The Bear

Resurrection Pass Trail, 7-17-10

With some rides, it's hard to determine what will be remembered the longest. Saturday's trip across Resurrection Pass was full of unusual elements like, heat; sun bright enough to burn our skin; unusually dry trail; a friend's severely disabled bike in the final quarter of the ride.

But, for me, the most memorable moment might be the bear. It crashed through the willows a few yards to my left, huffing and grunting as it—and I'm very happy to say this—found a way to run away from me instead of toward me. He was fast, brown and huge, and he did me a favor.

I'm often too quiet and complacent in serious bear country. I make too little noise and tend to forget about the risk of surprising a dangerous animal. A close encounter is a good reminder that I need to step it up a notch. Be louder. More aware.

Saturday's encounter happened so fast, it wasn't even very scary. It was later, in quieter moments, that it was easy to imagine what could have happened if the bear had chosen fight over flight.

And that wasn't much fun to think about.

Carnage

Mountain bikers take a perverse pride in the carnage that comes with a long ride. And let's face it: You stay out on the trail for six or seven hours at a time, somebody's goin' home in pain.

Fatigue sets in. Hunger gnaws at you. The brain slows down and you start choosing sloppy lines. Your fingers can go so numb that you have to look down to make sure you're squeezing the brake levers. Before you know it, you're sprawled across the ground and starting the usual physical inventory for open wounds and broken bones.

That was the case Saturday afternoon during our latest Soggy Bottom training ride. AKdeluxe was coming off two weeks of night shifts, and started getting the thousand-yard stare several hours into the ride as we were descending from Resurrection Pass. Before long he was cartwheeling over the rocks, and his Turner was tangled up in his legs while its sharp parts chewed on him like a meth-crazed ferret.

A few miles later, The Monkey rolled up to the stopped group and said in a tired voice, "I ate shit."

We all knew what he meant, but if we hadn't, all we would have needed to do was check out the dirty skid marks on his clothing.

Sometimes, I'm amazed that we pretty much always reach the trailhead with nothing more than cuts and bruises.

By Saturday night, I was wondering how soloists finish the Soggy Bottom 100 at all.