Back to Archive: 09/11/03. |
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Ruralite Cafe: Published 09/11/03By Lisa Majors-Duff - News EditorConfession: I was born to mountain bike |
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| Did I fail to mention in my column last month that I am the proud owner
a mountain bike, not a road bike? That could be because until last Saturday
when I took the Green Goblin (I'm trying out names for my bike) to Tsali
Recreation Area between Swain and Graham counties, I didn't truly know
the difference. The last bicycle I owned had handlebars equipped with pink and white streamers. The wicker basket on the front was embellished with a plastic daisy. That bike did not have gears or toe clips or hand breaks or a water bottle holder or any of the other cool things that make this new bike crave the feel of rutted gravel roads under its wide tires, desire to climb tough inclines and fly at break-neck speed down hazardous hills. Casually riding around town, it seems, bored Wicked Wheels as much as it did me. Not so at Tsali, a place I'd heard about for years but never really understood its true potential and what it could do for both me and my bike. There was only one way to find out, I thought as I loaded my bike, a Power Bar and some watered-down Gatorade and headed west. As an early riser and not one who enjoys intense physical exertion during the hot part of the day, I began my trip before 7 a.m. hoping an early start would prevent sun and/or heat stroke. I'd been to Tsali once before to put in a canoe on Fontana Lake, but that was years ago. The parking for the individual activities, I learned, is not in the same place. Once I found the right lot, I counted only about four other cars, each outfitted with some piece of high-tech equipment designed to safely carry bicycles. I, on the other hand, had absent-mindedly tossed the Demon Dragster in the back of the Explorer, along with a helmet and the sustenance I described above. Not knowing exactly what to do next, I milled around until I found one of those handy information signs next to the bathrooms. Even better I found a real, live person who knew everything you'd ever want to know about riding a bike on Tsali's four trails. Since I can't remember her name, let's just say "Anne" informed me that on Sundays mountain bikers are permitted to use the two long trails on the right side of the park. These trails, unimaginatively, are labeled the "Left" and "Right" loops, she said, and are about the same length - 11 miles. While bikers are tearing up the "Left" and "Right" loops on Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, horseback riders are plodding along the shorter trails called "Mouse" and "Thompson." These, Anne informed me, are about 8 miles long each and open to mountain bikers Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. After paying my $2 user fee and converting a binocular case into a backpack, I mounted my Sweet Chariot, pointed its front tire toward the "Right" loop and embarked on an adventure like none other. Less than a half mile down the sandy single track, and I knew this was the type of cycling I'd been missing. The air was clear and crisp, the woods were thick and green, and the mud holes were deep and, well, muddy. All attempts to avoid them proved fruitless as black streaks began to creep up from my shoes to my legs to my shorts. Throwing caution to the wind, I began to plow through the abbreviated lakes with unknown depths until one threw me to the ground. "That's going to leave a mark," I thought, rubbing my left (lower) cheek. "It's like a rollercoaster," Anne said, describing the 11-mile "Right" track. "It just goes up and down. None of it's really bad." At times during the ride I considered asking for my money back, or at least asking Anne her definition of "not bad." While the climbs proved to be heart-pumping, the downhills got my heart going for a completely different reason - fear of death. At one point everything appeared to be heading for certain disaster: A huge mud hole resting quietly at the end of a downhill slope and squarely in the middle of a tight right turn was flanked on the left by a horizontal tree trunk nearly 3 feet thick at eye level and on the right by a sheer drop down the mountain. In the flash of less than a second, I understood with complete clarity that no way was I going to survive if my helmet slammed into that tree. Nor would there be much left for my loved ones to claim if I'd gone over the edge. I had to make the turn and remain in the saddle if there was any hope of being the second-best dressed woman at my daughter's wedding. I still don't know how I did it. At that point on the ride I was nearing exhaustion, my hands were trembling from gripping the handlebars too tightly and I was doubting my ability after having been casually tossed off my bike by two similar mud holes. With sheer determination and a lot of luck, I managed to push through the mud and stay upright, at which point I let go a hysterical scream filled with a mix of emotions - horror, delight, relief, panic, rapture, glee. Back in the parking lot a few mintues later, I rode over to Anne. "Did you leave any mud for anyone else to play in?" she asked with a chuckle. "I guess not," I said, glancing down at the damage. What a thrill! I can't wait to do it again. |
Back to Archive: 09/11/03. |
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