Beginning writers are often advised to “write what you know.” One of the main characters in my new thriller, LIGHTNING, is Adam Barnett, a mountain biker and owner of a mountain-biking store in Defiance, Arizona. Adam’s kind of an average guy, like me, and if he’s passionate about one thing, it’s mountain biking. Again, like me.
My First Experience with Mountain Biking Was a Disaster
The first time I went mountain biking was in Moab, Utah, and I hated it. Moab Utah is Mecca for mountain bikers. People comes from all over the world to do Slickrock Bike Trail, Captain Ahab, and the Whole Enchilada. I had gone to Moab with some of my coworkers from Colorado, and we didn’t do any of those trails. What we did instead was ride at the side of dirt roads so we could get covered in dirt as cars pulling trailers drove past. It was one of the worst experiences of my life.
The last time I had ridden a bike before that trip had been when I had comfortably fit on my Schwinn Red Flyer. That wasn’t a good bike or the right equipment for Moab. I rented a hardtail mountain bike and off we went. The temperature was in the upper 90’s, and we rode at the side of various dirt roads in the middle of the day. The sun cooked us. Sitting perched on my bike, I felt like a slow roasted rotisserie chicken. I didn’t have gloves and didn’t have bike shorts. The seat felt like it was going to cut me in half. My hands ached from gripping the handlebars. Worst of all, I came back to the hotel covered in dirt. I looked and felt like I had worked a construction job without getting paid. Everyone else had had a blast. I told them they were nuts as I spat out dirt.
The next day I turned my bike back into the rental company and not so politely told everyone that while they went “mountain biking” I would go 4-wheeling in my SUV. As they pedaled at the side of the dirt road, I raced past in air-conditioned comfort honking while making sure they literally ate my dust. I swore never to go mountain biking again.
I Had to Be Persuaded to Like This Sport
In the fall following my trip to Moab, my former wife was starting her junior year at Arizona State University. She got tired of walking to class so she bought a mountain bike to get around. She enjoyed it and decided to go biking on some of the nearby trails. Arizona is a great place to mountain bike if you are stupid enough to do so. You can ride year-round without having to deal with snow or rain, and there are literally hundreds of miserable trails to ride within a half hour of Phoenix. She bought a book on the different trails and set off. Her first ride was on Desert Classic at South Mountain. She loved it and told me how much fun she’d had. I sneered at her and told her she was delusional.
She did other trails from the book and, after a few months, asked me to join her. I told her no. She kept badgering me about it, and I grudgingly gave in, mostly because I wanted to show her how I was right and she was wrong and how she must be doing something incorrectly to have so much fun.
The Turning Point
She took me to a bike shop, and I marched in with my list of complaints. I walked out with a full suspension bike, padded bike shorts, padded gloves and a gel saddle. We loaded up our bikes and went to Hawe’s Loop. The ride was a revelation. The trail was a narrow, twisty single-track that snaked over multiple mountains as it made its way down to the Bush Highway. There were no cars to dodge, the bike’s full suspension soaked up the rocks, and I didn’t get covered in dirt. It was also the middle of winter in Phoenix so the weather was absolutely perfect. We finished the ride, and she asked me if I had had fun. I admitted that I had. She asked me if I wanted to do it again. I said I did.
Over the next six months, we rode almost every day. During the week she picked me up from work and we went riding. On weekends, we rod one day and rock-climbed the next. Sometimes we did both. We slowly worked our way through her trail book and eventually made plans for a pilgrimage to Moab. I called my coworkers in Colorado, and we all met in Moab for a three-day weekend.
We rode Slickrock Bike Trail. Slickrock is a nine-mile roller-coaster that winds its way up and down and across a highly eroded sandstone plateau. The ascents will humble even the best of mountain bikers, and the descents leave you questioning your sanity. About a mile from the parking lot, we came upon a pool of blood where someone had crashed and bled. The complaints from my former co-workers soon started. Only my ex and I did the entire trail. Everyone else turned back to ride the familiar dirt roads.
It was the last time I ever rode with them.
Mountain-Biking Has Been a Constant Ever Since
In the twenty years since that trip, I have worked at four different companies, been spun off, acquired, outsourced, insourced, been married twice, had three kids and owned four different houses. I’ve bought six different mountain bikes and ridden, and bled, on some of the most technical trails in the world. I have come face-to-face with bobcats, been divebombed by hawks, hissed at by Gila monsters, rattled at by rattlesnakes, and spotlighted by police helicopters for riding at night. Most of my rides are on black diamond trails, some with warning signs and most without. Hikers stare in astonishment as I ride up the mountains through rocks and then turn around and fly back down as gravity tries its best to kill me.
People ask me all the time why I ride. It is difficult, dangerous, expensive and frequently life-threatening. On cold winter mornings it would be easier to stay in bed. In the middle of the Phoenix summer when the temperature is only slightly less hot than the surface of the sun, I ask myself if I’m crazy. But when I am in the zone and hitting my lines and going up and down trails I have never ridden before, I am reminded that mountain biking, like most things in life, isn’t about the destination but the journey.
And that journey is done best on two wheels.