A Season of Discontent

The road gap is huge.

OK, so maybe it’s not Red Bull Rampage huge, but it is definitely sizeable enough to give me some serious pause. It is significantly larger than anything I have ever attempted to ride before, and I can feel a familiar queasy pit of uncertainty growing in my stomach as I mentally try to calculate how much speed I will need to make the jump. Questions and concerns rattle through my head, staccato and piercing like machine gun fire. Can I roll in and float it, or will it need a few pedal strokes? Do I have to pop off the lip, and if so, how hard? How steep is that tranny? Man, that landing looks awfully tight.

Maybe the guys in the bike films can launch themselves off these things without a moment’s hesitation, but for a mere mortal like me this one is going to need some recon. I pop my helmet off, lean my bike up against a tree, and begin the quick climb down onto the road itself to try and get a better look at the line. The day suddenly feels much cooler than the blazing July sun would lead one to believe, and it’s not just the shade of the forest. I gaze in a somewhat awestruck manner up at the wooden approach ramp towering menacingly over the road below like a cedar-slatted springboard to oblivion, and my palms begin to feel clammy as my eyes trace the perilous arc from the takeoff point to what seems like a very small landing lined with very large, very solid spruce trees. Once. Twice. A third time. It’s sketchy, no doubt. The steep transition on the receiving end of the gap is two, maybe three bike lengths long; loose, loamy, and uncomfortably narrow. As if that weren’t daunting enough, it is followed up immediately by a sharp right hand turn equipped with a berm of rather questionable quality. I shake my head.

This is madness.

Knowing that if I wait much longer I will lose my nerve completely, I clamber back up over the soft, slightly sour-smelling moss of the embankment and turn to take another look at the run-in, hoping that perhaps the space between where the wood ends and the dirt begins has somehow gotten smaller during my ascent. It hasn’t.


I retrieve my bike from its resting place and consider my options. My stomach is beginning to twist itself into something resembling my iPod headphones after they’ve been left in the bottom of a backpack for a week, and my legs are starting to exhibit symptoms of a nervy, anxious feeling that has also decided to manifest itself by sending several beads of cold, uncomfortable sweat dripping slowly down my back. Somewhere in the back of my head, a voice I assume to be that of reason is telling me in no uncertain terms to pay attention to that tangled mess of guts that is currently making my abdomen a very unpleasant place and just ride around the stupid thing.

Then another voice pipes up.

This one has kind of a darker, mischievous edge to it, and sounds a lot like one of the thug-like, acid washed denim-wearing kids from those old junior high school videos about peer pressure:

“Come on man, just do it. Don’t be such a wuss”.

The first voice offers up a rebuttal that seems to be disturbingly heavy on comments about broken bones, blood loss, and trips to the hospital, and the ensuing debate starts to play out like one of those cartoon scenarios between a little angel on my right shoulder and a little devil on the left. I close my eyes and try to block out the argument between the forces of self-preservation and the idea of a rush that promises to blow my mind by concentrating on other things, forcing my thoughts away from the present dilemma and into a place where I can calm myself down and think a little more clearly.

My senses, however, refuse to allow me to leave the realm of mountain biking and instead of being swept away to the imaginary Zen garden I was hoping for, I find myself re-living the rush of the previous run. Dropping in off the access road, feeling my bike float over the root section near the top that almost takes me down every time, and flowing perfectly through the next couple of berms on a sweet peanut butter line that takes me up and around the braking bumps that desecrate the inside of the trail like a gigantic washboard. The next corner comes up fast – too fast – and as I begin to lay the bike over into the turn I worry that I’m carrying way too much speed. It seems that my suspicions are about to be painfully confirmed as my front wheel begins to drift ever so slightly, but the rain that fell earlier in the week has left the soil perfectly tacky and my tires hook up suddenly, unexpectedly, and hold my chosen line so well that I decide to roll the dice a bit and resist the temptation to tap the brakes. The bike accelerates out of the berm like it is on rails, and almost literally throws me out of the turn and along the trail towards a long floater jump that juts out from a natural rise up ahead. I barely have time to make a minor adjustment to my line before I am airborne, my bike rising like a leviathan from the earth as the suspension decompresses and lofts me skyward. I hardly even need to pull up on the bars, just a slight upward pressure to keep the front end from diving, and the wheels level out naturally as I find my center of balance. I am tempted to try and pull the bike up into a tabletop and show a little style to the massive cedars that line both sides of the trail, but there is something so pure and instinctive about the feeling of weightlessness that I am reluctant to do anything to take away from the moment. Instead I let the bike go, almost like it’s on autopilot. I focus on the smooth, dark ribbon of trail leading off into the trees below, and my front tire dips slightly to meet the transition perfectly. As the trail gently catches me and funnels me down a rocky apron and back into the forest, trunks and branches fall in around me and the sensation created by having them whip by in such close proximity makes me suddenly and sharply aware of exactly how fast I am going. Somewhere deep in my thoughts, almost subconsciously, the voice of my inner mother begins to whisper warnings of caution and consequences. I dismiss them equally as quickly, caught up in the immediacy and urgency of the present. My focus is razor sharp, to the point that time seems to melt away as the trail rises and falls in front of me like a scene from a movie. There is no stop-motion trickery in this film though; no coordinated dubstep soundtrack: just the wind howling through the vents of my helmet, the heavy cadence of my breathing, and my heartbeat pounding out a deep, relentless bass line.


My heart is still pounding when I open my eyes once more to find myself still standing beside the trail, hands still gripping the bars, still staring at that damn road gap. The approach ramp almost seems to be mocking me now, staring in me in the face like a dare. Bright yellow signs nailed to the trees on either side only add an element of absurdity to the situation, screaming out their red lettered, bold-type warnings: “Gap Jump”.

Thanks, tips.

I wheel my bike around and head back up the trail, still grappling with the internal conflict of what I am thinking about doing. In fact, why AM I thinking about doing this? This trail wasn’t exactly a picnic to start with; even getting down to this point was a bit of a mess of rocks, roots, and little drops spaced just close enough together to cause some significant grief. The shoulder angel is talking again now; in my head I can almost picture him perched there on the edge of my Leatt brace staring at me disapprovingly. “Is it really worth it, trying something like this? Sure, it would be cool to ride it, but do you want it bad enough to chance sitting out the next few months in a body cast? It’s only July, right? There’s lots of riding left in the season, no need to risk it all now.”

I’m not really sure what the criteria is for deciding once I have climbed far enough back up the trail, but I suddenly realize that whatever it was has been met and I stop and flip my bike back around. I feel something new creeping into my chest; something that feels strangely comforting yet disappointing at the same time. Something that can only be described as resignation, and a kind of grudging acceptance that the little shoulder angel has won the mental rap battle and banished his shoulder devil counterpart back across 8 Mile.

I’m going around.

That’s it. Decision made. I strap my helmet back on, lean into the pedals and start back down the trail, slowly coming to grips with the resolution to skip this one. It’s easy to rationalize, really; I have already accomplished much more this season than I ever expected to, so it should be no big deal passing this up. No need to get in over my head, no need to be stupid. I’m just doing the smart thing, right? Of course I am.

Then why doesn’t this feel like a victory?

The question is still hanging in my mind as I round the next corner and see the wood ramp jutting out into the air above the road, a thin scar skulking off into the trees on the left hand side marking the ride-around route I will take.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, everything seems to slow down.

My view of the surrounding forest becomes unbelievably crisp, like some kind of oversaturated commercial for the latest HDTV. I can see everything in painstaking detail; the texture of the tree trunks, the wispy strands of Spanish moss hanging heavy like unruly beards from the branches around me, the dust particles and insects suspended in the glowing rays of sunlight that filter through the canopy overhead. My focus converges on that wooden ramp with a surprising clarity, as though it is all that matters in the world. It has exactly nineteen slats, and if I had but a moment longer, I am sure I could count the number of nails holding them in place. I exhale heavily, the sound sounding strangely delayed and detached as it rushes through my helmet and back to my ears, and something inside me snaps.

I did not come here to be a spectator.

The trail keeps coming at me; pounding, flowing, relentless, with the base of the ramp now directly ahead. Thirty feet quickly closes to twenty. The diverging path for the ride-around flashes by me on the left, my tires not even hinting in that direction. I am committed now, and my fingers tighten around the grips in anticipation.

Ten feet.

Out on to the wood, with the ground falling away abruptly below and the void rushing up to meet me. I could no longer stop if I wanted to.

Five feet.

My body tenses like a spring as the end of the ramp approaches; arms bent, elbows out, legs poised to catch me from the free fall. The last slat vanishes below my front tire, and for a fleeting moment it seems as though I have ridden off the edge of the world. There is no longer any fear, only focus. It feels as though I am impossibly high up, floating for a precious second in the air with a perfect view of the terrain below me. Every rock, every rut, every root. Although I know full well that I am still in motion, it feels strangely as though time has stalled out, leaving me hanging here in mid-flight to wait for the world to start spinning again. Suddenly I feel my stomach rising, the telltale indicator that my descent is accelerating, and I push the bike out in front of me to prepare for the impact. The front tire dips naturally towards the transition, and my gaze fixates on the point where I expect to touch down. The earth below is the colour of coffee grounds; a deep, rich, black-brown runway of loam and pine needles drawing me deep into the forest floor. I am vaguely aware of the edge of the road passing beneath me, well back of my rear wheel, when I feel my front tire make contact. It comes down harder than I would like, sinking heavily into the dirt and pushing my forks deep into their travel. A split second later the rear tire finds the ground as well, and the movement of the bike’s suspension creates a compression that forces my head down and shoulders forward. Fighting against the G-out, my arms stiffen enough to arrest the forces trying to pitch me over the bars and I am able to find my centre of gravity again as I look up to see the berm looming immediately ahead. What follows is more instinctive than anything else. Resisting the urge to grab the brakes, I cycle the pedals around one half rotation, dropping that outside foot just enough to swing my weight out and over the bike as my hips are drawn into the corner. My right arm straightens as my left hand draws the bars up and in, leaning the bike hard into the curve to let my tires find traction. My left heel skips lightly across the ground and I feel bits of dirt fly up and pelt my back, ripped free of the earth by the rubber knobs that are the only thing keeping me from destruction.


And then, as though it had never happened at all, it is over. The trail straightens out into a wide swath through the forest and my bike rights itself naturally, automatically. Finally, I allow my fingers to squeeze the brake levers and regulate my speed as I slip between the trees like a phantom. Relieved but elated, I exhale again, suddenly realizing that I have been holding my breath the whole time. My mouth fills with the smoky taste of spent adrenaline and I feel incredibly light as the moment releases me from its grasp, euphoric and buzzing. It is only then, as time resumes its normal pace and the pounding drum of my heartbeat begins to subside, that I become aware of a sound that does not belong among the soft murmurings of the trail or the serenity of the mountain side. It is the sound of something alien and electronic; urgent and jarring.

It is the sound of a phone.

I wake up in a tangled mess on the couch, my right arm stiff and asleep from being contorted around to support my neck during my siesta. It appears that there was a blanket on me at some point, but it is now so hopelessly wrapped around my ankles that they are semi-immobile and feel like they have been tied up. I try to blink myself awake, readjusting to my surroundings. The room is illuminated only by the light from the TV, which is softly repeating a 45-second music sequence and displaying the menu screen for “Strength in Numbers”. I have no idea how long I have been sleeping. Somewhere across the room the phone keeps trilling out its insistent alarm, and when I raise my head to locate it I can see snowflakes swirling against the window, falling gently from a darkened evening sky.

It is going to be a long winter.