It had some of the makings of a mythical day. April 11th it was
and the sun was beating down like a fine morning in July. Easter had put the
usual Sunday rhythm a half beat off and I had nothing organized when I rose
and put the pot on the burner. I wasn’t jonesing to ride for some reason
– even after my coffee.
I knew there was a message from James but I figured he was up for some sort
of multi pitched light-bike epic that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with.
Stefano, my RM6 riding brother-in-law rang me up keen to put rubber to dirt
and I decided to try and coordinate the two. Both my companions were ready and
willing to pedal up Grouse so we coordinated an 11 am meet.
New bikes are a wonderful thing. Usually nothing squeaks, ghost
shifts are in the distant future and the excitement of the newly minted bicycle
adds several notches of jazz to the pre-ride anticipation. Or at least that’s
usually the case. On this day, however, I was on my fifth ride on an eagerly
anticipated test bike and we were having a hard time getting acquainted.
Now, please don’t think I’m crying the blues. Having a Specialized
Demo 9 arrive from California is a dream come true. The tricky part, though,
is that I had yet to truly plumb the depths of the Big Hit DH (yes, another
Specialized) that I had spent much of the past year on.
We had grown together and at the end, replete with Roller RS tires and a 5th
Element rear shock, we were smitten. Well, at least I was. I found there was
nothing that bike couldn’t do and I knew how it would perform in every
situation. The Demo felt different and while I held out hope that we would grow
to love each other we remained wary.
Stefano had already parked on Mountain Highway when James and I pulled up in
my ‘89 Volvo and after abbreviated preliminaries, we set off up the fireroad.
I had no illusions about the Demo – it was clearly a downhill bike –
but I was determined to to bend her into an uphill and downhill machine. As
usual, James made me work. I already give away about 2L of lung volume riding
with him and on this day my bike outweighed James’ by at least 13lbs.
Luckily (for me, not Stefano) my brother-in-law was recovering from a nasty
cold and he was suffering far worse than I was.
We didn’t have a plan. As is often the case when we pedal up Fromme, the
itinerary evolved as the switchbacks accumulated. We finally decided to begin
with Upper Oilcan and then rip into Crippler, followed by a traverse of the
Baden-Powell trail to a couple of little-known lines further east.
I had been through a few funky months. Much of what life can throw at you had
been hurled my way in the previous half year. While it hasn’t been entirely
bad, it all conspired to keep me off balance. Not all aspects of my riding suffered
but certain moves – particularly hucks and balance lines above the deck
– had left me. I continued to enjoy the suffering the climb afforded but
the trailhead was as welcome as YVR after a tour of duty in Mogadishu.
The Editor in his natural habitat. Photo David Ferguson
We padded up and then dropped in, my enthusiasm perhaps the lowest
of our trio. Soon, however, I found myself flowing. I hadn’t realized
that I had been struggling against bike and trail recently, but the absence
of that battle on this particular ride made it apparent I had been.
I have ridden Upper Oil Can enough times to know it intimately and there were
spots on the trail where I found myself doing things I hadn’t even considered
before. I was doubling things up, launching where I hadn’t thought of
leaving the ground, and the speed I was carrying allowed me to accomplish things
that had once been beyond the realm of possibility.
When we reached the lower section of the trail, below the U-Turn, the Demo truly
began to sing. I finally began to exploit the technology of the frame and I
ripped down to the fire road far faster than I ever had previously – grin
firmly mounted on chin.
The rest of the day went much the same way and despite the hindrance
of James nipping at my heels on a much smaller bike, I was Feeling The Love
for the first time in a long time. There had been some good days leading up
to this ride, but none that had left me hungry for the next opportunity to put
feet to pedals as this one did.
I began to wonder what had finally got me over the hump and enraged my inner
Orc. The day before, Mark Mayo and I had ridden a steep and hidden epic line,
and I managed to endo before the serious action even began.
Endos come in many forms. There are times when you can go over the bars and
land on all fours unharmed, others when you are flung as if from a catapult
and others still that mimic a cartoon cat slammed to the barn floor by the tail.
The endo in question was the third variety and I was stomped into the roots
from a significant height - with enough energy to make me pause and wonder if
all my appendages were still attached as they were meant to be. My anatomical
inventory completed, I brushed myself off and we continued downward towards
the challenging sections of trail. Everything after that went fairly well and
despite being shaken up I managed to put together most of the lines I had wanted
to best.
As I pushed back to the car I realized that one of the elements that had made
my Easter Sunday ride an epiphany of biblical proportions was my wreck the day
before. I had been riding to avoid crashing rather than to wring maximum enjoyment
out of the trail.
My ass-over-tea-kettle experience had freed me from trepidation and at the same
time I was beginning to find balance on the Demo 9. These factors coupled with
excellent companionship and record high temperatures were just the ingredients
I needed to kick my skittishness in the ass. Happy Easter indeed.
Cam McRae
