Pain , physically and emotionally, is a four-letter word, literally and figuratively. For most well adjusted individuals, it bears a purely negative meaning , and ranks right up there with the other four-letter words that describe experiences most sane people would not willingly seek out. Pain is a state that average sedentary people try to avoid at all costs. But pain and riding , for better or for worse, are constantly linked together. You’ve got the sharp stabbing kind or the excruciating kind that causes you to scream in agony and visit the ER. Those types are never, never something good.
But the rush of going fast, taking chances and living to see the other side unscathed is nothing to write off. It is a key element of why we get out and pedal. And pain is a crucial factor of this aspect of the ride. An error in judgment at speed or in flight has its own consequences. And the unpleasant results inflicted on your body and the mental and physical scars that remain are harsh reminders of what to do and what not to do.
These hard lessons are only learned one way , and usually involve that aforementioned four-letter word , along with several others I cant mention.
On the other side of pain’s coin, theres the dull ache, the weary depletion of energy felt after a long day in the saddle. Even when you plan to ride to avoid this uncomfortable reality (climbing), pain, being the yin in the yang of pleasure ( descending singletrack ), will still enter the equation. We were planning to shuttle an epic section of trail a few weeks ago. While there was a shorter, more efficient (less painful) way to ride our planned trail, a few of us insisted on riding the 9-mile climb to the top. It just seemed like the right thing to do. After a few hours of hard riding, the long , steady climb in high altitude was the last thing my friend wanted to see. His every pedal stroke felt like wading through wet cement, and with each revolution the urge to curl up under a tree and take a nap grew stronger.
But after reaching the top, the final descent to the cars seemed sweeter ; the post ride conversation and trail-stories seemed richer. What is a ride without pain ? There has to be some discomfort, some good old-fashioned pain, involved in each one, otherwise, its not really a mountain bike ride. And “ride,” after all, is a four-letter word.Inspired by Jim Roff
The cold chill of winter is upon us. Freezing to the bone on the way home from work, I longed for those warm days and nights. Summer has always been my favorite season. When I was a child, I never went on any fancy vacations with the family, but that didn’t put a damper on things. Summer still meant freedom and adventure. It meant being able to ride your bike from dawn to dusk, exploring as much of my little corner of the world as my two wheels could take me. For a few short months, there was no responsibility of classes or homework. It was all about where I was going to pedal next and what I was going to discover when I got there. A time where the Verdugo Hills were my Alps.
As I grew older, my primary mode of transportation changed. Internal combustion stretched the boundaries of my world tenfold. It let me cover ground faster, and see and experience more than I ever could have imagined in my post-training wheel days. But the more intricate the form of transport, the more complicated it becomes. Maintenance, insurance and the cost of operation are necessary evils. And that’s when the simplicity of two wheels, two pedals and one chain came calling again.
Combining a bike with a fossil fuel burning vehicle then became an ideal means of escape, and summer was the best time to put responsibilities on hold for a few weeks and hit the road. Loading up the Hyundai/Mitsubishi Precis hatchback, custom built chicken-wire grill built by my father ,praying with Short-stack , hoping the 4-cylinder box with no air conditioning makes it to Mammoth Mountain. Crammed in the back of the truck cab, Talin's gleaming smile as we headed towards Yosemite. She almost burned down Mammoth itself with a marshmellow fire-ball, hence the big smile. The memories I have of those adventures are some of my most valued possessions. A quest for adventure, armed with bikes, in the companionship of friends old enough to know better yet still young to care, gave me enough adventure stories to break down an entire generation of grandchildren to tears of boredom. The roads to singletrack in Washington , races in Arizona, the legendary trails of Utah and a few detours in Oregon are some of the highlights. Different friends bring different memories.
Lately, it seems like another stage of that cycle has hit. A handful of summers have since passed those daysm and it seems like my friends and I find the road trips fewer and farther between. Like riding your way into racing shape, the career, the relationship, the mortgage require time in the saddle, and we all know that theres only so much of that in a given day.
It may have seemed pathetic, but on my last trip to Mammoth Mountain with the team, I visited some of the same places I went on a previous mountain bike journey couple of years ago with three friends. The landmarks were still there – a fresh coat of paint on the greasy spoon, another owner running the same local shop- different yet the same. It made me realize that another summer will be coming soon, and maybe its not too late to get the band back together one more time. Off-key and a few beats behind isn’t an ideal way to spend a summer, so I wouldn’t recommend it, but whatever you do, make it count.
People think television is the root of all evil, devils creation to brainwash us. Others, to the contrary, think the glowing box is a wonderful source of entertainment and information. Smack dab in the middle of this curve are the people who realize that television isn’t the end-all, be-all, and that it can be both a temple of worship and shining example of blasphemy , depending on the content beamed forth. Personally , I think I fall into the latter category.
I realized there are many more constructive things to do with my time, yet I’m still drawn to the television like those people who crane their necks and slow to a crawl checking out highway wrecks. I have yet to develop the self-discipline to deflect the tractor-beam-like pull of the TV, but at least I feel like I watch “quality” programming. Call it rationalization, or even denial. You can even call it no big deal, since the majority of people in this country are glued to the glowing screens anyway. But the point is that during one of my “quality” television-viewing sessions, I saw something that changed the way I look at biking. It was a documentary in the life of martial arts master and movie star Bruce Lee, call A Warrior’s Journey.
True , I could have spent those two hours actually pedaling instead of vegetating, but in hindsight, I feel it was time well spent. The highlight of the show for me was when Bruce Lee was being interviewed about his theories on fighting techniques. Having studied philosophy in college, Lee had a creative analogy to describe it. He stated that the goal was to be like water, since it has flow, a continuity of movement. Water conforms to the shapes that contain it , and it moves smoothly around or crashes over objects in its path, depending on their shape. It constantly adapts its path to follow the most continuous one.
Although Lee was describing methods for optimizing flying kicks, rapid-fire punches and sparring with opponents, it’s a theory that applies just as naturally to riding. As strange as it sounds, when tackling a tricky rock garden or a tight, boulder-strewn technical turn, imagining how water would flow through the area somehow helps the two wheels beneath me float safely between the jagged granite slabs and carve the proper radius through the next turn.
But for some inexplicable reason, when I think about the ideal application of the water theory, as applied to bikes, I envision a ribbon of perfectly buffed singletrack. I see the rhythm of moving from twist to turn, shifting weight and lean angle from left to right; tire’s side knobs grappling the terra firma, teetering on that razor’s edge between the limit of adhesion and imminent disaster; pumping from apex to apex, momentum pulling me toward the next corner like a big rubber band. Continuity of movement, TV not included.
Inspired by Stickity-Stizle
Riding up to the redlight, I couldn't take my eyes off the brand-new Porsche Turbo 2 in the car lane next me . As I admired the well-polished shine, I thought of an article I'd read recently, flaunting the car's razor-sharp handling and breakneck acceleration. "If only I were driving that car," I thought to myself, $115,000 price tag in mind. As I pulled alongside, I glanced through the jet-black tinted window. The driver, clad in suit and tie, was screaming into his cell phone. I wasn't surprised until our eyes met for a brief moment. Across his face were looks of awe and envy. Here I was, upset with the traffic lights, impatient on getting to my favorite trailhead, irritated with the fact that I had to ride my mountain bike on the asphalt -- and this rich guy was jealous.
The light soon changed and our paths separated. As I made it to my destination, I thought about my morning and my life compared to the businessman's. I was flowing through the hills, screaming down steep descents and around tight singletrack; the guy in the Porsche was most likely still in traffic, still arguing on his phone and dreading another day at work. The mountain bike has given me a deep tan, well-toned legs, a healthy heart, and a stable, sound mind. The businessman's high-paying job has probably rewarded him with high blood pressure, carpal tunnel syndrome and the need for a weekly couch session with a top-dollar psychiatrist. His jealousy became clear: In a way, I was the wealthier. After all, his super-chic Porsche Turbo had to be rounded up, just like all the other cattle, from gate to gate in gridlock traffic.
As cyclists, we've all made a decision. We've made the choice to take care of ourselves and enjoy life. We're portrayed in countless advertisements, from deodorant to pickup trucks. The reason? We represent a healthy, independent lifestyle. The sense of freedom and adventure we experience as we ride is something money can't buy. This feeling can only happen when you swing a leg over the toptube, clip in and take off.
The Good Life
