A friend of mine – who happens to own a bike shop – once told me he doesn’t bother bringing his bike to Telluride because the riding just isn’t worth it. Last week, I headed to Telluride to prove him wrong, and in the process realized my definition of a stellar mountain bike trip is
Tag: mountain bike
Our route planning commenced the same as it usually does. I volunteered a route, Artec responded with zero active listening signs, which annoyed me, so when he suggested a route I intentionally chose not to listen. I drew part of a track I thought looked good, Artec (still not really listening), told me he didn’t
I picked myself up quickly, pedaled hard for a few strokes to gain some speed, and promptly clipped a pedal on a rock and flew over my handlebars – over the exposed edge of the trail – into a thicket of willows. It was like landing on a mattress! I peered over the edge of the willows and said a little prayer to the Goddess of Mountain Biking – it was steep!
My dad and I used to spend the long drives discussing race strategies like, “play opossum for the first few miles,” “put a rascal move on the competition when they don’t expect it,” and, “don’t be a wounded animal when you start to feel tired.”
Tip #1: When you are standing on the trail, and a rider approaches, the polite thing to do is move out of the way – even if the rider is a girl.
“The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn.” – Gloria Steinem
Grassroots mountain bike racing is the shit. No entry fees. No cut off times. No schwag bags filled with a million advertisements that spill all over your car, get stepped on with muddy cleats, and make it even harder to find that one thing you really need just minutes before the start of the race. No hypoxic dudes trying to run you over at the start because you are a woman and–because they are not a woman–they know they must be faster than you. No bizarre rules like”anyone caught peeing in public will be disqualified” or mass starts where you are forced into a conga line and unable to pass for the first three miles.
Sometimes, I roll into mountain bike races–and even trailheads–wondering why I am a part of such an entitled, capitalist-driven, expensive sport. I loathe the sight of gas guzzling SUVs (especially when only one bicycle and one person emerge from the SUV), and camping near shiny RVs the size of an average house (complete with loud
I was in Gallup, New Mexico recently for a mountain bike race, and when a mass of shiny Toyota Tundras with $8,000 mountain bikes in tow descend upon the town, the town’s poverty (by American standards, at least) is pretty apparent. The image of “have” and “have not” is striking: $50,000 trucks and Sprinter vans
Once in the spring, and once in the fall, I ground myself in Northern Arizona’s seasons by riding my bike around the San Francisco Peaks. In the spring, my mind wanders as I ride through tunnels of bright green aspen, meadows dappled with lupine, poppies and Rocky Mountain iris, and views of shrinking snowfields plastered