NSMB.e.MAGAZINE - Freeride, Extreme and North Shore style Mountain Biking

I’m jet-lagged but fueled by countless cups of bad airplane coffee and racing down a dry jungle-framed creek-bed littered with baby heads the size of frozen turkeys when I hear Simmons yell “Gap! Dave, pedal man!” I mash on the cranks and suddenly find myself flying over a chunk of dried Costa Rican riverbed that had somehow managed to sneak up on the Godfather and I. When my wheels touch down I have a huge grin that will seldom leave my face for the next several days. When we get to the bottom of the trail we find our driver, Nene waiting to load our bikes onto the van that I would call home for the days to come. Seeing the smile on my face, Wade asks what I thought of the trail and I look him square in the eye and I truthfully tell him - “I pretty much had a perfect run. Christ, I feel like I lost weight and just got laid”. He just laughs and says that it’s the first day and asks “where do you go from here?” I solemnly answer back at him, “wherever Nene’s driving man, wherever Nene’s driving.”

Just twelve hours earlier I had been sitting in my seat waiting to taxi onto the runway when a little voice erupted into song in front of me - “ Cellllllll-ahhh-brate good times, c’mon! Let’s celebrate! It’s a celebration!” Kool & the Gang never sounded so good to my ears as when sung by a 5 year old without a care in the world. When the laughter from the other passengers died down the flight attendant asked the little girl “What are you celebrating?” The answer was a very self-impressed “I’m going to Disneyland! “ I thought to myself with a smile – so am I kid, so am I. I was finally on my way to Costa Rica.

Costa Rica is the stuff of story in Vancouver thanks to travelers returning with tales of white sand beaches, affordable living, legendary surf and epic DH thanks to the efforts of Big Mountain Bike Adventures. Big Mountain is the brainchild of Chris Winter, a Vancouver based rider/entrepreneur who has been working as a guide with his parents’ company, Cycleventures since he was tall enough for his feet to reach the pedals. A few years ago Chris transferred the lessons learned from 30 years of touring Europe with his parents to the world of DH and Big Mountain was born. Under Chris’ direction, Big Mountain established tours throughout Europe before branching out into Costa Rica with the help of Paulo Valle. Paulo may be helplessly bad judging distance but he’s a former Costa Rican national cross-country and DH champion and my guide for the next week along with the Godfather of ‘fro, Wade Simmons.

Pura Vida translated means the pure life and it was in the air from the moment I got off the plane in San Jose. It's used as a greeting, a goodbye, a thank you, a toast, or just about anything else but as I type this it conjures up images of ripping down virgin jungle trails with bits of loam roosting off my rear tire while the hoots and hollers of my riding buddies fill the air. Everyone on this trip was there to ride and over the next 8 days we would get more loam injected Pura Vida than we could handle.

Bryan Gioa on the walls of the Cerre de Muerte. Photo ~ Karaleen Westmorland

The Big Mountain itinerary describes the first day as a chance to relax at the posh Condessa resort, set up the bikes and maybe sample some of the local nightlife. As it turns out only one of those things happened which is why that day would come to be known by those of us lucky to arrive early as bonus day. I arrived at the hotel to find a few of the other group members milling about and shortly after checking in, Simmons rounded up the group to tell us to get our bikes together because we were going for a ride. We barely had enough time to assemble our rides and guzzle some good Costa Rican coffee before Nene put his hand to the horn to signal our departure with a characteristically cheerful double-tap.

The trail in question was conveniently located not far from the hotel and was built by one of the guides, Ricardo, who had taken the week off coding software to help his revolutionary friend with the mountain of bike gear. After a short safety speech and the signing of waivers everyone seemed a bit hesitant as we lined up at the trailhead. It’s not long before two months of pent up riding frustration caused by an unseasonably snowy Vancouver winter takes over and everyone hits the gas and charges into the jungle. A small gap marks the entrance to a dusty rock filled creek bed that snakes off into the low hanging jungle branches and a few pedal strokes later I’m smiling ear to ear because this is what I traveled half way around the world for. A few small jumps, that gap I mentioned in the first paragraph and a few sneaky hairpin turns wake me up and in no time we’re at the end of the trail. Before long I feel the rust flying off me while I simultaneously size up my fellow riders who all seem extremely competent. The bonus air miles had me thinking the trip was starting out pretty damn good and it was with some regret that we returned to the hotel where we were greeted by good food and the promise of a warm bed.

Day two started at 2am, as my roomy and trail-life partner Johannes Frøysaa bangs into the room spitting “No bike! Fuckers left it on the ground in Dallas!” The airline has promised him that it will come in on the next flight and Paulo has assured him that he’ll have something to ride on his first official day. He’s understandably worried about being in a far off land, on the eve of the riding trip of a lifetime without his trusty rig.

At dawn we gear up and hit the 5 star Condessa buffet before loading into the van and heading into the maze of brightly colored buildings of San Jose on our way to the town of Barva, for our first official day of riding. The road to Barva winds up a narrow road that often seems barely wide enough for a moped, let alone a fully loaded tour van. A singing Nene skillfully navigates the narrow roads and we arrive at a tunnel-like opening in the dark trees. Paulo gives a futile safety speech and preaches restraint but his efforts obviously go unheard as the first rider speeds off as soon as his feet meet his pedals. The ground is covered in light powdery dirt and leaves that make the trail slick, and we quickly lose site of one another in the dust. The clicking of gears and the cries of delight led me on as I flowed through the natural wall rides and banked turns that seem to have been carved from the earth by the seasonal run-off specifically for our 2-wheeled amusement. We soon ran into a herd of cows that were spooked into a gallop by the pack of strange creatures racing among them. Somewhere in the mêlée, three of us in the group were checked to the ground by a floppy-eared, chunk of sprinting hamburger. I jumped up in a cloud of dust spitting “Holy Cow” just as Johannes rolled up on his borrowed bike laughing like he’d never seen a cow win a 4x race before. We quickly dusted ourselves off laughing, and rejoined the group to begin our descent into the town of Barva through postcard scenery popping off the natural hips and wall rides of the terraced coffee fields. The first days riding over, we returned to the hotel covered in dust eager to see what new experiences Costa Rica has in store for us.

The next day began early with a slow shuttle up the 11,000 ft volcanic mass of Irazu that is swarming in tourists like a giant anthill. A sulfur lake sits at the bottom of the volcano and while the green puddle distracts the masses we plunge off the other side into the Costa Rican jungle. The trail began among the high alpine scrub and quickly transformed into deeply rutted cattle trails filled with a thick grey dust that made me thankful for my goggles. During our 3-hour descent we alternated between fast dusty cattle tracks and lush countryside before dropping into a farming village of metal thatched rooftops. The alleyways are transformed into a suburban DH course as local children line fences to cheer and throw their hands out to high-five the riders. We ride into town exhausted but without any bovine incidents to speak of. After a quick lunch of cold Imperials and chicken we pile into the vehicles and start our drive to our next destination.

Staying out of the rain on the Peak of Death. Photo ~ Brian Gioa

After a tense ride through a fog-choked pass we begin to descend into a valley where we are greeted by the twinkling lights of Santa Maria. We arrived in the darkened courtyard of our hotel bleary eyed,standing under a full moon among a cluster of tiny cabinas. I want for my bed but Paulo informs us that Mexico’s number one band is set to rock the small town and Simmons brightly mentions that we can all hunt for water buffalo. The band turned out to be 4 very tiny wee men dressed like Beatles impersonators, complete with bright green jackets and white sequined frills. I’ve got to give the little guys credit for rocking the bar in X-Large style into the wee hours of the morning and way past the point of sobriety. The night passed in a bit of a haze but I fuzzily remember we spent much of the night looking for water buffaloes and dancing up a storm among the throng of twirling locals before stumbling off to bed fully clothed.

I’m rudely awakened the next day to sunlight streaming in through the window of my cabina and I sneak past my snoring Norwegian roommate into a perfect Costa Rican morning. I’m the first up but I'm soon joined by others who are all sporting sunglasses and seeking juice and water. There’s a lot of laughter concerning the previous nights chaos and I wonder if there might soon be stories of a roving band of gringos drinking everything in sight. After a tasty breakfast served under the roof of an open dining room we gear up and reluctantly climb into the van which is beginning to smell like the inside of a well-used hiking boot...