That's Why it's Called "Mountain" Biking

           “I never want to ride a bike again!”

I can’t believe I just said that. Anyone who knows me would never believe that those words could come out of my mouth. After all, I’m the guy who loves riding bicycles more than anyone—the guy who hasn’t owned a car in over six years; who competed in over forty races last year; who’s ridden across the United States, twice. And yet, I just said, “I never want to ride a bike again!” How could I possibly say something so unthinkable? To answer that question, we need only to travel back to earlier this morning.

Snow. I wasn’t expecting to see snow. In fact, if I had to describe the elevation at the Bear Springs Campground, I would probably say—that this time of year—if you were to go any higher, there’s a good chance you’d find snow. This morning, we don’t need to go any higher. There’s snow on the ground and there’s snow in the air—large, wet flakes. It shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. We are on a mountain; and if we were skiing or snowboarding today, the conditions would be ideal. Unfortunately, we are not skiing or snowboarding. Today, we are racing mountain bikes.

In my opinion, the “Bear Springs Trap” cross country mountain bike race is the toughest cycling event of the year. I’ve competed in six-hour mountain bike races that seemed like a walk in the park compared to the “expert” course at Bear Springs. Clocking in at just over 30 miles, the course takes its challengers through a wide range of conditions, ranging from trouble-free gravel roads, to rock gardens so complex that they can only be negotiated by the most skilled of riders. In between, there are steep hills to climb, sharp switchbacks to descend, rivers to cross, and roots and rocks to clear. Situated in the heart of the Mount Hood National Forest, the environment is so untamed that each year the promoter spends weeks in advance clearing the trails of fallen trees and low-hanging branches. And if that isn’t wild enough for you, the trail systems are so vast and convoluted, that if someone was to get lost, it is plausible that they may never be seen again. This truly is “mountain” biking in its purest form.

Just as the race is about to begin, the snow lets up, though the temperature hovers around freezing and the ground is covered with a trace of accumulation. Luckily, over the past couple of years I have invested heavily in cold, wet-weather gear—neoprene boots, rain pants, leggings, waterproof gloves, etc. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring any of that stuff with me today. Luckily, I checked the weather report before leaving my house this morning. Unfortunately, the website I was looking at did not recognize this location and redirected me to the nearest town—Maupin—where the forecast said 50 and cloudy, with the slightest chance of precipitation. Luckily, I grabbed a rain jacket and a pair of lightweight winter gloves just before leaving my house. Unfortunately, the gloves are not waterproof; nor are my shorts, or shoes, or socks, or hat.

The race starts out fine. After five miles, I might even be winning my category. But then we approach the first real climb and I immediately realize that my single speed is not geared correctly for this race. My mechanic warned me of this, but I refused to listen. As the other single speeders fly past me, I quickly decide that I am no longer competing against them—now it’s me against the course.

I hammer down single track, splashing through puddles, mud splattering everywhere. When the trail evolves into a stretch of wet rock, I don’t even attempt to ride it, choosing rather to hop off my bike and scramble across the slippery surface, which in itself proves to be quite challenging while wearing toe-cleats. I mash my pedals uphill—surprised to even make it with my monster gearing—and by the time I reach the aid-station at the top, I’m overheated and need to take my jacket off.

“I can take that to the finish line for you,” a volunteer says to me.

“No thanks,” I say. “I might still need it.” You’d have to be crazy to give up your jacket on this mountain; in these conditions. But the two guys behind me do, along with their gloves.

I shove the jacket in my hydration pack, and fix my seat post, which had slid down considerably during the first half of the race. Then I’m back on the bike—back on the filthy single track—my legs churning away. I’m actually feeling pretty good, relatively strong, even passing riders in other categories. And then it starts to snow again—hard enough to completely cover the tire tracks that came before me. Luckily, I know the course, because otherwise, it would be real easy to think that you went the wrong way. I pass a guy who obviously hasn’t ridden it before. “Are we almost done?” he asks in a voice of despair.

“Not even close,” I have to answer.

I stop to put my jacket back on and think about the guys who gave theirs up earlier in the race. The coat keeps the wet snow from penetrating, but the damage is already done—my body is frigid and I just can’t shake it. My gloves, my hat, my shoes, my socks, my shorts—they’re all soaked through to the bone. I can’t stop thinking about the Boy Scout motto, “Be Prepared.” I’m a goddamn Eagle Scout and I am not prepared. Then I start to recite my favorite saying, “Do you think Lewis and Clark had it this easy?” That’s what I always ask myself, and in the past—fighting the relentless winds of Idaho, the torrential downpours of the Midwest, the terrifying rapids of the Mississippi—it has always worked; it has always helped to get me through the situation. But today it does nothing. “Do you think Lewis and Clark had it this easy?” Yes! I think if Lewis and Clark got caught in the woods during a snowstorm, they would put on warm leather leggings and build themselves a fire. I have no warm leggings and I have no…wait, what’s that…oh my god…it can’t be…it is!

After getting a stick stuck in my shoe, a branch in my eye, and flipping over my handlebars, twice, I come out of the woods and am greeted by some fellow racers who have a raging fire burning at their campsite. I jump off my bike, leaving it right in the middle of the course, and run towards the flames to warm my fingers, which have become so numb that the only proof I have that they actually exist is purely visual.

“What are you doing?” one of the racers says, clearly busting my balls. “You can’t stop during a race.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re not racing.”

“I started the race, but after a few miles I was so cold that I dropped out.”

Normally I would call him a wimp, but today, I think he’s just smart.

I get back on my bike, but my bottom bracket is shot, forcing my pedals to periodically give way, causing my thighs to slam into my handlebars. My mechanic warned me of this, but I refused to listen. The snow turns to a mixture of slush and pouring down rain. Somehow the sun comes out, but the precipitation doesn’t let up. Maybe I’m hallucinating. What is the first sign of hypothermia? Oh, it doesn’t matter. With only a handful of miles left in the race, I’m no longer competing against the course—now it’s me against Mother Nature.

Almost four hours after I start, I finally cross the finish line, the last guy in my category to do so. Usually that isn’t saying much, but today it’s a victory in itself, for 25% of the men registered for my race didn’t even finish, while another 25% didn’t even bother showing up to the start line. This is definitely going to be one of those races that people will reminisce about for years to come—do you remember that one year…

When I get back to our tent, my teammates are all huddled inside their vehicles, the heaters blowing full force. I must look horrible, because the first thing one of them says to me is, “What the hell happened to you?”

“I never want to ride a bike again,” is what comes out of my mouth, but in reality, what’s going through my mind is— I can’t wait until next year!