Back in the Saddle – Why Giving Up Was Never an Option by Jonas Salamon

It was a picture-perfect day. Bright sun, blue skies, conditions made for riding. I was out with a good friend, but somehow the day felt sluggish. Neither of us was on top form, and the vibe was more mellow than charged. No chasing PRs, no pressure, just an easy ride. But on the last descent, the thought crept in: push once more, end the day on a high. Looking back, maybe not the smartest move. A split second of lost focus, no wild jump, nothing crazy, but that one moment was enough. The crash was heavy, and my arm was broken. Minutes later, I was in a helicopter on the way to the hospital in Zell am See.

With the rotor blades pounding in my ears, only one question filled my head: how long until I’m back on the bike? At the hospital, it quickly became clear I’d need surgery. But what hit me harder than the operation itself were some of the doctors’ words. Mountain biking was too dangerous, they said, I should quit. But to me, that was never an option. Why give up the thing that means so much to me? Right then, I knew – I’ll get back on the bike, no matter how long it takes.

The first months went as planned: physio, training, small steps forward. Before long, I could climb back on a bike – cautious, shaky, but smiling. I was full of hope. That hope didn’t last. The pain grew, and my trust in my arm shrank. Tests brought the bitter truth: one bone hadn’t healed. Instead, a pseudoarthrosis had formed – a “false joint”.

A year after the crash, it was clear: only another major operation could fix it. And the doctors didn’t sugarcoat it – no sport for at least a year afterwards. That hit me hard. The idea of waiting that long again felt worse than the pain itself.

Two more surgeries followed. This time, they took bone from my pelvis to help with the healing. The thought alone – that my body had to recover in two places at once – was mentally crushing. Another hospital stay, more pain, the same question again: will I ever ride again? From the outside, things looked almost normal. Many thought I was back in shape. The reality was pain, setbacks, and doubts. What saved me were friends and staying busy. Without them, it would have been easy to sink into a hole. With them, I managed to make the best of it.

Six months after the second surgery, progress finally showed. For the first time, the doctors were cautiously optimistic – and I felt it too. This time was different. Every small step felt like a huge victory. Mobility returned, the pain eased, and confidence grew. Eight months later – almost two years after the crash – it happened: I was back on the bike. Still shaky, far from strong – but riding. And in that moment, I knew: it was worth it, not giving up.

From there, things picked up. Careful laps turned into longer sessions, insecurity into passion. Bit by bit, I found my way back to the feeling that’s always driven me: freedom, speed, that unstoppable grin after a good descent. It was incredible to be back with friends – riding laps in the mountains, breathing in crisp morning air, and sitting around a campfire in the evening with a beer in hand. That’s what a real bike trip means to me. That’s what I’d missed: not just the riding, but the adventures in the mountains that are finally part of my life again.

Of course, it wasn’t all back to normal yet. I knew I’d need more training and physio to be pain-free again. But the joy of riding was priceless. Funny enough, I didn’t feel much fear of riding itself – the old stoke came back instantly. What I did fear was crashing. It took one or two small spills to show me: yeah, you can crash and walk away fine.

Exactly two years after the accident, I held the final X-ray in my hands. The bones were almost fully healed. That wasn’t just medical proof – it was freedom. From that moment it was clear: I’m back – back on the bike, back in life. Not reckless, but grateful, shaped by the break and the setbacks.

Looking back now, I don’t just see scars, surgeries and doubts. I also see how much friends, patience and discipline mattered. I’ve learned that if you really love something, you can’t just quit. Mountain biking isn’t just a sport for me. It’s freedom, passion, a way of life. And that’s why it’s worth pushing through the hard times – to stand at the start again one day, grinning from ear to ear.