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Down in the Dirt
by
Timm Muth
A
monthly article by the author of Mountain Biking in North
Carolina. Rants, raves, reviews and chain grease.
Evolutionary Downhilling
June
2003
Mountain biking is a Jekyll and Hyde
sport, with one personality dominating while climbing,
then giving way to another while descending. While
climbing we are plodding, granny-gearing gentlemen and
women. When we reach the top of the mountain and descend
we are transformed into wild-eyed, slobbering beasts. For
Dr. Jekyll, this split personality was a problem. His
rational side feared his animal side and fought to
control it. For mountain bikers, this split is a sign of
progress, a mid-point in the evolutionary process. We are
gradually and necessarily shedding our civilized mind for
a more practical, primitive one.
In order to see how this process takes
place, it is useful to first separate man from mountain.
A mountain, in itself, is neither good nor evil. It does
nothing to help or hurt us. It only provides the means by
which we may do these things to ourselves. Mountains sit
passively by while we carve our joy and frustration into
them. They record our efforts on the trails, which run
like veins on their surfaces. They are monuments to our
fears, follies and foolishness. They force us to see
ourselves as the mad men and women that we are. Mountains
are what they are. It is we that make them out to be
more.
Ever notice that the upside of a mountain
seems infinitely longer than the downside? We round a
turn and think it is the top, only to find that the path
continues on even higher. Our hopes deflate faster than a
punctured tube. We can almost feel our body hissing its
discontent. This is our mind at work. The mind is the
obstacle to getting to the top, not the mountain. When
our legs start to burn, it's our minds that tell us to
quit. The mind's greatest weapon is pain. It focuses our
attention on each and every aching spot. Usually, pain is
a huge preventative. But if we are strong enough to
overcome the pain, the mind must resort to more subtle
techniques. It may remind us of overwhelming hunger and
put pictures of big juicy hamburgers before us. It may
request that we stop and look at the beautiful scenery or
examine the exquisite bark of that tree we just passed.
To reach the top, we must not pause or
ponder and give our minds a chance to wander. We must
simply move our legs up and down and turn our wheels
round and round. This is the time when only sheer
determination pulls us along. Our minds are shunted to
the dark recesses of our skulls and plan terrible
revenges on us at a later date. We don't care. We become
single-celled creatures bent on movement. In this mode,
we climb so high that the air gives way first.
Our work is done and our potential
realized when we reach the top. Every turn of the wheel,
drop of sweat fallen from our brows and foot of elevation
gained adds fuel to the downhill fire. It's as if we
dragged the entire mountain with us and now its whole
mass asserts its force behind us like train cars to the
engine. The pain we suffered gives substance to the joy
we will experience on the way down. The climb gives us
our sense of respect for the mountain and puts our
pleasure into perspective. We have earned our reward.
The top is the transformation point.
This is when killer climber becomes bombardier boy. This
is when the seat of our pants meets the roof of our
mouths. This is when we put fear in our back pockets and
recklessness on our noses. This is when our bike is
liberated from the earth and becomes gravity's flag
bearer. Whoosh is the only sound we hear. This is much
preferable to the sound of our beating hearts or the
sound of spun-out tires and sliding pebbles. Whoosh!!
Down, straight down we go. Brakes are applied just enough
to keep us on track. They may be used to avoid
disfigurement and destruction, but never enough to
tarnish the rush. We must do a thousand things in a
thousandth of the time. We are like Mozart on steroids as
we play a symphony along the bar of the bike. Our steeds
may rattle and shake, but must never bend or break. Our
tires will slide and slip, but never entirely loose their
grip. The downhill is a deliciously dangerous dance that
leaves little margin for error.
The split second decisions and actions
cannot be made by the mind. We must resort to something
much more instinctive. We must let out the animal in us.
We must let it snarl and howl or we have no chance for
survival. Contemplation is for hikers. Bikers don't need
brains. Thinking is great for calculating taxes, but not
so good for finding a way through that boulder field up
ahead. The brain is likely to think, "Hey, this is
dangerous. I don't know if my HMO will cover head
injuries." The animal in us, however, has no such
qualms. It doesn't think; it just does. It propels us
down through the rocks, already looking at the next
obstacle or launching point, and lets the mind sort out
all the boring details. The mind must give way.
Then sooner than a kernel of truth can
become a popcorn of illusion, we are at the bottom. Our
minds assert themselves and give us the damage report. We
lick our wounds and dress them up so they'll look good
for our loved ones. Later, while we are flossing the bugs
from our teeth, we notice that we have a little more hair
on our knuckles and our canines have grown. We smile
broadly because we see that we are indeed evolving.
Hooray for the species!
Old
Dirt
"Bicycles are almost as good as
guitars for meeting girls."
- Bob Weir
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