September 29, 2009

• Mountain biking reflections

  One of a cyclist's favorite pastimes is remembering extraordinary rides of the past.  The best memories are of the most miserable rides with the most hair raising, near disasters.  You will never hear me tell of the lovely, sunny-but-cool day when we rode the manicured trail, and saw a sweet little bunny and some butterflies, and nobody so much as had an unplanned dismount.  Far better fodder lies in the tale of the inclement weather, the startled rattlesnake and the plunge off the precipice.   Oh, here comes one now:

  This epic adventure took place on the world famous Slickrock Trail in Moab, Utah, probably in October when summer's heat has spent itself and the winter's storms haven't quite arrived.  The Rutriders had rented some vacation apartments just a few miles from the trail head which provided a nice warm-up to the ride.  It was a splendid fall morning:  warm sunshine, cool breeze, decorative clouds gracing the distant horizon.  We set out with packs filled to the brim with water, cameras, padded knee guards, snacks and tire repair kits.  We were prepared for anything the trail could throw at us.  

  The Slickrock Trail is laid out on a labyrinth of sandstone, bounded on the west by the city of Moab, on the north by the Colorado River and to the east the La Sal mountains.  The views, mostly ignored by the intrepid cyclist, are breathtaking in every direction.  

  

  Right from the start it's a roller coaster thrill ride as the white paint marks on the sandstone lead you to the brink of a steep drop off. 

  

  It takes a leap of faith to allow your bike to roll over the edge and trust that your tires will find sufficient traction to allow you to navigate the abrupt turn at the bottom.  Only after you commit to the plunge do you realize a) there's nothing but air beyond that next turn in the trail if you don't make it, and b) there's fly-paper traction and you can do no wrong.  Clearing the turn, your relief is short lived.  The next descent is shorter but steeper and is followed by a treacherous off camber climb that requires some momentum to clear.  The penalty for failure is at best serious loss of skin and at worst, well, it's better not to think about it.  Eventually, what goes down must go up, so the impossibly steep climb begins.  From the base of the great slab of stone the riders at the top look like miniatures and even in granny gear, it seems unlikely that I'll be able to grind to the top.  Amazingly, by hanging waaay out over the bars, I was able to keep the front end on the ground and with sandpaper-like traction there was no excuse to quit.  Besides, trying to step off the bike on a slope that steep, in steel cleated shoes, isn't much of an option.  Gasping for air so hard I was sucking up gravel off the trail, I crested the top to the cheers of my fellow riders.  

  Our group consisted of riders of various levels of fitness and ability so we stopped to regroup frequently.  The stronger riders, the racer guys, took a side trail out to an overlook while we half-fast riders continued on the main trail, knowing that it would take all our energy just to complete the loop.  The morning breeze had gained some strength and the aforementioned decorative clouds were darkening as they rolled towards the mesa.  I made an observation that we might want to pick up the pace if we didn't want to get caught in a shower but we couldn't resist stopping for photos and some of us were already getting a bit tired.  What's the worst that could happen?  We had all been wet before and none of us had melted.  Well there was that one oddly green girl, Elphaba...

  Rumblings of thunder intruded upon our happy thoughts and the prospect of lightning on this exposed piece of real estate lent some wings to our pedals.  The guys, caught up with us and in an act of pure altruism, volunteered to abandon us, I mean volunteered to ride on ahead to go back to the apartment to get vehicles in which to pick us up at the trail head.  We waved cheerily as they sped from view, leaving our motley crew to struggle against the now howling wind.  One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, we counted between the flash of lightning and the clap of thunder, racing down one ridge and spinning furiously up the next, gusts of wind nearly toppling us as we crested yet another ridge.  One one thou  BOOM!!!  a bolt of lightning smashed into the hill so close we imagined we felt the earth move.  As one, we abandoned our precious steeds where they fell and bolted into the nearest ravine.  Hearts pounding from terror and exertion, we giggled nervously as we huddled in the lee of a sandstone ledge.  For the record, Don Boon, the only male left in our group, did not giggle. 

  The rain came hard on the heels of the frontal wind.  Huge, frigid drops pelted our now cooling and scantily clad bodies.  We crawled farther back into the sandy crevice under the ledge, fervently hoping that any venomous residents would tolerate the intrusion.  Water began to trickle down the lip of the ledge.  We snuggled deeper into the alcove.  Soon a stream of water was pouring off the ledge illustrating quite graphically just how this little gully had been formed.  We needn't have worried about anything with any sense living in our shelter because it became obvious that there wasn't a dry spot to be found after a few minutes of precipitation.  At length (seemed long at the time) the storm passed and we climbed back onto our patiently waiting bikes.  We were shivering so hard we could hardly steer and our glasses were mud splattered so we couldn't see where we were going but go we did. 

  By the time we reached the parking lot at the trail head the guys were there with the trucks.  Mike had gone to Main Street Grill and picked up a black bean burger and had brought me a dry towel.  What a guy! 

  

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