Mountain Biking

My brother and I used to go mountain biking quite frequently.  There’s really no excuse why we don’t go anymore, except for the fact that we have jobs, family, bad knees, lumbago, arthritis, and just plain old laziness.

Years ago, after he had been riding for a few months, he talked me in to coming along.  I didn’t have a bike yet, so I headed right down to the local Walmart with a pocket full of cash, and bought myself the very best on the market, top of the line, Murray 21 speed Mountain Bike at a whopping $129.  Yes, I have arrived.  Look at me, I am the stuff.  But heed this warning, do not look directly at me and my awesomeness for you may suffer deep feelings of insignificance.

Our first trip out, we hit one of the local trails in Georgia on a hot Saturday morning in June.  It was 400 degrees and rising.  My brother led the way, jumping stumps and logs as I lagged behind, struggling with every rotation of the pedals.  He would ride way out in front, slow down let me catch up, then head way out front again.  Was I that much out of shape?  Was my butt so fat that I was like a parachute in a wind tunnel?  Did I forget and leave my awesomeness in the truck?  I looked behind myself often, certain I was dragging concrete blocks. We finally stopped for a rest and a drink of water from our water bottles.  My brother said “You know…the model of bike you own has a lot to do with the way you ride trails.  That’s probably why I’m staying so far ahead”.  I said something like ‘yeah, whatever’ and starting looking at the details of our bikes.  I’m out of shape but c’mon, did he not see the amazing creation that I was riding?  Mine was the brand new top-o-the-line Murray, in-your-face, high-dollar, solid steel, midnight black, with red racing stripes. (And unbeknown to him, I had removed the basket from the handlebars earlier that morning as not to face ridicule).  His bike was a ridiculously shiny 21 speed Specialized Magnum-Tech, Pro 5000, Built-Ford-Tough, Super Duty, titanium-alloy, extra Special Edition, and it had been personally signed by Lance Armstrong.  It had Shimano racing gears, thumb shifters, run-flat knobby mud tires, 4 water bottles, hidden compartments for snacks, an under-seat tool pouch containing NASA lightweight multi-tools, front and rear shocks, rack and pinion steering, disc brakes, an air cooling system, handlebar mounted GPS racing computer, undercoating, whisper mode, and an invisibility-cloaking device.  Fully loaded with all that stuff, his bike weighed only 7.3 pounds.  Mine weighed more than I did.  His cost $1300 on sale. Mine cost $129 at full price.  Hmmm…Maybe he was on to something.

We rode on several trails around the state and elsewhere, and I soon came to realize, I may have owned the sorriest excuse for a bike, but my brother was the “crasher”.  Every time we rode, without fail, he crashed into something, and it was usually major, with cuts, bruises, and bike damage.  Once on a trail near Athens, we were riding very fast on a downhill section with me about 100 feet behind him.  For some reason, I looked down for a second or two and when I looked up he was completely gone!  Holy crap, he disappeared!  You would be amazed at how many things can go through your mind in a matter of a second.  Where was he? He was just there!  Did aliens abduct him? Had he hit 88 miles per hour and gone into the future?  Hello…McFly? Had his bike reached light speed then ludicrous speed and was now speeding off to another galaxy?  Did the rapture happen and I'm left behind?  Nope, I can't think like that.  Just then, interrupting my stupid imagination, there was a loud crashing sound and I saw dust, dirt, a shoe, and some bike parts fly up in the air. (I learned later that he had leaned right to avoid a briar hanging head high and then totally missed the small wooden trail bridge ahead.)  I slowed, came to a stop on the bridge and looked down at him in the ditch about 10 feet below.  He was lying in a mangled pile of bike, snot, blood, dirt, poison ivy, a dead squirrel, and torn clothing. I climbed in the ditch, helped him out, brushed him off, and since there wasn’t too much damage, we went on our merry way.  Later, we also found out he had busted his new watch his wife had just given him.  Needless to say, trouble ensued.   

For the next couple of months we rode consistently, mainly on Saturdays.  One day we were out on a trail that ended where you had to do a u-turn and travel back the same 7 miles you had just ridden.  We had made the u-turn to head back to the truck, when my feet slipped off the pedals (even though I used toe clips) and I skinned a gash in my ankle.  Apparently, the gears or bearings or something had stripped out around the pedal shaft on my bike.  The pedals just spun around freely not driving the chain sprocket.  It was toast.  Even with the NASA tools, it was impossible to repair out here.  My crappy, un-awesome, cheap bike was now just a large piece of rolling garbage.

So, with bike broken, I angrily pushed it down the trail.  He rode slowly, I walked.  I coasted down hills, we walked.  We ran out of water, got dehydrated, and got desperate.  Luckily, winding along the trail in certain spots, was a large creek.  We got to an area next to the creek, carefully climbed down the 30 ft embankment, and into the shin-deep water.  It was cool and refreshing.  We debated for a few moments on whether to drink out of it or not, but we knew we really didn’t have a choice.  It was either die out here now from dehydration, or die from legionnaire’s disease later.  We picked a spot where the water was moving quickly, filled up our water bottles, clinked them together like champagne glasses, and drank up.  Would this move later prove to be a terrible mistake?  Would, at any moment, my duodenum pop out of my stomach like the alien in the movie and race down the creek to destroy all of mankind?  Oh well, too late now. 

We continued along in the creek for miles pushing our bikes and looking up the 30 ft embankments on each side.

Now, it may have been the water rushing over the rocks, or just the wind in my ears, but suddenly, in the distance, I’m sure I heard a banjo start to play.  When that happened, I started to imagine all kinds of things, and in addition to the creepy banjo, another terror crept in to my mind…snakes. CRAP. We (I) quickly decided that it was high time to get the heck out of the creek and back on the trail…which is much easier to say than do. We had to climb up the steep banks, grab onto some large vines, pull ourselves and our bikes up, and onto the trail again.  Let us recap - his bike 7.3 lbs, my bike 250 lbs.

Later that day, dirty, exhausted, starving, and possibly carrying some new form of kidney-eating bacteria from unclean drinking water, we finally made it back to the truck and headed home.

In the days following the ‘deliverance flashback creek water champagne toast’ (which is what I’m going to name my boat if I ever get one), I sort of expected at any second to experience an uncontrolled, violent, paint-peeling, liver-passing, screaming-like-a-banshee case of Montezuma’s revenge wherein the toilet, the bathroom, and most of that wing of my house would then have to be replaced.  Or maybe some unexplained disease that even Dr. Gregory House couldn't diagnose in an hour.  
But, thank the Lord, neither one of us got sick.

I contemplated never riding again, but I was hooked and it was too much fun to stop.  So, the very next week, I trashed the old crappy Murray in the dumpster behind Walmart, went to the local bike shop and purchased a top of the line Giant Yukon 21 speed mountain bike for $800, that weighed only 7.2 lbs, fully loaded.  Now, I was definitely the stuff that awesomeness wishes it could be.

We rode, and I jumped logs, and I kept up.

Little did we know, this was only the beginning of MANY more trail biking escapades to come.