Over the Rocks, Through the Sand, Under the Bridges

     Lately I have been finding myself in unusual and wonderful situations:  crunching over hard, sun-baked dirt; grinding the knobs of my tire into dunes of sand like an army of steam-shovels; cranking over rocks and hills and blocks of cement.

     I've been mountain biking.

     Or at least I've been doing something resembling mountain biking.  I think it is more accurate to say I've been seeking out the hidden jewels of urban off-roading.  Suffice to say, I finally bit the bullet and got the final part I needed to make my dad's mountain bike completely ride-worthy.  All I needed was a 9-speed cassette, and I wanted to match the quality level my dad had invested in the bike, so I bought an XT M770 9-speed cassette, 11-32 teeth for those who would care.

XT 9-speed cassette.  Brand new.
Taken December 2, 2013

     But even before that, I ventured out with a coworker and we romped on the back alleys and dirt roads of central Tucson.  This was an enlightening ride, for a few reasons.  I was surprised to find the alley ways of Tucson unpaved and lined by privacy fences.  They were almost inviting, with hardly any evidence of use.  We did not find the broken cars and sketchy figures I was used to seeing down moldy and rotten alley ways.  It was perfect for the burgeoning mountain biker.  That ride set a fire in me that I had to tend to, and I purchased the cassette soon afterwards.

     I inevitably set out on my own rides.  Along the Rillito River Path, a multi-use path running alongside the Rillito "River" in northern Tucson, I found stretches of hard dirt trails, often times running parallel to the paved path, but not uncommonly venturing off into the brush and unknown that lay beyond it.  It was thrilling.  Although there is certainly nothing particularly special about these paths, I felt like I was discovering something hidden and secret.  My excursions out into the underground network of urban dirt trails had began.

Phone-photos of me in the wash of the Rillito River, attempting to find a ride-able path through
the dunes of sand.  I found the passage.  I call it the Shai-hulud.
Taken on January 10, 2014

     Not long into pedaling my way along these little trails tucked under palo verde and mesquite branches, I started to notice something:  I was gripped by fear.  Anything resembling an obstacle suddenly appeared as an insurmountable wall.  It started with small beds of rocks.  My mind was still on my Fuji, and I held my breath as my road bike mind tensed with fear.  Expecting instability, and at worse a wreck, the fat off-road tires rolled over the pitiful obstacles with ease.  Of course.  Duh.  What was I thinking?

     All right, so small rocks are alright.  What about turning my handlebars while on these rocks?

     Wow, that was easy too.  Well what happens when I reach a bigger rock?

     Ok, I was in too high of a gear and couldn't maintain momentum.  So I tried it again, and made it through.  That felt easy.

     What about that obstacle?  Wow, that was a breeze.

A sprig of grass, growing up in the middle of dirt and sand and gravel,
amidst strewn garbage, old dirty mattresses and soiled condoms.  Made me happy to find it.
Taken on January 4, 2014

     I began to realize that mountain biking is, for me, a very tightly packed series of tiny obstacles, with success over each one giving me a small boost in self confidence.  It had been a very, very long time since I had been mountain biking.  I'd done a very small amount in Indiana, but it had been so rare and sparse that I hesitate to "count it."  The last time I'd been mountain biking--real, true mountain biking--had been when we still lived in North Carolina.  The mid and late nineties.  I had still been in elementary school.  My parents were still together.  We didn't have the bike shop anymore, but my dad still rode a lot.  I was just a kid, but my parents had gotten me a Gary Fisher mountain bike.  It'd been so long ago, that I had mostly forgotten the little tips and tricks imparted to me by my parents.

Posing in the driveway.  Gary Fisher mountain bike.  Wish I knew where that was...
Date unknown.

     But out there in the Arizona sun, amidst the cacti and shrubs of the Sonoran Desert, it started to come back to me.  I heard my dad's voice in my head:  "Keep your pedals parallel to the ground when you're coasting downhill, that way you can ride over stuff."  Yes!  And then I remembered my mom's advice:  "Just keep pedaling.  Pedal through the rocks.  Pedal over the log, over the roots.  When you stop pedaling is when you fall."  I was starting to remember.

     So I pedaled over the rocks, through the sand, and under the bridges.  I kept my pedals parallel and rolled over the big stuff.  I got off the pavement and onto the dirt, seeking anything that looked even remotely fun.  Things that scared me at first don't seem like anything now.  I'm still a complete novice, but I come from real mountain bikers, before disk brakes and full suspension and 29 inch wheels; before thirty-gear bikes and tubeless tires and adjustable seatposts.  I'm only going to get better, only going to get more confident.

     Aesthetically I'm still partial to old road bikes.  I like working on them, and I appreciate what they have to offer.  But my passion lies on the dirt, cranking up hills and mountains and zipping back down them.  I'm the son of a mountain biker, after all.

Taken on January 27, 2013