I'm a real mountain biker now. I've got the wounds to prove it.
(I've also got some rather impressive bruises now, but this photo was taken right after I got home, before they had a chance to really bloom).
We were on an afternoon ride at the trail near our house. As I was traveling down a narrow and rocky descent, my front tire slipped off the path. I tried to get it back on, then bailed, as I could tell that bike was going down. I wound up doing a belly flop onto the path. R was out of site, so I got myself up and rode the rest of the way through the narrow section to where he had stopped. I got off my bike, bleeding, and started to tell him what happened. I passed out and fell (towards the descending side of the hill), my bike falling on top of me. R said that my life flashed before his eyes, and he leaped into action, pulling the bike off of me and helping me over to the other, safer side of the path. To me though, one fuzzy moment after I was looking at my bloody knee, I found myself sitting by the side of the path, trying to figure out whether or not R had noticed that I had just experienced some missing time. I'm always trying to play it cool like that.
In any case, R bandaged me up and, after a rest, we were back on our way. Can't just poop out in the middle of nowhere, now can I?