There Is No Lycra In This Story

“Mountain biking was invented to take the party to the woods,” said Animal as he pulled a long chug from his beer can. “Just look at the old photos of those guys on Mount Tam in the 70s. Somehow spandex got involved and it tried to ruin the whole mountain biking thing.”

Animal had a point. Roadies in bib shorts had tried to overtake those long-haired, flannel-shirted hippies who two-wheel drifted on homemade clunkers. In some ways they did take over with their world cups and stage races. But there were still believers of the old guard. People like Animal and his wild band of bearded mountain men from Spokane, who eschewed finish lines and reveled in lounging under an endless Western sky, drinking beer and smoking choice Pacific Northwest buds. They were riders who measured trips not in kilometers and hours, but in the number of beers to be consumed along the way.

This was my third or fourth trip with Animal and his friends. I had learned to let go of my roadie urges and got used to the frequent stops to regroup, rest and refresh. We followed a well-worn pace: a hard, gasping push for 30 minutes then a beer break, another hard, lung busting burst and another beer break. Sometimes a nap ensued if the ground was warm and inviting.  

Eventually, we would get to the top, but not before another beer or two and a short nap in the meadow. We had a long summer day ahead of us and the party had just started. It was just the primer for the exquisite summit view and the rowdy descent awaiting us. None of the Spokane crew was going to set a record today, but I had other plans. I was determined, once I finished my lukewarm sport beer, to set my 30-minute napping PR. Uninterrupted, proper cycle napping. Screw KOMs.

Brian, Koloshop.cz