Maybe I should add “dry” sand, very dry, in several long stretches. And the sand was thick, very thick and loose like the kind you walk through up by the dunes and your legs ache. That kind.

It was fun for about the first 15 seconds. I had the thrill of moving and birdsong and dappled shade surrounded me. I felt powerful, and then it started getting hard to move the pedals in a circle, which would also move the tires in a circle and propel me forward.

As my bike wobbled, my husband yelled, “Put it in the lowest gear.”

Besides the fact that I don’t know what that means as I just flip the gears all over the place until it’s easy to pedal, I believed it was in the “lowest gear.” Unless, of course, “lowest” means harder to pedal, and he was trying to kill me.

My legs finally got “warmed up.” They were really burned up, but what with the heavy breathing, and sweat pouring off my person, what’s the difference?

“See? It’s getting easier now,” My husband said, sucking air.

I would’ve responded, but the options were breathe and pedal or speak and fall off bike, which did happen every time the sand got thick enough and the pedals wouldn’t move at all. We actually had to walk. Did you know it takes longer to walk a bike than to simply walk? Scientifically proven.

I would have quit and walked back to the starting point, but my beet-colored husband, sweating like a large piggy in the 90 degree heat, proclaimed he was having fun. Got to the lake, got back and I remember nothing in between. My legs sure do, but they ain’t talking. Ah, good times!

Cohea, a freelance writer, can be reached by e-mailing a37_tao@hotmail.com.