It’s Raining in the Santa Cruz Mountains, Let’s Ride!
By Christopher Youman 08-Jan-2005
It’s Raining in the Santa Cruz Mountains, Let’s Ride!
The constant heavy drip falls through the trees and onto the hard packed surface as my tires roll over the
wet fallen needles of redwood and cedar. Today’s mountain fog and steady cold showers have kept all but
a few riders away; the only sounds are of breath and water. Lots of water. The moisture-laden treetops
release a steady downstream. Every ravine is swollen with the white rushing flow of moving water. My
pedals crank slowly up a wet incline where the turn ahead lay shrouded in mist. The sound of slow steady
breathing matches the rhythm of water tapping the forest floor. Each tap is blended with the sound of
liquid flowing over leaf, twig or rock; and each turn of the crank matches the sound of labored, steady
respiration. Every turn of the corner offers a new take on water beginning its journey back to the sea.
A brief interlude onto some meandering single-track takes us under the trees where the noise of trickling
rain subsides. Aside from a few slippery roots, forward progress on this trail of mud is steady. The hiatus
ends with an upward sally out of the foliage and back onto the wet fire road of compressed soil and rock.
The sound of rain becomes three-dimensional again as the route climbs upward and around. Sporadic breaks in
the tree line expose nothing but the inside of the huge cloud system that envelops this mountain range today.
The valleys below and peaks beyond are lost in a wet gray that seems to shroud the very edge of the earth.
We come upon an open, flat heli-pad for this remote area. From here several trails emanate like a turnstile
in a railroad yard. Each trail holds its own adventure, but today we decide on the rollercoaster-like Braille
Trail, fashioned several years ago by test riders from the Specialized mountain bike company. The beginning
is marked by a series of rocky downhill zips laden with muddy ruts and running water. The forest gets deep,
and we miss a small herd of wild boar passing in front.
Soon the trail begins its steep and winding descent as it undulates through mature redwood groves. So many
redwoods grow here that a carpet of fine dry needles obscures the hard packed mud on the trail, providing
traction. The route becomes steep without relaxing its curves, ledges or corners. It is so steep that my
wet "V"-brakes work only enough to maintain control, keeping me just on the wrong side of comfort. After
a few stream crossings and fun dips, the trail flattens out for a fleeting moment where I try my luck at
one of the trailside amusements put in place; this one is a flattened redwood plank about 12 feet long
centered like a see-saw over a large stump. Unsure if my tires will grip the slick wood, I roll cautiously
onto the nine-inch wide plank that meets the ground on my side. My forward momentum and uneasy balance
bring me over the fulcrum and the heavy plank begins to groan downward, dropping me gently to the earth
on the other side "whew, made it!" No rest as the trail resumes its winding drop through the steep slopes
that make up the side of the mountain. Redwoods are everywhere. Big, tall Redwood trees. From the trail
one can peek down any slope to spot massive trunks at the ground which are sixty-to-eighty feet below; as
one’s gaze follows those trunks on upward to eye level, there comes an astounding realization that most of
the tree is still above you. Each slope is dotted with hundreds of such trees, leaving you with a sense of
being on a tiny toy bike in a forest of giant trees. As the tires hug the edge of the track, I come to my
senses and regain my balance, avoiding a tumble down one of those steep slopes.
Nearing the bottom of our downward trend, the trail flattens but continues its convoluted path. From a
straight section of hard-packed mud, I approach a sharp bend just before a pyramid of stacked logs. As
I push the crank to get over, the turn reveals just how slick the mud can be. Wham! Before the bike is
pulled from under me, I hit the earth – shoulder, side, hip and face all together – and a long slide ensues.
I lie in amusement and decide not to worry about the mud, relieved that no pain lingers other than my bruised
pride.
The descent is over as a new fire road of packed gravel and mud welcomes me. Thirty minutes of steady
uphill toil is marked again by the familiar sounds of rain patting the forest floor and the steady turn
of the crank. Twelve miles and two hours after we began, we return to our starting point.
- By Christopher Youman
Down in the Dirt - a semi regular
column by Timm Muth
It’s Always an Adventure
So for the last year, Fridays have been reserved for
doing research rides – checking out some place new where
we haven’t splattered ourselves yet, something cool to
include in a book update that we haven’t already ridden
to death. And man, it’s been cool – Coleman Boundary,
Panthertown, Cowee Bald, Caney Fork. But last week, Pie
and Justin were both bugging me about taking the day to
nab some major downhill in Pisgah. I figured what the
heck, I haven’t been on Trace Ridge in 5 or 6 years, and
I need to reride it anyway for the new book edition –
it’ll be fun. So after the typical delays – toddler to
daycare, dead battery in the truck, Justin missing a
crucial swingarm bolt – we managed to get on down the
road, and take the scenic tour up Bent Creek Rd, over the
parkway, and down FS 5000 to the Trace trailhead.
Easy warmup around Wash Creek, then the long haul up
the road, which wasn’t as bad as I remembered. It was
sprinkling a bit, but it felt good. Couple of
root-covered grinders going up Spencer Gap were slick
with the light rain, but still, not all that bad. Then
about ½ mile from the intersection with Trace, it starts
to rain – really rain. Like soaked-to-the-skin-in-30
seconds kinda rain. But hey, Pie’s a tough old lady,
Justin’s a testosterone-laden young lad, and I’ve never
been one to let weather interrupt my fun, so we figured
we’d just ride through it - storms tend to pass quickly
out here. Or at least that was the plan.
We hit the intersection with Trace, and paused to
discuss the merits of hunkering under the rhodies and
working through our trail snacks until the rain eased up.
But Mother Nature, that cranky old broad, seemed to have
other plans. BA-BOOM! Big crack of lightning on one side
of the ridge. BA-BAMM! Bigger crack on the other side of
the ridge. And we realize that we’re standing in the
middle of a lightning storm, soaking wet, straddling big
pieces of metal, way the heck up in the sky. It took
about 5 seconds to reach consensus: let’s trade a snack
break for trying to get out of here alive! So we ground
up that last heinous climb that Trace hands out, and
pitched over the other side – into a nightmare.
Now if you’ve been on Trace Ridge before, you know
what it’s like: warp speed, loose rocks everywhere,
bouncing around so much you can’t hardly focus on the
trail much less a clear line, hands cramping just from
holding on. And that’s on a good day. It’s Pisgah
downhilling at its finest. But now we’ve got cold
blinding rain, a 10-foot roostertail of mud flying off
Pie’s back wheel, lightning dancing all around us, and a
friggin stream running down the center of the trail! My
glasses were a useless mess – not that you could see
anything anyway! Going slow just wasn’t an option, with a
fiery thunderbolt dropping down every minute or so just
to keep us on our way. Tapping the brakes just made you
start sliding, so dropping any speed at all was best
accomplished by riding through the deepest part of the
stream/trail. And Hey! – where the hell did all those
waterbars come from? Ya know, airborne, blind, soaked and
scared is an interesting cocktail to ride on.
I know that it only takes 20 minutes or so to drop
Trace Ridge. But it felt like a lifetime out there –
possibly soon to be a short one. We’d try to group up at
the saddles, just to make sure we were all OK. And every
time, ol’ Mom would lash down with a bolt of fire, as if
to say “Get the hell off my mountain!” And we were in no
position to argue. So it was fumble back into the pedals,
and launch back into the maelstrom, laughing.
When we finally hit the bottom and slid to a stop, the
first thing we saw were 5 or 6 guys huddling under the
trailhead kiosk, whining and trying to stay dry. “Man,
was that some riding or what?” I hollered over at them.
They just glared, sour, prissy looks on their faces, and
one or two mumbled under their breath. Guess they’d
forgotten what drew us out here in the first place. That
we came to ride; that we came to pit ourselves against
the mountain, against Mother Nature. And today, Mom was
flexing a bit of muscle, showing us where we stand in the
grand scheme of things. So they could whine all they
wanted, about bad weather or the stains on their $80
jerseys. But for Pie and Justin and myself, we were just
happy to be alive and riding.
While I stood there in the rain, putting the bikes up,
I realized with a grin that I was a proud and lucky man.
Proud to have a wife and son with cajones enough to brave
the elements in search of a ride. A homegrown crew that
didn’t say, “Oh it’s rainy and yucky out, we want to go
home.” Lucky to be healthy enough to still venture out
onto the mountain, at an age where lots of guys are
trading in riding shoes for tassled loafers. Lucky to be
standing in the middle of a cold, rainstorm, with mud in
my ears and my fingers frozen into handlebar-sized curves.
It was some ugly, ugly riding. But ya know what? It
was an awesome adventure. Not one I’d sit down and plan
out, true – but one we’ll talk about 10 years from now.
And if you gave me the chance, I wouldn’t have traded it
for a sunny day.
Dale Ball Trails - Santa Fe, NM by Chris Y.
It is 7:30 AM on a weekday. The streets of this
quaint, historic town seem strangely wide,as few
commuters or tourists have begun to bustle about. My bike
glides smoothly and quietlythrough the cool morning air
that sits between the adobe walls and storefronts.
Dodging theoccasional vehicle and morning pedestrian
commuter, I make my way up East Palace Avenue,
whichtransforms itself into an established residential
district.
One more mile brings me to theunpaved Cerro Gordo
Road. Then a sharp left gets my heart going a little
faster as the roadbegins to wind upwards toward the
foothills of the Sangre De Christo range on the edge of
SantaFe National Forest. The adobe houses now sit tucked
away in private crevices amongst thehillsides. Another
half-mile brings me to a sharp switchback on this dirt
road and intothe bottom of a dip --- here lies the
trailhead for the Dale Ball Trail system, which
offersmiles of quality, challenging single track within
these foothills.
At 7000 to 8000 feet abovesea level, these routes
offer both physical and technical challenges for the
intermediate toadvanced rider --- and they are fun.
Snaking their way through pinon and juniper covered
hills,the red-flaked granite surface alternates between
shaded corridors of evergreen growth and open,arid
hilltops with views of the high desert Rio Grande Valley
below. The uphill climbs can beslow, heart-pounding work
that run you back and forth between left-handed and
right-handedswitchbacks along a one-to-two-foot-wide
surface with a rocky upward slope on one side and
agradual ledge on the other. The occasional cholla and
prickly pear cactus enhance the elementof risk should you
dump it on the trailside.
Some of the switchbacks are tight---very
tight.Successfully maneuvering these requires
aggressively, but wisely, placing your front wheel inthe
new direction of travel while shifting your momentum
through 180-degrees. This is harderon the way up because
much of your weight needs to be in the rear for traction;
I have beenprecariously balanced as my front wheel barely
kisses the trail and my bike seems to stand stillin the
turn while the push of my legs and the torque of my back
wheel juts me upward and onward,narrowly avoiding a
backwards tumble. As I roll over the top of a rounded
knob, the trailflattens out and the city of Santa Fe
sprawls 1000 feet below.
The heavy strokes of a vulture'swings can be heard in
the quiet, dry air; I look up and his silhouette is
framed by a deep bluesky as he flees my approach. The
trail begins to descend gradually, then faster as it
windsdown another hillside and then back up again. The
downhill runs are tight and undulating.Looking at the
trail surface ahead, I marvel at the contrast between
sun-drenched trail andthe fingery shadows of pine and
juniper branches hanging just overhead. I hear a raven's
callabove and behind me and can almost see him looking
down on this odd mix of flesh and aluminumstreaming along
the trail below. As I blow past a pinon tree that happens
a little too close,I tuck my left shoulder inward and
back, narrowly missing its punch. Then I smile as I catch
awhiff of its fragrant sap. And the ride goes on.
MTB
Haikus by Scott C.
My climbing is smooth, then - CLANK -
the ghost of shifting haunts me to a stop ___
Strange rider behind pulls closer
despite my best time to try spur trail ___
What better time to pause and reflect
on life the chainsuck insists ___
Contact with nature, the doctor
prescribed; yet he
frowns at my scratches
Matt
by Carter Worthington
Jason Matthew Monteith 1972-1999
Matt Monteith was my friend. In my days as
a golf professional, I got to know his dad Larry. Larry
heard me talking about mountain biking one day in the pro
shop and told me that his son was also a mountain biker.
He would be getting out of the Marine Corps in a few
months and that we were very much alike. Larry knew that
we would become friends. Little did I know that my wife
and I were going to inherit a little brother.
On my first day off after Matt got home
from guarding some kind of bomb in Washington state, I
called him, asked him how early he got up in the morning,
and picked him up at 6:00 the next morning to show him
the local trails in Charlotte. I was thinking that I
would wear him out early and get in a good ride in the
afternoon. He had dinner with us that night. We had
ridden Catawba River, Poplar Tent, Renaissance Park, Auto
Doctor, and UNCC. I thought I was in good shape back
then-and I was, but that Semper Fi crap kicked my ass!
Matt, myself and others rode a lot over 3
or 4 years. He was the guy that rode up Clawhammer Rd.,
came back down and rode it again with us. He was the guy
that got drunk at parties and took off his clothes. He
was the guy that melted his shoes after a Friday night
ride on the North Slope and we had to go home Saturday
morning. He was the guy who had to learn to build his own
wheels because of his inability to ride past a drop-in
without trying some new stunt move which many times ended
up with a taco'd wheel. He was a goofball.
One night after Sherry and I moved to
Apex, Matt called to tell us about his trip to Moab, I
was busy so he told Sherry about it and Sherry told him
that I would call him back in a couple of days. A couple
of days later, the phone rang, it was Larry (Matt's dad),
and he told me to sit down. Matt had bought a motorcycle
the day before. I guess he rode it just like he did his
purple Gary Fisher Paragon-fast. It seems that he met a
Suburban at around 120mph, without a helmet.
John, Ike, a friend of Matt's from high
school, and I took Matt's ashes to Catawba River front.
We spread them along the section of woopdee doo's near
the river overlook. Then we rode his goofy ass into the
dirt, just like he always did to us.
I ride with Matt a lot these days. I miss
him, but I've got a lot more riding to do here before we
ride the eternally sweet single-track together again.
Let's ride! Carter Worthington
The
Ultimate Flip Flop by
Laura Mulcahy
Okay, so the other day, I made a decision. I was
100% sure as to the new fate of my old Rocky Mountain
Blizzard. Let me say that in some ways, My Blizzard to me
was the sister I never had. If I was having a bad day, it
knew it and always found a way to cheer me up. Its new
path in life was that it was to be powder coated a new
color and transformed by the local bike shop into a
Single Speed. I came home that night, and dusted it off
to start assessing what parts needed to come off. I
looked it over, and so many memories came back….I
silently told it what my plans were for it and how it was
going to be practically brand new by the time we were
finished with it all. It didn't look happy. It stared
back at me as if to say...please just take me out for one
more ride this weekend the way I am. I can show you that
I am just as good as ever even though I'm a little older,
dirtier, scratched and dinged.
So Saturday, under perfect skies and beautiful
changing foliage, I took it for a ride, an 18 mile ride
through its old stomping grounds of the local trail. And
well, it appears that decision I made has been vetoed
unanimously by both me and my bike. I have not ridden my
hard tail in probably two and a half years, ever since I
got the new and improved Rocky Mountain with the full
suspension. Well, riding this bike made me realize that I
STILL LOVE THIS BIKE. I never realized how much I let the
full suspension bike do all the work and I am just there
for the ride. The old Blizzard made me feel faster, and
more agile and I realized I had to do a lot more standing
going over roots that I normally just glide over without
a thought. And, every time the back almost skidded out,
it was exciting because I thought I'd crash, but then all
those skills I learned a long time ago came tumbling
back, and I'd recover with a smug satisfaction. This ride
can be described in one word-AMAZING.
After the ride was over, I couldn't believe how much
fun I'd had. I also couldn't believe that I had even
considered changing this bike from what it is to some new
fangled Frankenstein of a bike. I realized that this bike
is 7 years old, and she looks 7 years old, and well she
should. Every scratch has a story and every gash a tale.
This bike has taken me on my first (and last) season of
racing including my first (and DEFINITELY LAST) 24 hours
Endurance Race. With this bike I met a lot of good people
and while they may now have moved on, those memories will
always be with me. It dawned on me that what I had
planned to do to this bike was an EXTREME makeover. A
little Botox here, an implant there, some new makeup
& hair and wipe out every ounce of character this
bike had because she's a little rough around the edges
these days. I really hate that show and now all of a
sudden I was buying into it for MY BIKE. I realized that
this could not happen, this was unacceptable. I came home
and told my husband, I love it just the way it is. I
wouldn't change a single thing and I've decided to keep
it exactly as the geared bike that I fell in love with 7
years ago.
I've decided to treat it to some new tires though,
just because I feel guilty for letting her sit around
idle for all these years. Now, let me say, I still have
the Single speed bug gnawing at me to give it a try, but
this bike is not meant to be one. Perhaps I will go back
to looking at that KHS Solo One that keeps catching my
eye. Whatever happens, my Blizzard will always be my
Blizzard no matter how many wrinkles she gets along the
way….
"Just keep riding your bikes. Make
fun of each other, make fun of yourselves. Just keep
riding your bike and have a good time." Zap
