Mountain Biking the City

             We scream down single-track, spin out on dual-track, and hammer through half-track. We bomb down technical, through the gnarl, over babyheads, across washboard. We carve down switchbacks, power up grinders, and walk up grunts. We push over whoop-de-doos and tabletops and tombstones. We panic skid and powerslide and bunny hop. We washout and wipeout and mud dive. Occasionally, we dab or biff or chunder. It’s almost always epic and we’re almost always in the zone. And you’ll never believe where we do all of this.

            We live in the city and we work in the city, so why wouldn’t we mountain bike in the city. I recently heard somebody say that Portland, Oregon would be the perfect city for cyclists if it wasn’t for the lack of mountain biking opportunities. I would normally let a statement like that slide, but it wasn’t the first time the issue has come up. In fact, since moving to Portland five years ago, I’ve witnessed numerous people make similar statements, sometimes even in writing. And every time I hear these complaints, all I can think is, what the hell are these people talking about?

            So, on a sunny Sunday in April, I set out to prove them wrong. I invite thirty of my closest friends for the inaugural “Mountain Biking the City Ride.” My goal is to ride in every off-road bicycle park within the city limits. Five people show up, including myself, and we couldn’t be any different: a warehouse worker who’s afraid to race; a pilot who rides with wild abandon, like he’s behind the controls of a stunt plane; a woman who didn’t take up mountain biking until she was forty; a cycling-obsessed adventure writer who’s looking for his next blog post; and an ex New York City bike messenger who has logged more miles than the rest of us combined. Even the boldest sitcom writer wouldn’t dare put us together in the same room, which is just fine by us, because we don’t much like being inside anyway.

            We head out at the crack of dawn and ride in parks whose names alone convey the majesty of our setting. Names that would make mountain bikers from other region’s mouths water—Mount Tabor, Powell Butte, Forest Park, Riverview. Think about it—mountains and buttes and forests and rivers, all within the city limits. Try telling somebody from Detroit, Michigan, or St. Louis, Missouri, or my hometown of Buffalo, New York, that Portland lacks good mountain biking. Then tell them that Mount Tabor just happens to be a volcano; that you ride mountain bikes on volcanoes.

       

     We don’t just stick to the dirt trails and single tracks of the parks; we ride anything and everything that we can get our tires under. We test our skills on the pump track at Ventura Park, our endurance in the backwoods of Rocky Butte, and our finesse on the short track at Gateway Green. We ride over makeshift jumps and down sets of stairs. We ride on new woodchip trails in old homeless camps. We ride on old slopes of soil in new homeless camps. We take shortcuts down alleyways and detours around construction sites. We marvel at views of Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens, of the downtown skyline and the many bridges across the Willamette River. We lose our veteran along the way due to injury, and then our newbie due to fatigue, but the rest of us ride on, all on single speeds, all grinding out the miles, tired and hungry, but never complaining.

            In the end, we ride just over sixty miles in just under seven hours—not a bad way to spend the day. Even though we take advantage of every mountain bike park in the city (that we know of), after all is said and done, we barely scratch the surface of what’s currently available. But yet, I know that people will still complain. I know that naysayers will argue that there are other cities that are better—cities that always make those yearly lists in the magazines—like Park City, or Bend, or Colorado Springs. Well, I’ve got news for you—those aren’t real cities! They don’t have skyscrapers or professional sports franchises or crime!

             The five of us meet up after the ride to celebrate our accomplishment. We drink craft beers and eat food that we would only think about eating after a hard day of riding.   We compare notes and crack jokes and embellish stories. It may seem funny to think about, but if it wasn’t for mountain biking, none of us would be here right now; we would have never met. Hell, if it wasn’t for mountain biking, there’s a good chance that I might not even be living in this city. I am grateful for mountain biking. And I am grateful for this city. But more than anything, as I look around and see the smiles on my friends’ faces, I am grateful for mountain biking in this city.