Dream vs. Reality: Mountain Biking
Are the downhill thrills really worth it?
When it comes to two-wheeled transport, people have consistently pushed the envelope of possibility—from the absurdly impractical penny-farthing to the carbon-fiber, costs-more-than-your-car road bikes we see today. So too with subsets, and mountain bikes are no exception. With each innovation, this once-daunting sport has transformed from an experts-only, adrenaline-fueled pursuit to a favorite for suburban dads and weekend warriors. After all, what’s better than shredding singletrack, cruising berms, and then crushing a couple cold ones afterward? But is mountain biking really all that? Let’s find out if the dream lives up to the reality.
Dream
The ground is damp from an overnight drizzle. “Hero dirt,” as they say. Your legs are also strong from a summer of long rides on old logging roads, after scoring a second-hand bike at the swap for a cool $500. Now that you’re comfortable on your trusty steed, you’re ready to get in on some group rides with more experienced bikers. Today’s loop is a Bozeman classic: Leverich. Rather than dealing with potholes, you and your friends park down low on Nash and warm up with an easy ride to the trailhead. You cruise up the switchbacks with ease, enjoying the steady uphill through the picturesque forest. Your bike runs smoothly, and the trail is tacky and responsive. Along the way, you pass a flock of ruffed grouse in the brush and are delighted by the chance encounter. You tackle the last bit of climbing, even managing to clear a couple technical spots that bested your more experienced buddies. As you refuel on top before the fast, thrilling descent, a friend gives you some beta: “Remember to ride the outside of the berms and lean away from them.” You take off on the downhill, sandwiched between your friends, giving you both a line to follow and also someone to keep an eye out should things go awry. You feel safe and inspired. Soon you’re cruising at trail speed, slashing the berms and flying with finesse over roots, rocks, and drops. Feeling confident in your abilities, you boost over a mid-trail jump, earning approving whoops from behind before expertly navigating the final switchbacks at the bottom. Adrenaline courses through your veins, and you lament that it ended so quickly. Good news! Everyone’s up for another lap, and the second round is even better than the first. Deciding that a celebratory beer is in order, you coast back down to your rig, load up the bikes, and hightail it to the brewery where live music, good food, and tasty brews await. Taking in the view from the rooftop patio, you think to yourself, Man, mountain biking is the freakin’ best!
You swerve to avoid a dog-poop bag, T-bone a protruding root, and go ass-over-teakettle into a bush—bad news, it appears to house an entire colony of ticks.
Reality
Your head throbs as you bounce up the rutted-out road to Leverich. With every bump, the hardtail you bought for $2,000 from your recently-sober co-worker, Brody, gets jostled and jerked around. But from the looks of it, this supposedly “mid-level” bike has seen much worse. “Don’t worry, you’ll do great,” Brody says at the trailhead, sensing your reluctance. “This is one of the easiest rides near town,” he continues, slipping on knee pads—Wait, knee pads? Nobody mentioned those! The climb begins, and you realize just how hard biking uphill really is. Your gears won’t shift, your suspension won’t lock, the chain grinds, and your rear tire keeps slipping on the loose dirt. After 45 minutes of red-lining, you finally reach the summit—or so you think. “We’re almost there, buddy, just two more miles,” Brody says. You try to push on, but the trail just keeps getting steeper. You’re passed by several kids, who innocently observe, “You’re new to this, aren’t you?” Finally, after some awkward hike-a-bike over roots and rocks, you find yourself staring down the barrel of the descent. Brody, seeming frustrated, barks some incoherent instructions before disappearing down the trail. You breathe deep and point the front wheel downhill. Within seconds, you’re going uncomfortably fast, and the rear brake screams as you struggle to stem your increasing speed. You try to decipher Brody’s guidance, but the tight turns, exposed roots, and loose rocks command your attention. Oh shit! Oh shit! Too fast, too fast! You swerve to avoid a dog-poop bag, T-bone a protruding root, and go ass-over-teakettle into a bush—bad news, it appears to house an entire colony of ticks. After frantically brushing them off, you assess the damage to your bike and body. Best to creep and crawl down the rest, you decide. The strategy works—until you hit the big berms. Entering the first turn, you can feel your bike begin to slide out and you tumble in slow-motion off the trail once again. You walk your bike the rest of the way, sulking and stifling anger. Brody offers a disingenuous, “You crushed it, man,” before handing you a warm O’Doul’s. Later that night, your body aches as you lie in bed with bags of frozen peas on every extremity. Man, mountain biking is the freakin’ worst.
