easy way out

As I was pulling the laundry from the washer this evening, readying short, jerseys and socks for few nights of drying in my living room, I came across a t-shirt that's very dear to me. It shows a Kokopelli lookalike on a bike, expertly stylized in a beautifully minimalistic way, blue on white. I got the shirt for doing a mountain bike race in the Utah resort of Brian Head. Without any conscious effort, my brain started reminiscing.

Brian Head is in the South of Utah, far away from anywhere else, like most places in the state. I had driven down there a day before the race to go hiking in Red Canyon, across the road from Bryce Canyon, similarly beautiful and entirely devoid of tourists. Make a point of stopping there the next time you're in the area.

In the evening, I drove up to the resort, a forlorn place of just over 100 permanent residents. I had an ice chest full of beer (and Gatorade) and was looking forward to a burger in the local joint followed by a restful night. Pulling into town, I didn't see the forest for the trees. On the substantial parking lot in the center of town, at the base of the Giant Steps ski lift, not a single spot was left untaken. This was what you would expect a Wal-Mart to look like on the Friday morning after thanksgiving, right before dawn, but not a quiet mountain town at night.

I was puzzled. I pulled off the road and stopped the car, and it was in that precise moment that the fireworks went off. With a beer in hand, I kicked back and watched, awe-struck. The sky kept exploding for a good fifteen minutes, and somewhere during that time it occurred to me that it was the fourth of July, largely justifying the celestial exuberance. When all was over, it didn't take three minutes until the parking lot had emptied completely and I was all by myself on the high plateau. Brian Head is apparently something of a destination for Independence Day celebrations.

I don't remember if I had burger after that, but I'm sure about a second beer. At some point, I drove off into a dark corner of the woods and spent the night in the back of my Passat. With the seats folded, I managed (just) to stretch out but boy, was it cold. I was glad when the sun rose and race day was there. Had I known what was about to hit me, I would have enjoyed the moments of blissful ignorance a little longer. (Granted, that's a logical impossibility, but it came to me like that.)

The race started with a lunge up an impossibly steep forest road that was covered knee-deep in gravel and took us from just a nick under 10000 foot to somewhere hallucinogenic. The air was full of birdsong and the sweet scent of wildflowers but largely free of oxygen. The effect was stunning. Had I not worn sunglasses, my eyes would have popped out from the effort.

Cross-country mountain biking is basically one long time trial with more or less impossible technical elements thrown in just for fun. The pack charges from the start line like hungry wolves in hot pursuit of a tasty deer and never lets off. The moment of the start gun, heart rates reach max and just stay there. In order to race successfully, you have to whip yourself mentally like there is no tomorrow. This is an exceptionally painful experience.

It is also what stories are made from and memories, memories that were swirling around my head as I beheld the crumpled old t-shirt. I haven't ridden a mountain bike in nearly four years and I had somehow forgotten how much I liked it, how much I was addicted to it. The thrill of barely controlled speed and the kick of limits, either psychotropic or physically painful, depending on what side of the limit one is riding, are something I haven't experienced since.

Today, I went for a long run in the afternoon, twenty kilometers in the park. In contrast to what I said earlier, long-distance running is a much more peaceful activity than biking. I start slow and slowly get into the zone. It's me out there, against myself, even in a race. The other runners don't matter. In a marathon, going the distance might push me to the limits, but running itself doesn't. My heart rate is comfortably yellow, far away from the raging red of mountain biking. Piece of cake then? We'll see in three weeks.