How Richie Rude Taught Me the Art of Acceptance

Richie Rude is in town. If you live in Fairfield County, Connecticut, and you're a mountain biker, this is a big deal. Fairfield County is about an hour and twenty minutes drive north of New York city. The streets are narrow, a throwback to the horse and carriage days, and tucked into the hardwoods; charming houses are set on generous amounts of land. It doesn’t offer much in the way of elevation, but it does have a lot of public green space. It's quaint, it's full of history, it's the type of place you'd associate with lacrosse moms and Audis - not EWS World Champions - but it's where Richie Rude comes from.


Last winter, I moved across the continent to live in this small corner of the USA with my now husband. It was a big change for us both. He’d been residing in the front range of Colorado for fifteen years, and I’d been living in Whistler, Canada, for almost ten. We'd spent the last few summers in each other's back yards, enjoying the big mountain country that was on offer to bikers there. Now, here we were in our new home, where the mountains were like rolling hills, and the terrain was notoriously unforgiving. We’d both moved from places that equate to a mountain biker’s heaven, to a mountain biker's blip on the map.

As soon as the winter snowpack was melted, we began checking out the riding in the area. We discovered there was actually quite a lot of terrain to ride, along with a strong little community to go with it. The zones are small, but there are plenty of them, so over the course of summer, we began exploring every nook and cranny. We'd load up the truck and head to a new town, looking forward to getting our tires onto the dirt. "This area is super fun," we'd hear. Or, "You'll love this zone, it has some really fun trails." We'd gear up, roll out, wondering if this would be our new favorite.

Each ride we'd hope for a big, sustained climb, only to be left pedaling in undulating circles. We'd anticipate finding long, flowing descents. We'd look to push our wheels into berms, but the descents were short and the corners flat (or at right angles with no flow). And then there was the devil's work - notorious rock gardens that cursed the landscape with their gnarled and unforgiving teeth. Each time we rode, we came away slightly more deflated. We’d sit in the truck together post-ride and try to be positive:

"Well, that wasn’t so bad." "That one descent was fun." "Yeah, it was ok." Silence...


I took stock: This year I’d ridden in six new states that I would never have ever visited in had I not lived here. I discovered five riding centers, all within a twenty-minute drive from my house - and plenty more beyond those. I’d sessioned four bike parks, crashed in new dirt, camped in new places with my bike, and raced several new venues. I watched a World Cup - almost in my back yard. My bike handling skills had improved, and I’d made new friends. In my "year of disappointment" I had found what most riders are longing for: fresh experiences, and new adventures.