Singletrack?!

There is a popular equation in cycling, and it goes like this: Let N represent the number of bicycles you own. What is the value for the number of bicycles you need?

When a friend in our bike club was parting with her mountain bike late last year, I took it for a test ride. The handling, with a front shock, was unfamiliar; so were the shifters. By the time I finished a small loop through the neighborhood, though, it felt like a perfect fit.

The solution for that equation, above? N + 1, of course.

I had been thinking about getting a mountain bike. One could explore more territory, in less time, than on a typical hike. Nice, wide fire roads abound. I had no desire to go bombing down steep trails, sliding over gnarly roots and rocks.

Where to begin?

A few days ago I announced my new steed to a friend who is a mountain biker par excellence. Would she consider teaching me the basics? She pulled out her calendar. Sunday? Game on. [I have the best friends.]

I was nervous. “Don't hurt me,” I pleaded. Herewith, her response for all to see:

@Arastradero, I promise not to:

1. kill you
2. lose you
3. make you feel like toooo much of a newbie
4. make fun of you for being a newbie (well, maybe)
5. make you laugh and enjoy yourself; you'll want to schedule the next “session” :)

Remember that bit about fire roads? She led me straight up the Wild Rye Trail to coach me through my first switchback. [Fire roads are boring, I'm told.] I made it. Then I freaked out. What was I getting myself into?

Clearly I lived to tell this tale, so she delivered on points 1 and 2. On points 3 and 4, well, I was already thinking I needed a big caution triangle: “First time on a mountain bike, stand clear!” If anything, she insisted that I was more skilled than I thought I was.

Which brings us to point 5, and the time I had to stop because we were laughing so hard after I took the (evidently more difficult) inside line downhill on a switchback. “You're a natural!” she exclaimed. [No way. Not me.]

“This is probably steeper than anything you've been on today,” she explained, as we headed back toward the parking lot. “You'll be fine.” Only when we reached the bottom did she reveal that she'd wiped out on that very descent, cracking her helmet and whacking her head hard enough to be carried out by EMTs. On her first time down that hill.

There was a crash today, and it wasn't us, and it wasn't on the trails. As we approached the road, we hung back behind a woman with a stroller and several kids, and a girl on a horse. Don't spook a horse. We heard the unmistakable clatter of a bike skittering on the road, and my friend shot ahead to help. The horse spooked a cyclist, who hit a bump in the road and went down. Cars stopped, cyclists waved to slow traffic. He was shaken, but not broken; his companions congratulated him on falling well. “You'll have to ride home after all,” I joked. “Best way to flush all the adrenaline out of the system,” he smiled.

Quite the workout, it was, for a mere 7 miles ... with 1,040 feet of climbing. Perhaps that was a factor? Just maybe?

Thank you, Ms. T, for coaching me through my first mountain biking excursion!

Nature's Way

I sense a letter theme developing: today I bring you the letter “V” (more or less). And a tree that grew, for years and years; a host for moss and other clinging plants of the damp forest. Until it shattered, falling away from the creek. There it will rest, slowly breaking down, long past the day when I might visit no more.

On a day like today, it can be hard to get the layers right. Jacket, or jacket-plus-arm warmers? I shed the latter, but as soon as we were moving I regretted that decision. Nothing a few more watts of exertion couldn't improve.

At the upper end of Alpine Road, our group gathered in the shade. I decamped to a sunny spot a few yards away, but they stayed put. [Go figure.]

Watching some mountain bikers emerge from the trail at the end of Alpine Road, a fellow rider started spinning tales of doom and danger. To which, at the moment, I was not particularly keen to listen. She mentioned being a nervous descender, afraid of crashing. “Don't focus on that,” I advised. “If you're thinking about crashing, you'll crash,” I offered as I accelerated down the hill. Really. Focus on where the pavement is wet. Focus on the slick grime near the roadside construction. Focus on taking a clean line at a safe speed around a blind corner. Focus on staying upright.

1,939 feet of climbing over 24 miles—enough to tire me out.