My Prodigious Trek: The Vanities Of A Neophyte Mountain Biker
May 8, 1998. A wonderfully sunny afternoon on the Hoodoos Trail in Banff National Park, and I am pedaling with a child’s voraciousness. It is not the first time I have set about to mountain bike, but the first time I have done it on a real mountain. And I am good.
Having hired the finest new full-suspension, high-performance Cannondale, and having had it professionally adjusted to my size and comfort, I donned my helmet and sunglasses. With water bottle intact and map at the ready, I rolled confidently through town and over to the nearby base of the mountain, where I set into lowest gear, and began my quest. Guarding against over-pacing, I churned the pedals continuously up the revolving incline (a road), relishing the inevitability of handsomer, more tightly-knotted calves. Later I tore through metre-wide gaps in the bush with tree roots abounding everywhere, conspiring to throw me head first over handlebars and onto hard dusty trail. I rumbled over them fearlessly. Quick turns, bumps, and straight-aways; I maneuvered them all with equal adroitness. This mountain was my new stomping ground.
Illusions like these pass quickly for the level-headed weekend athlete, who will discover that it is safest to take what the mountain gives, but ask no favours. I, on the other hand, believe that, while I am not quite prepared for Olympic service to my country, I am one day to be proclaimed Master Mountain Biker. This is not to say that I believe I will be the best that there is, or even the best that I can be, but I believe that I will be the best that my far-reaching vanity will permit. This is everything to me.
Reaching this apex of illusion of grandeur is precisely what I had in mind when Kim asked me if I would like to accompany her on her business conference. The claim that she will make that I begged her to come along is a fallacy. I came along for support, encouragement, and of course, just for the hell of it. And now, I conquered a mountain.
Had the mountain tried to dethrone me, the effort would have been in vain. I was consistently honed in on the path of least resistance and was downright artful in negotiating the trail’s edge, where a small blunder would have made me unannounced company for the colossal mountainside. But that was not to be.
My destination was unbounded glory. Two scoops with a cherry on top. A five-star resort hotel (which, incidentally, is where we stayed: at the fabulous Rimrock). Had I aimed for anything less, I would not have written this piece. Instead, I would have written a piece on how disappointed I was that the adult movie that we ordered came with tacky music dubbed over the unabashedly amusing dialogue. But anyone can write that. Few can write about having ridden a mountain to perfection.
It matters little that I can’t recollect the name of the mountain. (It doesn’t say on the map I brought home.) It was a bumpy, rocky one with a road and some rudimentary paths strewn through it. The map tells me that The Hoodoos are bizarre natural pillars. I don’t recall having seen them. I did see some spectacular mountain vistas, noteworthy at least from an Ontarian’s perspective. I forced myself to brake momentarily, to take snapshots. But days later at home, as I leafed through the prints, a wave of distress flushed through me. I forgot to photograph the bicycle. So much for the sentimentality of the mountains. I have no proof of my conquest. I had in my possession the most illustrious piece of equipment I have ever handled, the one that makes aspiring bikers from all over dream, “Some day, I’ll have one of those.” And I overlooked documenting it.
All I have now are memories. Well, not quite all. The other day, as I lay in front of the t.v. in my boxers, Kim remarked on the shape of my legs. “I can really see the results”, she said, as her soft hand grazed my thigh. I was proud. But now, I am sad. I live in southern Ontario, and what the hell can a Master Mountain Biker hope to accomplish here? I could attempt a suicidal dash on Highway 401 at Friday rush hour. I’d risk trading a possible attack by a Rocky Mountain brown bear for the chance at a drive-by gunning from a road-raged executive. Perhaps this is a reasonable substitute for the thrill of the mountain. But alas, the air is better in the mountains, so it just won’t do.
Plus, the mountains have elk. They seem the moose’s more diminutive and less brutish cousin. I fondly recall the ones I met on the side of the road and on the grassy parts of open trail. The idle grazers. They seemed utterly indifferent to the Master Mountain Biker, and I quickly figured that they have probably encountered my like before. Or maybe they were just too bagged to take heed. Mountain life, after all, is taxing. I snapped a photograph from a safe distance, and nodded my head at the small herd, showing a respectful deference to them, the wily veterans of the hill. Then I sped away, not to evade possible attack, but to resume my trek.
There was an instant, while I was blazing downhill, that I thought of ordinary things. I pictured the town of Banff, below me, indulging good-natured sightseers and sedentary mountain watchers. I scoffed at their misfortune, their poor vantage point; their unwittingness, unwillingness and incapability. Then came an ascent, and I simply pedaled on, harbouring no pity. I was too swept up in the momentum of my journey, thrilled at the challenge of yet one more break-neck climb. With my body pressed forward and my fingers clamping the handgrips, I drove one leg then the other into the ground, set my eyes on pavement and my mind on a sunlit snow-capped summit. Then I thought of Kim, huddled amongst co-workers and prospective clients in a meeting room, discussing something about audiology. Or was there a presentation?
All this wonderment may be deemed by some to be not as spine wrenching as riding a bull in the Calgary Stampede. To this I cede. It is not. But in the mighty province of Alberta, where I figure most folks are more likely to be devoured by a grizzly than they are to ever board a deranged mammal, my trek must be fodder for the sane outdoor enthusiast. And I aver that while biking with maximum mastery is no rope-a-cow thrill, it requires the kind of stamina and dexterity that would drive any manure-loving ploughboy to heart stoppage.
I know that not everyone can do what I did. I rode that damn mountain for two-and-a-half hours. That’s one-hundred and fifty minutes of pedal-crunching up punishing inclines that metamorphosize instantly into dizzying labyrinths of dire descent. I worked for the right to claim myself fit for otherworldliness; a claim that I make with no avarice or impunity: Anyone care to take this outside?
May 20. It is twelve days since I made my trek. I miss the Banff Rockies much, and I know they miss me too. While I have not received as much as a postcard from the bike rental place, I cannot help but believe that me and the two clerks I met share a common bond --that of respect and deference to the big hills-- though I doubt if either of them have ever torn into the trails with the same gusto as I did. I didn’t see the appetite for it in their eyes.
I am broke, and Kim is not soon going to a conference anywhere near the big hills, so it seems that it will be some time before I will once again traverse a grand mountain top.
Meanwhile, my aching heart waits in limbo. I bide time by hiking, jogging, canoeing, or by savouring whatever other prodigious adventure that becomes available. And I contemplate why I can’t simply enjoy a vacation for the easygoing comforts that it offers. Kim says that I’m way too competitive for my own good. I argue that I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone but myself, and my standards are set higher than most. She sighs and asks if I couldn’t see myself one day enjoying a pleasant hot summer afternoon basking in the sun. “The whole afternoon?!” I am shocked she would suggest it.
“Maybe a couple of hours”, I smile enthusiastically, “as long as I have a good book to read, and as long as there is a quality bike rental place nearby. Either that, or we could do some skydiving or hang gliding. You can get sun doing any of these things.” She simply huffs, and looks skyward in exasperation. Even she can’t make a servile sedentarian of a robust Master Mountain Biker.
Next quest: to be the first guy to swim the Baltic Sea, from Stockholm to Riga, at the height of winter, with only a small Norwegian fishing boat for an escort.
Having hired the finest new full-suspension, high-performance Cannondale, and having had it professionally adjusted to my size and comfort, I donned my helmet and sunglasses. With water bottle intact and map at the ready, I rolled confidently through town and over to the nearby base of the mountain, where I set into lowest gear, and began my quest. Guarding against over-pacing, I churned the pedals continuously up the revolving incline (a road), relishing the inevitability of handsomer, more tightly-knotted calves. Later I tore through metre-wide gaps in the bush with tree roots abounding everywhere, conspiring to throw me head first over handlebars and onto hard dusty trail. I rumbled over them fearlessly. Quick turns, bumps, and straight-aways; I maneuvered them all with equal adroitness. This mountain was my new stomping ground.
Illusions like these pass quickly for the level-headed weekend athlete, who will discover that it is safest to take what the mountain gives, but ask no favours. I, on the other hand, believe that, while I am not quite prepared for Olympic service to my country, I am one day to be proclaimed Master Mountain Biker. This is not to say that I believe I will be the best that there is, or even the best that I can be, but I believe that I will be the best that my far-reaching vanity will permit. This is everything to me.
Reaching this apex of illusion of grandeur is precisely what I had in mind when Kim asked me if I would like to accompany her on her business conference. The claim that she will make that I begged her to come along is a fallacy. I came along for support, encouragement, and of course, just for the hell of it. And now, I conquered a mountain.
Had the mountain tried to dethrone me, the effort would have been in vain. I was consistently honed in on the path of least resistance and was downright artful in negotiating the trail’s edge, where a small blunder would have made me unannounced company for the colossal mountainside. But that was not to be.
My destination was unbounded glory. Two scoops with a cherry on top. A five-star resort hotel (which, incidentally, is where we stayed: at the fabulous Rimrock). Had I aimed for anything less, I would not have written this piece. Instead, I would have written a piece on how disappointed I was that the adult movie that we ordered came with tacky music dubbed over the unabashedly amusing dialogue. But anyone can write that. Few can write about having ridden a mountain to perfection.
It matters little that I can’t recollect the name of the mountain. (It doesn’t say on the map I brought home.) It was a bumpy, rocky one with a road and some rudimentary paths strewn through it. The map tells me that The Hoodoos are bizarre natural pillars. I don’t recall having seen them. I did see some spectacular mountain vistas, noteworthy at least from an Ontarian’s perspective. I forced myself to brake momentarily, to take snapshots. But days later at home, as I leafed through the prints, a wave of distress flushed through me. I forgot to photograph the bicycle. So much for the sentimentality of the mountains. I have no proof of my conquest. I had in my possession the most illustrious piece of equipment I have ever handled, the one that makes aspiring bikers from all over dream, “Some day, I’ll have one of those.” And I overlooked documenting it.
All I have now are memories. Well, not quite all. The other day, as I lay in front of the t.v. in my boxers, Kim remarked on the shape of my legs. “I can really see the results”, she said, as her soft hand grazed my thigh. I was proud. But now, I am sad. I live in southern Ontario, and what the hell can a Master Mountain Biker hope to accomplish here? I could attempt a suicidal dash on Highway 401 at Friday rush hour. I’d risk trading a possible attack by a Rocky Mountain brown bear for the chance at a drive-by gunning from a road-raged executive. Perhaps this is a reasonable substitute for the thrill of the mountain. But alas, the air is better in the mountains, so it just won’t do.
Plus, the mountains have elk. They seem the moose’s more diminutive and less brutish cousin. I fondly recall the ones I met on the side of the road and on the grassy parts of open trail. The idle grazers. They seemed utterly indifferent to the Master Mountain Biker, and I quickly figured that they have probably encountered my like before. Or maybe they were just too bagged to take heed. Mountain life, after all, is taxing. I snapped a photograph from a safe distance, and nodded my head at the small herd, showing a respectful deference to them, the wily veterans of the hill. Then I sped away, not to evade possible attack, but to resume my trek.
There was an instant, while I was blazing downhill, that I thought of ordinary things. I pictured the town of Banff, below me, indulging good-natured sightseers and sedentary mountain watchers. I scoffed at their misfortune, their poor vantage point; their unwittingness, unwillingness and incapability. Then came an ascent, and I simply pedaled on, harbouring no pity. I was too swept up in the momentum of my journey, thrilled at the challenge of yet one more break-neck climb. With my body pressed forward and my fingers clamping the handgrips, I drove one leg then the other into the ground, set my eyes on pavement and my mind on a sunlit snow-capped summit. Then I thought of Kim, huddled amongst co-workers and prospective clients in a meeting room, discussing something about audiology. Or was there a presentation?
All this wonderment may be deemed by some to be not as spine wrenching as riding a bull in the Calgary Stampede. To this I cede. It is not. But in the mighty province of Alberta, where I figure most folks are more likely to be devoured by a grizzly than they are to ever board a deranged mammal, my trek must be fodder for the sane outdoor enthusiast. And I aver that while biking with maximum mastery is no rope-a-cow thrill, it requires the kind of stamina and dexterity that would drive any manure-loving ploughboy to heart stoppage.
I know that not everyone can do what I did. I rode that damn mountain for two-and-a-half hours. That’s one-hundred and fifty minutes of pedal-crunching up punishing inclines that metamorphosize instantly into dizzying labyrinths of dire descent. I worked for the right to claim myself fit for otherworldliness; a claim that I make with no avarice or impunity: Anyone care to take this outside?
May 20. It is twelve days since I made my trek. I miss the Banff Rockies much, and I know they miss me too. While I have not received as much as a postcard from the bike rental place, I cannot help but believe that me and the two clerks I met share a common bond --that of respect and deference to the big hills-- though I doubt if either of them have ever torn into the trails with the same gusto as I did. I didn’t see the appetite for it in their eyes.
I am broke, and Kim is not soon going to a conference anywhere near the big hills, so it seems that it will be some time before I will once again traverse a grand mountain top.
Meanwhile, my aching heart waits in limbo. I bide time by hiking, jogging, canoeing, or by savouring whatever other prodigious adventure that becomes available. And I contemplate why I can’t simply enjoy a vacation for the easygoing comforts that it offers. Kim says that I’m way too competitive for my own good. I argue that I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone but myself, and my standards are set higher than most. She sighs and asks if I couldn’t see myself one day enjoying a pleasant hot summer afternoon basking in the sun. “The whole afternoon?!” I am shocked she would suggest it.
“Maybe a couple of hours”, I smile enthusiastically, “as long as I have a good book to read, and as long as there is a quality bike rental place nearby. Either that, or we could do some skydiving or hang gliding. You can get sun doing any of these things.” She simply huffs, and looks skyward in exasperation. Even she can’t make a servile sedentarian of a robust Master Mountain Biker.
Next quest: to be the first guy to swim the Baltic Sea, from Stockholm to Riga, at the height of winter, with only a small Norwegian fishing boat for an escort.
posted by Erich Schmidt | 11:00 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home