CactusJoe took off like a rocket this morning. As usual, Dave started out with his A-game, and I stayed right on his wheel until he acquiesced and gave me the reins. It felt good to fly. The trail was still tacky after the rains this week, and it wasn't too crowded. It was cold though. Before we started, as we were staging at the ramada, Chongoman called and said he was already at the tanks, had some time, and to look for him coming the other way so he could join us. A little ways up the trail, we stopped to regroup, and I saw a lone rider out in the distance heading toward us. The trail where he was ran parallel to where we were, so I could see him zigzagging towards us, disappearing into the desert washes and reappearing further over on the horizon, like a prairie dog poking his head up out of different holes in his network. I realized it was Chongoman.
I can tell when someone gets it. I've been riding enough years that I can tell by watching what someone is feeling as they ride. Similar to skiing, there are those who force it, and those who feel it. Most riders on Classic force it. It’s considered a beginner trail and is accused by some as being too easy or lacking flow. Hence, most experienced riders tune it out and rely on automatic response to get through and focus on the “good aerobic workout” part. But not all. Chongoman gets it. He wasn’t riding the trail today, he was dancing with it.
I think what I saw today was in some way a measure of who he is. I’ll bet, and I could be wrong, but he was the guy who would ask the shy wallflower to dance, and not just because he felt sorry for her, but because he is one of the few fortunate souls that are able to feel joy in all things and for the right reasons. People change, life moves on, helicopters crash into houses, but dude…regardless of what the future holds, hold on to that part of you.
Oh, and don’t get any ideas, Chongoman, I’m not just buttering you up so I can get into your pants. I may be freshly single but I ain’t going there. And not to rub it in, but there would still be about 3 billion females and Sting I'd have to go through before I went there with you. Just being honest, dude.
Okay, back to the ride. I lead the pack out to the tanks with Chongoman closely on my wheel. We stop there to decide our route when we get into this lively discussion on the “real” name of Secret. Secret is one of the side options to Desert Classic. Secret, Lost Wash, Rocket Fuel, and about half a dozen others were thrown out as names our group had heard it called, most of them from Paul. Then Paul suggests a charity auction to benefit trail maintenance at SoMo by selling the rights to name the trail “officially”. Right. So it can end up the Insight.com trail. Or maybe the Procter and Gamble trail.
We head out from the tanks, do the full Secret option, and hammer until we get to the western trailhead. And that is where our group vanity took over and the photos started. What is it about this group that compels us to document everything? Is it just vanity? Do we have some irresitable need to tell the world how cool our adventures are? I hardly ever bring a camera and though I post up a lot of rides, I hardly ever do the ride reports. Maybe once in a blue moon. And I mean that in the traditional sense, not every time I have a Blue Moon. (Actually, come to think of it, I drink Blue Moon about as often as…well a blue moon. Hmmm) Anyhow, my point was going here: Someone else always posts up the story of my adventure. Is it because I don’t have the time, or because I just don’t care to share every time I get on the bike with the world? Time will tell, and maybe there will be new voids to fill.
I can tell when someone gets it. I've been riding enough years that I can tell by watching what someone is feeling as they ride. Similar to skiing, there are those who force it, and those who feel it. Most riders on Classic force it. It’s considered a beginner trail and is accused by some as being too easy or lacking flow. Hence, most experienced riders tune it out and rely on automatic response to get through and focus on the “good aerobic workout” part. But not all. Chongoman gets it. He wasn’t riding the trail today, he was dancing with it.
I think what I saw today was in some way a measure of who he is. I’ll bet, and I could be wrong, but he was the guy who would ask the shy wallflower to dance, and not just because he felt sorry for her, but because he is one of the few fortunate souls that are able to feel joy in all things and for the right reasons. People change, life moves on, helicopters crash into houses, but dude…regardless of what the future holds, hold on to that part of you.
Oh, and don’t get any ideas, Chongoman, I’m not just buttering you up so I can get into your pants. I may be freshly single but I ain’t going there. And not to rub it in, but there would still be about 3 billion females and Sting I'd have to go through before I went there with you. Just being honest, dude.
Okay, back to the ride. I lead the pack out to the tanks with Chongoman closely on my wheel. We stop there to decide our route when we get into this lively discussion on the “real” name of Secret. Secret is one of the side options to Desert Classic. Secret, Lost Wash, Rocket Fuel, and about half a dozen others were thrown out as names our group had heard it called, most of them from Paul. Then Paul suggests a charity auction to benefit trail maintenance at SoMo by selling the rights to name the trail “officially”. Right. So it can end up the Insight.com trail. Or maybe the Procter and Gamble trail.
We head out from the tanks, do the full Secret option, and hammer until we get to the western trailhead. And that is where our group vanity took over and the photos started. What is it about this group that compels us to document everything? Is it just vanity? Do we have some irresitable need to tell the world how cool our adventures are? I hardly ever bring a camera and though I post up a lot of rides, I hardly ever do the ride reports. Maybe once in a blue moon. And I mean that in the traditional sense, not every time I have a Blue Moon. (Actually, come to think of it, I drink Blue Moon about as often as…well a blue moon. Hmmm) Anyhow, my point was going here: Someone else always posts up the story of my adventure. Is it because I don’t have the time, or because I just don’t care to share every time I get on the bike with the world? Time will tell, and maybe there will be new voids to fill.
The helipad is still there. That’s where we went next. After the climb up out of the west end of DC, we took the Goat Trail (our name for it anyways) to get to it. I say it’s still there because the helipad is not new to me. When I was in high school we used to drive up to it all the time on the now closed dirt road before all the houses went in and blocked it off. We spent many a night up there, partying, reconciling, experimenting...and growing. I also spent many a night up there solo, contemplating. This day, I was with 8 others who shared at least one passion with me, and hence the MTBR flask of honor had to come out. Much joy. More photo ops. I share with Paul and Kathleen that I’d gotten laid up there before. TMI.
The decent down from the helipad is interesting. I say interesting because it is, well, stark. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. It’s fun as hell, but hard to feel any flow on, at least for me. The earth there is a different color and consistency than the rest of the mountain, and it makes me wonder if there is something buried there. I get that feeling sometimes at T100, and come to think of it, the earth there is similar. I know there was lots of mining in and around T100 and the SoMo area. I wonder if what I’m feeling is the wounded earth, and when I get too near her wounds, I feel her sorrow and can’t feel my flow. If so, I respect that. She is my medium, and the least I can do is feel with her when she hurts.
The bottom of the helipad trail is where the shit-faced grins usually appear. This case was no different. 9 happy bikers, high on the speed and thrill of letting gravity have its way with you. Unfortunately, the Helipad trail overdraws its account a bit, so you can’t get back to DC proper without a good steep climb out of a big wash. I nailed it, and kept going. In fact, I didn’t stop until the Flintstone benches to regroup,then again at the tanks to announce I was going to turn on the jets and head back to my new place. I felt good. 20+ fast miles, and I still had lots of gas left in the tank. In fact, I had enough to move a bunch of furniture and still go out with Stu that night. Which is where my next entry will pick up.
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