Words by Richard Belson

For years, people have been asking why I ride bikes. Sure, it always comes phrased a little differently, but overall that's generally what is comes down to.

Some look at the type of riding we do and ask "Why?" Some just wonder what the hell a 31-year-old boy is doing riding a pedal-bike for fun in the first place. I have to say, I have never given the same answer twice, no matter how many times I've been queried. Each and every time, my previous ride or group of rides has shaped my response, and, because no two rides have ever left me with the same impression of life aboard a bike, no two answers have ever even been similar.

The dog was itching to get out yesterday, and I don't just mean for his usual jaunt around the park to rid himself of yesterday's kibble intake. He had this glimmer in his eyes that begged for something more, so I suited up, readied my bike, grabbed his leash and a couple biscuits and headed out the door. Generally, when I head out for a ride, he whimpers and whines until he sees his leash get brought along, a point at which his non-existent Australian Shepherd tail starts vibrating like a tuning fork.

At that point, the ride dance starts, including its classic furry pirouettes and involuntary sneezing fits, which invariably send random globules of slobber unceremoniously across my cream-coloured kitchen floor. Either way, I am dragged up the back steps of my basement suite, 40-pound rig in one hand, uncontrollably excited dog in the other, and barely have enough time and dexterity to lock the door on my way out without being pulled apart like a wishbone.

Once we have endured the nervous fit of barking he goes through while passing the dog run of his arch-nemesis Jade, an otherwise well-intentioned female Rottwieller, we were off on Monty's first big ride of the year. Sure, there have been others, but shuttles just aren't the same. This day, we were both in for the long haul.

It's funny ... each time I leave for a ride from my house with the dog, I don't even have to pedal for the first 10 minutes. If there was only a way to store that energy and give it to deprived nations, the world would be a better place!

Anyhow, riding up Burke Mountain from the base of Coast Meridian never fails to surprise me. Sure, the first half-hour or so is riding a paved road, but the length and grade of the road is deceiving, to say the least. It's been a while since I actually set to climbing for fun. I wax on about it periodically, but climbing is like politics: it's so easy to talk the talk, but when it comes time to actually do something about it there is so much more involved than you would ever have thought.

About two-thirds of the way up the two hour-or-so climb, with only the faint warmth offered by the cloud-covered sun on my shoulders, the sound of a panting dog by my side being drowned out by my own gasping and wheezing, I looked up briefly from the loose gravel ascent beyond my front tire and saw a small buck and two doe. I immediately came to a subtle halt and just watched as they silently plucked leaves from the surrounding foliage. During that time, they would look at me, eat, look again, eat some more and eventually, just stopped checking me out and kept on eating in earnest. Even the dog, who is generally freaked out by creatures as small as toy poodles, also looked on in wonder, head cocked to one side.

Time stood still for what was probably at least five minutes, and if you think about a five-minute wait during an otherwise gruelling, heart-wrenching climb, doing nothing but standing, looking at nature just happen in front of you, that's a long time. All of a sudden, all problems I had in my life, any love lost, any bills collecting interest, completely disappeared. Even my bike was inconsequential. I honestly felt like I was in their house, and should wait until they were finished eating before continuing my ascent.

The silence that hung in the air acted as a magnifying glass on reality. These three majestic young creatures just went about their lives as my dog, me and my chunk of metal and rubber stood in awe. In that short time, I was afforded the opportunity to see how simple but precious life actually is, and how, while we all sweat life's details - like having the best stuff and what we think is cool - it all comes down to the irreplaceable random moments life grants us.

I eventually tried respectfully sneaking past the trio and got within about six feet of them before they calmly faded into the surrounding greenery. Monty and I continued with the climb, which seemed just a little easier now. Thanks to the smile on my face and the all-encompassing appreciation for the near-religious experience I was just given, my pedals turned faster, my bike seemed lighter and the desire to just ride and appreciate my surroundings enveloped me. It turned the rest of what ended up being a three-and-a-half hour technical ride into possibly one of the best I have ever been on in over 17 years of mountain biking. The first trails I hit once reaching the top of the climb I'd set out on two hours earlier were Upper and Lower Vic's, which, for those of you who have been keeping tabs on my postings here, have blessed me with the better part of a dozen cracked ribs and a broken hand over the past two years. The pair of them, which I maintain are still the most challenging all-natural offerings in the Lower Mainland, have had their way with me (and some of the most skilled riders I know), but not this time. Though mostly wet and unpredictable, the Vics flowed like water down a quiet country creek on this ride.

Solace and salvation in the spin Photo: WarwickPatterson.com

Well, if you're an Australian Shepherd you pass out in the corner. If you're me, you try in vain to immortalize the experience in words and appreciate life for its simple pleasures and moments ... or collapse on your futon and watch the playoffs. This is Canada after all.

[The fight for Lord Stanley's cup was decided a few weeks ago, but the thought remains the same. Thanks for taking us along on your ride, Richard. - Ed.]