SHRED

One of the more aggressive riders I have come across, Steve Romaniuk, properly introduced me to shredding. He uses the term with a certain reverence, as if normal riding and 'shredding' are two different things.

I first met Steve in Whistler, BC. We were milling about the lift line when Dylan Tremblay introduced us amidst the throng. Steve's response to the introduction was pretty much, "Cool, I've heard your name around. Ok, let's go shred." As he said it I happened to overhear another rider nearby greet his friends with, "Let's go ride some runs." I was immediately aware that Steve and I were not going to 'ride some runs.' This other thing, shredding, was our destiny.

Riders attitudes are made clear by their stance on the bike, their clothing, their rate of speed, the way they talk. Following Steve into Dirt Merchant, I noted his Demo 9, his Sombrio clothing, and his goggles. We dove into the little woodsy section at the top of the trail, and Steve immediately nosed the A-frame, got all cacked over the first step down, dropped straight into the small rock booter and railed into the first berm - first run, first moves, already pinned.

Then I became aware only of him pedaling, sprinting, going sky-high off the first two jumps on the trail. I became conscious of his bike laying completely flat as he jumped the first big step up, and his fast, hard landing, followed by aggressive, almost desperate pedaling. I mimicked him, suddenly not riding the trail as smoothly as usual. I was hitting each jump with an angry elated need to not be dropped, and to throw my bike as sideways as possible over each jump. I followed his exact line through corners, our tires carving a tight line before being forced to accelerate. I became aware of myself shredding the trail, of trying to go as fast as I could, of bursting little bubbles of apprehension and timidity that float in the air when adrenaline is being released. In front of me Steve drifts way far on a hip and unearths a small boulder that I barely avoid front tire casing upon my own landing - heart skipping a bit but still pedaling.

On the way back up the hill our chairlift was rocking from our enthusiastic arm motions. "Did you see my table off the big table before the 180 berm? Completely cracked!" Steve is almost irate, describing the run. "Did you see that photographer on the rock hip air before the step up?"

We would hit the deck at the top of the lift and jump on our bikes, pedaling hard and fast towards the entrance of Dirt Merchant, passing riders as we flew along the traverse. The many small hips and high marks along the route fell victim to our rear tires, because 'sick shredders' like us don't just roll the easy route like everyone else. We jump into the bushes and back; we sprint for no reason, and jockey like racing dogs. We were so adrenaline soaked that every small rock and line had to be railed and torn into even before the entrance of the trail.

We rail multiple laps of Dirt Merchant, alternating the lead and yelling at each other between hits - shouting praise for big whips and no handers. I pedal where usually I do not, and as we arrive at the junction of trails where people rest and chat, our crank arms continue to spin and we roost through the crowd as they whoop and holler at us. In the lift line people take long looks at us, perhaps recognizing Steve as the Redbull Rampage competitor or perhaps unconsciously attracted to our ferocious energy.