Family Feud

5:30pm December 18^th I have just finished a pretty amazing ride. It wasn’t long, or particularly grueling. But it was just what I needed. I pasted my legs with a fresh coating of mud, I drenched myself in sweat and I got a good 12 miles of single track in. The weather was perfect, the trails were wacky tacky, and my Zeppelin was working like a champ. Driving home my wife calls to say my parents are going to pop over for a few minutes. What happens next is a complete shock. And before I go on let me back up and give you some background on my father and growing up on a farm.

My dad has owned horses from most of my life. He puts his blood sweat and hard earned cash into all his furry friends. I have grown up with them learned to ride them, feed them saddle and tack them. I know how to clean hove’s, I know which ones are safe to feed with your hands, and I know which ones like to bite. I myself have a fondness for them and regularly visit them at “The Farm” which is about 2 miles from my house. If there is one thing my dad lives for it is riding. He regularly rides his horses on anything from a few hours to multiple day rides. Recently he took a day trip to Douthat state park. A great riding, and hiking location that is open to horse travel about 30 min from the farm. The repercussion of this ride is what greeted me when I walked in the door.

“Me” Hey Dad, Hey Mom……

“Dad” Hey Sprocket Fairy…….

“Me” Oooookay what was that for?.....

”Dad” You bikers are not easy to work with on the trail….

The ensuing conversation was kind of a back and forth about horses and bikers. I could not believe my Dad of all people would act this way. He was a little upset with the action of a MTB rider he met on the trail. Trail edict says bikers yield to horse riders. This is a rule I understand and agree with. Horses are living breathing animals with thoughts and fears. They can easily throw a rider or hurt someone if you spook one. Growing up with horses I have had the pleasure of being thrown multiple times. The smart thing to do as a bike rider is to stop and ask the horse rider what they would like you to do. Stay off the trail, let them pass. Or let them move so you can pass. There are a lot of ways to accomplish this. It is a pain, and it’s something I would rather not have to worry about, but they are entitled to the land just like we are. This particular biker did that. But then continued to harass my father about other issues. My Dad claims he made a debate about the damage a horse does to the trails, the mess a horse leaves behind and how it’s not polite to leave poo on the trail. “Us mountain bikers don’t take a crap on the trail”. I love my Dad very much. I tell him every time I see him. But the way he was attacking mountain biking got to me. First I start telling him how it is a pain to be riding down a trail only to run over a juicy cleveland steemer sitting in the middle of the trail. I have personally gotten horse poo-juice in my mouth. “I am a mouth breather” And it tastes like it smells. It gets on your bike, your clothes and all over everything. All he had to say was this “You have things on your bike called handlebars, use them!” That’s not the point. I don’t think I should have to dodge poo on the trail. You can’t leave dog poo wherever you want, so why is horse poo ok to leave out on the trail? This was a question he was not able to defend. Next I moved onto how his horses destroy the trails I spend so long to help create. After storms I get off my bike, clean away debris. I dig trenches to get standing water off the trail. I throw dirt on low spots, armor the trail and move trees when they fall down. What help do horse owners provide to the trail. I have never seen them out on a work day. And I would know, because I am there. After that rant I started gaining a little ground back on my Dad. I start in on the ever popular weight issue and differences in a bike and a horse. He never really gave up. He still thinks that Bike riders as a whole are hard to deal with but after sitting and talking about this for around an hour, he conceded that there are issues on both sides. I hate to admit that he is right. I think a large amount of the cycling public does not know how to deal with a 1200lb horse. I think even less of the horse riding public know how to deal with “spandex wearing sprocket fairies.” To really put this problem to rest people need to be educated. I think 90% of the riders out there care and respect any trail users. There are going to be a$$holes in any crowd, including mountainbiking. I think this problem stems from a few guys that really resent what horse riding is all about. They confront horse riders and ruin it for the rest of us. I personally try and give them as much courtesy as I can. It does not make up for the lack of respect by some of our 2wheeled brethren, but I think it helps. He agreed that there was the same issue on the horse side as well. I think that this issue like so many other is due to a lack of education, and or understanding. Sure there are some things we both need to work on. In the end my Dad and I were able to hug it out. He offered to bring a horse along for me next time he was out at our local riding spots so I could experience for myself. I told him only if he wears lycra and comes on a “Bike” ride with me. I don’t think he will ever take that ride, but I do think he will be able to deal with these type of situations better. Until we resolve this, or mountain bikers and horse riders have completely separate trails, we need to do our best to get along. So this is my attempt at the start of a new way of thinking. If you read this and disagree with me please let me know. But if you understand, and want to see a change, then treat the horses with respect. Be polite, and take the initiative to promoting education in your area. Imba always knows the right thing to do. Check out their rules of the trail “Specifically number 5” Or check this link out http://www.imba.com/resources/risk-management/shared-trails

Even with education, I still hate riding over fresh horse poop…….

Writers Block

I just spent 9 days on the most epic trip I have ever been a part of. I hung out with my best friends in the world, swapped stories, quoted youtube videos, and ate a lot of food cooked over an open fire. We rode over 130 miles on over 15 trails in 2 states. I took hours of video and spent hours editing and re living the nonsense we captured. So why is it now a few weeks later I can’t put a few simple words on a page to talk about the trip I spent so much energy time and money on? I have been regularly sitting in front of my computer and staring at a blank word document. The rest of my blogs have flown out of my brain and onto the page with no work necessary. Talking and writing about bikes is fun! It’s something I can easily put myself into. So why is it now so hard? I started really putting thought into why I can’t come to describe the epic-ness of my trip.

On any sort of epic trip, or at least the trips I am a part of we always have multiple inside jokes, and stupid little nuances. I have found it hard to translate the fun we have with a stupid phrase or an inside joke to any of the info I have written yet. Our seemingly random banter and ridiculous, constant quotations of “The Honey Badger takes what it wants!” Or accounting the time we ruined Breakfast because we cracked all the eggs into one pot and the last one was rotten inside. Stuff like that does not make for interesting reading. The epic riding and amazing experiences on the trail is what I feel like the public wants. But how do I express how amazing it was without all that BS thrown in the middle? It’s like making a pizza and forgetting all the cheese. The stupid jokes and the random quotes, the inside jokes and the pranks is the cheese that sticks to all the toppings. It binds the trip together. It’s all connected like that really long strand of cheese that refuses to let go.

Don’t get me wrong, I can write about how beautiful the mountains were and the views that go on forever. But I can’t make you feel the gratitude for the people around when I was experiencing it. I can Tell you about how gnarly the whole enchilada was, but I can’t make you feel the thrill of chasing Jerry Hazard down a ridiculous line, surrounded by boulders and a 300ft drop off into the Colorado river. I wanted to express it all so badly, I gave myself a sort of writers block. Every time I started putting words to paper it seemed so empty, and hollow. My words felt like concrete coming out. I wanted to be excited and let the words flow. All they did was get stuck on the way out and block the way for the rest. I kept coming back to all the times we spent around the fire, sharing a meal and talking about the day. The Nicknames we gave each other. How dirty we all got, and how nobody wanted to pay for a shower. That’s where my head was at, and that’s what I wanted to express. So instead of me wasting your time and mine, putting empty words to a page. I wanted to explain myself. On this trip we saw some amazing things. We rode some world famous trails, and cleaned some stuff that we would not normally try. We saw the amazing views, camped in a beautiful landscape, and lived the dirtbag dream for just a few days. But to me all the views and trails were nothing compared to the time with my friends. The stupid jokes and rest is what really made this trip. Contrary to what most people would have you believe. Mountain biking is more than the ride the trail and the bike. For me it’s the little things that make this sport worth sinking all my money and time into. So if you want an account of the epic-ness you need to look elsewhere. You can’t get that from me. I suggest going out and making your own experience. All the little stuff makes the views better, the food tastier, and the memories sweeter. If you still don’t get it……well “I guess you had to be there”

Fall

When I was younger I hated the fall. The long shadows, and the cool wind blowing down the valley always made me feel blue. I hated the fall colors and the stupid back to school sales. All that meant to me was that I would have to go back to school. The thought of sitting indoors on a beautiful day made me sick. Fall in Va always came with a bit of rain. Not enough to ruin any plans but just enough to be annoying. As fall drags on, short sleeves and shorts turn in to flannel and jeans. The wind gets more of a bite, and the days grow way to short. By the time I was home from school, and scrawled down some nonsense as a substitute for my English homework, it would be too dark to do anything. The only thing left for me outside was dead leaves and the low sun in the sky.

Summer used to be the only season that mattered to me. As I get older I can appreciate them all in turn, fall epically. These days I look forward to the cool breeze. I put on my jeans and flannel, and wrench on my bike. I clean the mud that spatters the down tube, and shine up my Airborne after a long refreshing ride. It’s funny how our tastes change over the years. Like a kid who hates his veggies, only to find out how amazing green beans taste with some texas pete. Thoughts of sitting inside on a beautiful day still make me queasy. But now there is much more than dead leaves and a low sun.

Even now 15 years later, my memory can be triggered when I see long shadows, or when the wind blows dead leaves out of the trees. Only now the hate I had for the fall has shrunk away. Kind of like the grinch’s heart. Now that little nugget of hate is kept at bay, with my bike. The long shadows and cool wind of fall no longer make me mad. They refresh me like nothing else can. Ripping through trails you can almost feel the change happening. The air calms the burn in your lungs, and the colors on the trees are better than any HD TV I could be watching. Even the sounds of riding changes. The dirt gets cool and moist from the fall sprinkles that come down the valley. The air seems to flow through the trees easier than the stuffy, hot summer air. The dirt gets tacky in all the right places, and a new dimension opens when wet leaves are added to your favorite corners. Instead of a short sleeved jersey and some baggies, it’s knee warmers and merino wool. The mornings are crisp, and the nights beg for a wood fire. The fall brings out the best in the mountain bike world. Spring may be a time of excitement, new products and brand launches. The trails are clogged with spastic riders itchy from a long winter of frozen night rides. The fall is a trail riders season. A time to enjoy the few rides you have left before the big chill sets in. The leaves may be falling but there is no shortage of beauty on the trails. UCI Dh is done for the season, interbike has crept by and all the gravity parks are planning for winter. We don’t need that stuff in the fall. Mother nature is throwing a party of Her own.

I no longer feel blue when fall blows in. blue jeans and flannel are now a comfort to me instead of a slap in the face. The days are short but sweet. The colors don’t look dead to me anymore. The cool wind is a welcome relief, and the long shadows signal an urgency to enjoy the days to the fullness. Welcome back fall. It’s good to see you again.

The Scene

The scene around my local trails is one mirrored by, trail heads and parking lots all over the Us, and maybe the world. Cars, trucks, mini vans, and work vans. The sport of mountain biking bridges all Genders, races, and ages. Our noble sport does not put limitations on the people that want to be involved. I think the melting pot type attitude is what creates the atmosphere I love so much.

One of the local trail heads I frequent on a multi day basis is called Carvins Cove. Or just “The Cove”. On any given day, rain or shine, hot or cold, you will meet someone at the lot. The salt of the earth come to this location to dawn the lycra, baggies, full face, or XC lid. Maybe it is just the southern hospitality, but on many group rides new people tag on. They may be new to the area, or just passing through. It is always a pleasure to show this Gem of the Blueridge to fresh tires. It’s that hospitality that, on many occasions, has meant the difference in me walking, or riding back to my car. My trails are filled with locals that are willing to give the shirt off their back just to make sure you get the most out of your ride. I had one such experience in my Mountain bike youth. Inexperience and naivety, conspired to create a ride that put me miles away from my car in the dark and without food water or a phone. I must admit I am not proud or that experience, but it is one I have grown from. My saving grace was a very helpful rider by the name of John. I never saw him again, but he saved me a load of trouble. He had some water, a fresh tube, and a light to guide us home. Back at the car, a cold beverage was waiting as well as some advice. “Pack for the worst, and hope for the best”. Words that have been muttered all over through time. They were words that spoke to me and words I have never forgotten. Whenever I am out and pop a tube, or see someone walking back on the trail I always think back to that experience. Because of “John’s” help I try and pay it forward. Spinning up and down the hills on my Airborne, I always keep an eye and a ear out for other riders. Weather it is to help someone our with a trailside fix or just catch up with someone you have lost touch with. That’s what makes our little cross section of humanity so special. And also why we look out for one another. It’s like no other sport I know. We are all in competition with ourselves, but part of a greater whole.

It is the “John’s” of the world that make me appreciate the scene at my local trail heads. The baggies and the lycra mixing. Sharing a post ride beverage, and a word about the day. It does not matter if you ride a Wal-Mart special, or a $5000 carbon race bike. If you are at the Cove, you are welcome. You are part of the scene and the fabric of the mountain community. So Pack for the worst, and hope for the best. Keep an extra trail map in the boot of your car, share that brew with a new friend met in the lot. Jump in your cars, trucks and mini van, and bring the kids with you. It’s the fuel our sport needs to keep it alive. I will see you at the trailhead.

Solitude

Solitude

This is what Wikipedia says about solitude.

Solitude is a state of seclusion or isolation, i.e., lack of contact with people. It may stem from bad relationships, deliberate choice, infectious disease, mental disorders, neurological disorders or circumstances of employment or situation (see castaway).

I count my rides with friends high on my list of important things in my life. If you are not a mountain biker I doubt you will understand the bonds you can form while toiling up a rather ling climb, or the freedom you feel on a adrenalin pumping descent. The bonds go beyond the normal banter of friends, and the curtsy you extend to an acquaintance. It’s important to realize the importance of a ride with friends, and why it makes this sport so important to so many people. But a group ride is not always what you need. Sometimes you need to be alone.

I try to ride more often than not. Many of my rides are accompanied by friends and co workers. It’s something I love to share. But sometimes I need to go at it alone. In the peace and quiet of my own mind. There is something about the ticking of the freehub, and the sound of my tires over loam and roots. The solitude frees me to think, get lost in my own mind and, de compress. This kind of solitude was not inflicted by a bad relationship, infectious disease, or a neurological disorder. It is a self imposed solitude. On the loan rides, I always seem to see more colors, and the air almost smells sweeter. I take the time to look at this creation and really appreciate what I have been given as a playground. Toiling up a long climb. I appreciate the silence and I can focus on my task as I try to beat my personal best. And shredding down the ling descent is not rushed, I can take the time and enjoy the flow. I don’t have to show off or try and hot dog down the mountain. Just get in the grove and enjoy the simple harmony of 2 wheels on dirt.

The solitude of a ride alone is something I had to grow to enjoy. I think it is an important part of a healthy life in the saddle. We all need a little time to unwind, and re connect with the most primal aspects of a ride. I still need my friends, to ride with me. In fact mountain biking would be lost to me without them. The peace of a ride alone will always be an important part of my life. It’s my hard line connection to the sport I love. It keeps my mind fresh, and my rides with meaning. Sometimes I need the solitude just to compete with myself. So pick up that bike, and go out alone. Spend that time with yourself and re connect.

I will leave this blog in the words of one of the greatest authors in the world. Dr seuss.

“I’m afraid that some times you’ll play lonely games too. Games you can’t win ‘cause you’ll play against you. Dr Seuss”

Fear

False evidence appearing real. Or fear. It’s one of those emotions that rules us completely if we let it. If allowed to creep in, fear can turn a great day into your worst nightmare and a seasoned rider into a crybaby in baggies. Without a firm grip, you will most certainly slip into your own head. The only way to battle fear is with confidence.

In my limited experience I have had a lot of confidence with my bike skills. When fear creeps in, all I have to do is pull it out and munch on it like a leftover confidence burrito. But lately fear seems to be a battle I could not overcome. How it crept in, I do not know. But it left a scar on my memory that was near impossible to heal. It was long jagged and was shaped like the road gap at Snowshoe. That gap had eluded me for going on 3 years this summer. Every chance I was given to heal that wound, was met with a fresh pink scar even bigger than the last. My mental block was growing and I had no idea how to stop it. I layed in bed many nights thinking about how it would go down. In my dream, cheers, ticker tape and friends lifting me on their shoulders concluded my successful landing on the dirt. Standing on the lip and looking down on the lander made me laugh as I thought back on that silly dream. Where had my confidence gone? The burrito wasn’t helping, it was giving me heartburn. I am usually the guy that guinea pig's this type of stuff. Every trip down the mountain took me past that jump. And every time I planned on hitting it, only to chicken out at the last second.

My breakthrough came when I was following some friends down the mountain. Three riders that had not ever been to Snowshoe. And before that day had never been on a DH bike. How could I let myself be defeated that easy. How did they master the fear? Then it hit me like a Dio song at the karaoke bar. They were having fun. I had been focused on it, sweating it. I needed to loosen up and relax. “False evidence appearing real”. What is the worst thing that could happen? I was on my TAKA, a bike designed for this. It had carried me down the mountain all day with not a single fail yet. I have the skills, I have done bigger features than this. And most importantly I am here to have fun, not worry about one jump on a trail I have rode 100 times. I just need to break that burrito out of the tin foil wrapper take a big bite and get my confidence back.

On the next trip down the mountain I sent it off the big road gap. The fear was shed. My mental block was gone, and the wound was healed. New skin grew over the spot where once my mind was ripped wide open. I don’t think my three fellow riders, knew what they did for me. But they did it in a big way. I have since tried to look at why fear grips me with some things and not others. It almost always starts with doubt in myself. If I didn’t say that then I would be lying. And if you have not felt it, then you are lying to yourself. I think this is something that comes natural to all us 2 wheeled freaks. Road, XC,DH it does not matter. Fear is a battle we will face from time to time. But a battle we must win if we want to grow. So fill up your confidence tanks. It may be a ride with friends, finally cleaning that climb you have been working on, or simply adding a new part. Save it up for those days fear comes calling, Take a bite and move on.

My addictions.....

When did I get so addicted? Was it that summer at camp? Nah. What about that time I got lost and bonked hard 15 miles from my car? Nope. Could it have been that time I jumped the drainage ditch? Addiction is a nasty to word to most. Alcohol addiction, drug addiction I never had those problems. I got hooked on something different. I have been addicted for the last 10 years, and maybe longer than that now that I think about it. It was never a steady addiction. It would come and go through the years like the season changes. So when did I start this strung out bender? As early as I can remember it started with a old BMX

Insert Wayne’s world flashback

I loved to ride around my neighborhood, and cause trouble with the other hooligans. I had the mandatory BMX bike, no helmet and an attitude. It was great for a while. Then I saw “Gleaming The Cube” with Christian Slater and all thoughts turned to skateboarding. My Bike slowly started it’s long descent into bike heaven. It’s bearing seized, the chrome bits flaked and rusted, and before I could rescue it from it’s slow painful death I had to put it out of it’s misery. Sure the bike had given me some nasty scrapes, numerous pedal bites and a scar from that time I tried to jump the drainage ditch. But that BMX bike and I had some really good memories. Pedaling around the hood, spontaneous ring and runs, oh and that time I got the scar jumping over the drainage ditch.

After the death of my trusty BMX I was burned. The relationships I tried to form with other bikes were not the same. Something was missing. I dabbled in different sports and activities until I got my first mountain bike. A 1999 Gary Fisher Tassajara. It was to small for me, the rim breaks were shot, and it creaked every time I turned the old pedals attached to the creaky BB. It needed a lot of TLC but I was addicted. I rode it everywhere. I took it with me to summer camp, the beach, and anywhere I could find a road or a trail to ride on. That old Tassajara gave me a more than a good time. It started the addiction that I now have today.

I did not know how addicted I would get until I started working at my current job, some years later. Wilderness Adventure was the best thing that could have happened to me at that time in my life. My bike was not getting ridden much. I had put on a tiny bit of weight. “And by tiny, I mean like 50lbs” and I was jaded by the real world. My new job offered me the lifestyle I needed to get fully addicted. I was now in an environment that promoted bikes, working on bikes and teaching people about bikes. I was hooked. And I needed more. Enter my now best friend. I did not know what being obsessed with bikes meant until I met Jake. Maybe obsessed is the wrong word. It was creepy, and strange. But for some reason I wanted to be that guy too. I dragged my wounded Tassajara to Jake so he could work on it. I was spending most of my paychecks to replace everything on a bike that needed to be put out to pasture. Before long I was looking at new bikes and flashy new parts. My own obsession had begun.

50 some pounds lighter and more years that I want to think about later, here I am. My old BMX has been long gone, and the only thing left of my tassajara is the vintage frame on the wall. I am sure the BMX has made it’s way into the worlds of many other kids in various forms. Born again after being melted down for scrap. I hope at least a small part made it back to a bike, or a part of a bike. I have owned many bikes since. Some I have loved, and some I have loathed. I am more obsessed than ever. My friends and relatives think I borders on creepy and strange, but still obsessed. Airborne has allowed me a new way to be obsessed. Not only can I be obsessed with my bike, and what I do to it. But now I am privy to a world I never dreamed. It’s the drug I crave, on a daily basis, and there are no pesky side effects like death to worry about. Us two wheeled junkies from bonds with the machines of our addiction, Like a John Wayne and Dollar or The Loan Ranger and Tonto. The addiction is not only a personal one. It can spread to a group. Drinking the MTB Kool-Aid gets you membership to a support group for your addiction, scars that will bring back fond memories and a revolving need to be out on the trails.

The bike holds great memories of good times with my best friends. The rides that went wrong or the ones that never seemed to end. It shapes my future in the form of trips, and what part I need next. It also quite possibly saved my life. Getting my lard butt out of the easy chair and onto the saddle. It’s the corner stone that some of my best friendships and relationships are built. I have no plans on quitting my drug of choice any time soon. I am sure there will be a time I need to wean myself off it. For now I plan on getting strung out on my bike as much as I can. The addiction grows stronger every time I throw a leg over my 26” delivery system. Now where did I put my helmet?