Deep in Appalachia, where water flows in streams banked by rhododendrons and mountain laurel, pedal strikes on eons-old rocks are commonplace. Humidity hangs heavy here. The forest canopy is thick, blocking out the sky. Varying shades of green that Crayola attempts to match negates the blue. Dirt smells rich, full of life.
“Why are we stopping?”
“Break time.”
“Huh?”
The ride is measured not in miles but in hours. Ten miles here might be 20 miles elsewhere; the distance calculator approach to planning is not appropriate. Mountain bikers here pride themselves on riding rigid, having only 1 gear, sometimes going fixie. Damn fools. It is 2021. Do they not know about the new technology?
Middle fingers and thumbed noses are their responses. Stubbornness evokes from their scowled faces. Who cares how fast you go or if you’re shredding? Nah, it’s about being in the mountains for the day, away from the noise.
“That tastes good. When did you stash these?”
“Last week. I hiked in. There’s a case scattered and hiding under the water up and down the stream. With the thick rhodos, there’s no chance anyone’s fishing this part and would find ‘em.”
“What about when thunderstorms roll in?”
“I anchored ‘em pretty well, but if they get dislodged, well, we’ll go on a scavenger hunt.”
Stream water is filtered into bottles, no need to carry heavy bags of water on their backs. The sound of water over rocks is song. Bare feet in the cold water, mid-ride, soothes them. They sit and talk about life, about nothing, about the next section of trail and that damn tight left turn where you have to squeeze between two trees that are barely far enough apart to pass through without scraping a hand.
Eventually they get up off the ground, backs no longer resting on the log they used for rest. Feet are socked and back in shoes. Water bottles are pushed down into cages. Helmets on, they grab their bikes and throw legs over saddles.
Off they go.
“Any more secret stashes along the way?”
“Could be”
They clean the left turn and pedal on down the trail. A couple more hours of riding are ahead of them. Apples and homemade cookies are the fuel that will power them back to the car. The sun slides down in the late afternoon.
“We could add on. You have to be home by a certain time?”
“I probably should, but I don’t really have anywhere I need to be. I can say I flatted, had a mechanical or something.”
“If we go down Rattlesnake, we could connect into the blue blazes and loop it. Might be another hour added on.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Sweat rolls and breathing labors. It is strenuous riding, the kind that requires pushing and pulling your handlebars. At a stream crossing, they splash their way through. Downed trees on the trail are welcomed obstacles. Pull up the front, scoot, lift with your pedals, use the bash guard, roll on.
He gashes a tire. It’s too big to plug.
“I’ll put a tube in and take it easy. Looks like my excuse came true.”
“Sometimes things work out.”
“True. Being out here fixing a flat tire is fine by me.”
Tire mended, they take it easy. In the taking-it-easy, they chat about next weekend’s ride, that maybe they’ll do one of the old race routes. Five hours into it, they pop out of the canopy and into the clearing of the dirt forest road. A minute later, they’re at the car.
“Enough time for a beer?”
“Why not?”
Two cans are pulled from a cooler that sits in the car. They load up their bikes and change out of their grimy kits. With half-cans left to drink, they sit on stumps that someone chain sawed from a large oak that fell over the road and then placed in the shade at the little parking area. Locusts buzz. They slap mosquitoes from their legs.
“Another great day in the mountains.”
“Never better.”