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Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill

Down in the Dirt
by Timm Muth
A monthly article by the author of Mountain Biking in North Carolina. Rants, raves, reviews and chain grease.

Evolutionary Downhilling
June 2003

Mountain biking is a Jekyll and Hyde sport, with one personality dominating while climbing, then giving way to another while descending. While climbing we are plodding, granny-gearing gentlemen and women. When we reach the top of the mountain and descend we are transformed into wild-eyed, slobbering beasts. For Dr. Jekyll, this split personality was a problem. His rational side feared his animal side and fought to control it. For mountain bikers, this split is a sign of progress, a mid-point in the evolutionary process. We are gradually and necessarily shedding our civilized mind for a more practical, primitive one.

In order to see how this process takes place, it is useful to first separate man from mountain. A mountain, in itself, is neither good nor evil. It does nothing to help or hurt us. It only provides the means by which we may do these things to ourselves. Mountains sit passively by while we carve our joy and frustration into them. They record our efforts on the trails, which run like veins on their surfaces. They are monuments to our fears, follies and foolishness. They force us to see ourselves as the mad men and women that we are. Mountains are what they are. It is we that make them out to be more.

Ever notice that the upside of a mountain seems infinitely longer than the downside? We round a turn and think it is the top, only to find that the path continues on even higher. Our hopes deflate faster than a punctured tube. We can almost feel our body hissing its discontent. This is our mind at work. The mind is the obstacle to getting to the top, not the mountain. When our legs start to burn, it's our minds that tell us to quit. The mind's greatest weapon is pain. It focuses our attention on each and every aching spot. Usually, pain is a huge preventative. But if we are strong enough to overcome the pain, the mind must resort to more subtle techniques. It may remind us of overwhelming hunger and put pictures of big juicy hamburgers before us. It may request that we stop and look at the beautiful scenery or examine the exquisite bark of that tree we just passed.

To reach the top, we must not pause or ponder and give our minds a chance to wander. We must simply move our legs up and down and turn our wheels round and round. This is the time when only sheer determination pulls us along. Our minds are shunted to the dark recesses of our skulls and plan terrible revenges on us at a later date. We don't care. We become single-celled creatures bent on movement. In this mode, we climb so high that the air gives way first.

Our work is done and our potential realized when we reach the top. Every turn of the wheel, drop of sweat fallen from our brows and foot of elevation gained adds fuel to the downhill fire. It's as if we dragged the entire mountain with us and now its whole mass asserts its force behind us like train cars to the engine. The pain we suffered gives substance to the joy we will experience on the way down. The climb gives us our sense of respect for the mountain and puts our pleasure into perspective. We have earned our reward.


The top is the transformation point. This is when killer climber becomes bombardier boy. This is when the seat of our pants meets the roof of our mouths. This is when we put fear in our back pockets and recklessness on our noses. This is when our bike is liberated from the earth and becomes gravity's flag bearer. Whoosh is the only sound we hear. This is much preferable to the sound of our beating hearts or the sound of spun-out tires and sliding pebbles. Whoosh!! Down, straight down we go. Brakes are applied just enough to keep us on track. They may be used to avoid disfigurement and destruction, but never enough to tarnish the rush. We must do a thousand things in a thousandth of the time. We are like Mozart on steroids as we play a symphony along the bar of the bike. Our steeds may rattle and shake, but must never bend or break. Our tires will slide and slip, but never entirely loose their grip. The downhill is a deliciously dangerous dance that leaves little margin for error.

The split second decisions and actions cannot be made by the mind. We must resort to something much more instinctive. We must let out the animal in us. We must let it snarl and howl or we have no chance for survival. Contemplation is for hikers. Bikers don't need brains. Thinking is great for calculating taxes, but not so good for finding a way through that boulder field up ahead. The brain is likely to think, "Hey, this is dangerous. I don't know if my HMO will cover head injuries." The animal in us, however, has no such qualms. It doesn't think; it just does. It propels us down through the rocks, already looking at the next obstacle or launching point, and lets the mind sort out all the boring details. The mind must give way.

Then sooner than a kernel of truth can become a popcorn of illusion, we are at the bottom. Our minds assert themselves and give us the damage report. We lick our wounds and dress them up so they'll look good for our loved ones. Later, while we are flossing the bugs from our teeth, we notice that we have a little more hair on our knuckles and our canines have grown. We smile broadly because we see that we are indeed evolving. Hooray for the species!



Old Dirt

 

 

 

"Bicycles are almost as good as guitars for meeting girls."
- Bob Weir