Are You Living It?

Ever join a group mtb ride and look around at your fellow singletrackers and think, Hmm, this is going to hurt … ???

Well, for reasons spiritual and intergalactic, it had been a tough week for me, but with Friday afternoon came the offer to join the fellas for a blast up Junction Creek and around the Dry Fork Loop.

Here is a timeline of the three hour ride:

0 hours, 5 minutes:  Matt Shriver disappears from sight.  Radio reports indicate that he is already nine miles ahead of me.

0 hours, 46 minutes:  I reach the top of Gudy’s Rest, one minute slower than my personal worst.  The other guys have started a book club and Shawn is building a log cabin.  I see something creepy out of the corner of my eye and turn to look.  Someone has fashioned a lifesize replica of me out of wet dirt.  Matt shrugs, “We missed you.”

1 hour, 19 minutes:  While lifting my camelbak tube to my mouth I turn over my shoulder to tell Shawn that I’m choking on my Powerbar.  My front tire jackknifes on a baby head and I fall over into a pile of rocks.

2 hours, 0 minutes: Halfway up the Dry Fork climb to the Colorado Trail intersection, I realize that it’s been more than 15 minutes since any oxygen has reached my brain or extremities.  There is a hazy light coming from the oak brush draw down to my left.  It’s a glistening glade, a veritable Beatrix Potter woodsy wonderland.  There are sprites and wood nymphs dancing around a maypole.  I get off my bike and take off my shoes.  They make tea for me and we talk about the age of Aquarius.

When I wake up Zach is standing over me.  “James, we need to get going, dude.  It’s getting dark.”

2 hours, 55 minutes: I’m descending the Colorado Trail’s tight singletrack, back toward the Junction Creek trailhead.  The ride is almost over.  I feel suddenly invigorated with the breeze in my salt-encrusted face and decide to open it up a bit.  Less than a minute after “opening it up,” I get some air off a perfectly rounded rise in the trail.  My smile contorts to a tooth-bearing grimace of mortal fear as my bike, mid-jump, goes off-camber and I look down to see that I’m hanging in the air, 400 feet above the creek at the bottom of the canyon.  My front tire finally lands back on the hardpack, and I ride that way–front tire rolling along the trail, back tire suspended over certain death–for about fifty feet.

3 hours, 6 minutes:  I’m in full bonk as I arrive at the trailhead where the other guys are waiting.  I know that Jay has dried fruit in his pack because he had time to grow it and package it while waiting for me at the top of the last climb.  I unclip, fake a smile, wait until everyone believes that I’m okay… and then I lunge for him.  Scratching, clawing, and biting–whatever I have to do to get in his backpack.  In the fracas, I bite his water tube in half.

Things get blurry at this point …  I’m wrestled to the ground  … Someone forces a gel pack in my mouth.   My helmet is off and my feet are raised.  Shawn whispers something in my ear.  I feel cool water filling my lungs.  I cough and wheeze, then I swallow.  The sensation of life starts to seep back into my consciousness.  Things are becoming clear again.

Several minutes later we’re on our bikes.  We ride out the road, back toward town, and I pedal hard to get out front.  I’m going to lead this group, even if it’s for 5 minutes on pavement.

By James Schaffer