A Roadie’s Misadventures on the Trails
New joys and new terrors come with wide tires
Last November, my wife and I took a little trip to Moab, Utah. With the help of a babysitter, we took full advantage of the mecca for outdoor sports. One day we did whitewater kayaking, another day we hiked the national park. As a good roadie, I’d brought my shoes and helmet, and was ready to roll when I learned that the next day there would be a gran fondo in town. But the real highlight was when my wife and I rented mountain bikes and went out to shred some trail. It had been years since I’d ridden a mountain bike. Actually, the last time had been about a decade ago when, after flying down a trail on Mount Seymour in Vancouver, I fell and got a big chainring tattoo that is still on my right calf. But in the Utah desert, piloting my first carbon-frame 29er with a dropper post, I felt the joy of mountain biking again. Unlike on the road, there were no banging elbows. No wheels to follow! No looking at the guy’s butt in front of me for three hours. It was a ton of fun.
So of course, when we got back from our trip, I told my wife I wanted a mountain bike for Christmas. She quickly (and accurately) pointed out that I had a full-suspension mountain bike in the basement that I hadn’t touched in years. True, I told her, but it didn’t have a dropper post. It had tragically obsolete 26" wheels. It didn’t have Di2. It was, basically, so hopelessly out of date that I couldn’t ride it. Then she pointed out I was a roadie and lived in Toronto. I had few comebacks for this. Fortunately, she loves me and agreed to indulge my obsession with new bikes. That Christmas it arrived – a Pivot Switchblade with 27.5"-plus tires. It was gorgeous. It was also way too much bike for me.
For three months it sat, shiny and neglected, in our basement while we waited out the winter. Then, as spring broke, I started to play with my new toy. Short rides in local parks were upgraded to thrilling fun in Durham Forest and the Don Valley. It was clear to me that mountain biking was something that I really wasn’t very good at but enjoyed immensely. It was a great mental antidote to intervals and road-riding burn-out and I was loving it. So of course, I decided to ruin it and enter a provincial-level race. How else would I justify the purchase of this ridiculously over-engineered piece of equipment?
Considering I had never done a mountain bike race, much less ridden a mountain bike in years, I decided to get some help so I could “crush” my unsuspecting competitors. I asked Steve Neal of The Cycling Gym to take me for a shakedown lesson on the trails. Steve coached me on such World Cup-level skills as “braking” and “turning” and “not crashing.” He explained the differences with road riding, such as, “There will be trees you need to avoid,” and, “If you sit down when you’re not pedalling, that’s a bad thing.” Seriously though, I learned a lot – like how you always get to the outside of a line, that you need to be in ready position off the saddle if you’re coasting and that you need to swing the bike around obstacles. I learned that I want a bit of torque on the climbs and to exit corners faster than I entered.
Then came race day. When I arrived at Hardwood Hills – where it had been raining for a few hours – a few things led me to believe I wouldn’t be contending for the podium. First, I was the only dude in my event to show up to the race in with a hydration pack and baggy shorts – the equivalent of showing up to the group ride with a stereo attached to the handlebars. Next, as I chatted with some of the riders, they expressed shock that I hadn’t pre-ridden the course. “It’s generally helpful in mountain biking to do so,” one rider deadpanned. Finally, I asked if there would be any technical sections. The rider next to me said, “Well, uh, yeah. This is about the most technical course of the year.” The only good news for me was that the race was about to start in one minute, so I couldn’t wallow in my dread too long. Then the gun went.
The race was, in one word, humbling. I generally know what I am doing in road racing. In mountain biking, I do not. The race is much more akin to cyclocross than road. Uphill sections caused my heart rate to red line. Downhill sections had obstacles that provoked terror. Some maniacal course designer had the gall to place large obstacles in my path, often on singletrack. I was constantly being passed by faster riders. The whole 30–39 age group passed me, then the 40–49. Then the children came. And then they went. At one point, I tried to channel Steve Neal’s teachings and thread the needle between two trees. I was unsuccessful; my bike executed a sudden unplanned deceleration. The brake lever on my bar snapped off. And the final indignity: being told I could not go out for a third lap as the race would soon be ending. I finished dead last, beating only the guy who lay moaning on the course because a tree had impaled him in his crotch. (This is not a joke.)
And yet, it was awesome: the variety, the fun of going over big stupid obstacles, the fun of getting muddy and having people cheer you on. I was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. The spirit of the thing was great. It’s way more family-friendly than road racing (mind you, almost anything is). In the end, it was my only mountain bike race of the year. But I’ll keep on shredding the trails, with my hydration pack on.
“I was unsuccessful; my bike executed a sudden unplanned deceleration.”