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05/12/2008
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- Ice Roll
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Words by Ed Snyder
Images ~Beck Snyder
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The Morning
Eyes crack open against the chill. Brain stumbles to attention. Work day? No.
Then what…
Ride.
Heart makes a subtle leap and the roll out of bed comes half a tick quicker
than normal. The cold greets feet as they hit the floor. A glance past the curtain
to spy the world outside. Eyes confirm what feet already told you. Well below
freezing. Gear. Gonna need lots of gear today.
Stealthy steps toward the kitchen, but dogs aren’t fooled so easily. The
hounds’ breakfast dispensed, your fingers perform their ritual, subtle
alchemy, and freshly brewed energy springs from the espresso maker like water
from the rock. A moment of respite with steaming mug in hand before the coming
brace against the world, the cold, the trail and ultimately, yourself.
The rest of the morning slips by quickly, gathering the man-made elements needed
to hold the natural elements at bay. Pants, jacket, gloves, hat, socks, oversocks,
glasses, shoes. The list is rote, worn in memory like a creek’s path through
the stone. Hunching against the chill and sliding to the garage to check on
your willing but silent partner, hanging in the stand, awaiting its chance to
bolt into the woods and help you get lost on purpose. A quick check and all
is secured. Helmet in hand, gas in the truck, fire in your heart…
It’s on.
“So do we get our merit badge after this one?”
Disc in the slot. Something new today. Special rides require adjustments in
the routine. Volume up high-school loud, and let slip the surly bonds of driveway.
Bound for a rendezvous, a test, a mystery yet to be written and a release. Thermometer
is like a stubborn child, unmoved by presence or intention. Phone breaks up
the revolution blaring from the stereo. Glance at the number without really
needing to, knowing it’s today’s partner in crime. Only one question…
late or bagging? Only delayed. Mental sigh of relief.
It’s still on.
Out of the valley and into the foothills. Elevation increases, temperature dips,
frost turns to ice, ice to snow, and finally piles at the side of the road.
Traction decreases, senses come fully on-line and both hands find the wheel.
My my my, what have we here? This is going to get interesting.
Arrival at the trailhead grants a welcome surprise. A solid number of hearty
souls, worthy of a balmy summer day, have braved the morning’s frosty
kiss. Their presence answers a basic human question: “I’m not the
only one…” Arrival of today’s co-conspirator ends the stereo’s
reign over your ears and replaces it with the essential trail side dish, chatter.
“So do we get our merit badge after this one?”
“It is a bit nip isn’t it?”
“What’s that you say? I can’t hear you over the frozen wax cracking
in my ears.”
“Bring that frozen ear over here. I got something that will melt it straight
away. I had my coffee this morning.”
After offering the observation of surprise that our numbers were much greater
than expected, given the cold, the sage riding partner serves up a fundamental
answer to the basic mountain biking question.
“I’m not surprised” he says with a wry smile, “Mountain
bikers are crazy.”
"It has been transformed into a miniature version
of Superman’s fortress."
The Ride
Chatter aside and gear strapped down, steeds are mounted and voyage begins.
Away from the road, over the ditch and on to the prize; rough, frozen singletrack.
The tires transmit a faintly familiar crunching noise as they roll over the
path you used to know. It has been transformed into a miniature version of Superman’s
fortress. Laid out before you in a ribbon of icy crystals, it beckons toward
the woods. As the metres pass, the sound of the road and other riders falls
softly away until only the crunching ice punctuated by heaving breath remains.
Progress is interrupted to adjust, to chide, to drink. Snot bubbles make an
unwelcome return and the thought crosses minds that you resemble bison more
than humans right now; snorts of frosty breath piping out of your wrapped, wooly
bulk. The pedaling resumes and the bodies adjust for the coming onslaught. It’s
not just around the corner to the store… This is going to last awhile.
The first crash punctuates the silence and snorting rhythm with a scraping
sound reserved for things gone wrong. Listen for the next sound. You always
listen for the next sound. Any sound will do at first (he’s moving) then
a happy sound is preferable. It doesn’t always come, but this time it
does. Laughter. Just a slippery, clipped-in bail. Not a stack.
Ride on.
Rhythm is the key now. The world slips away as the sound did before. Soon the
only thing left is the ribbon of ice, the tire in front of you and the next feature.
Solving each one as it comes, some with elegance and others with force. Momentum
the commodity, bought and sold to continue ever-forward. Shifts at the front are
exchanged as bobbles open opportunities to take the lead. The momentarily stymied
leader moves aside and becomes a passenger on the train, focusing hawk-like on
the next chance to regain ice-breaking duties. Soon it all begins to melt together.
Effort spent, sweat lost, kilometres gained, puzzles of ice and wood solved, laughs
had, dangers avoided. Despite the heavy sensory load, less is seen, bumps pass
unnoticed and the focus pushes ever farther down the trail until you see…
nothing.
Flow
In that moment, with all behind you and focusing beyond the horizon you can
see, it washes over you. The thing that cannot be found finds you, struggling
in the middle of the woods, and pushes you forward with an inexplicable burst.
Rough seems smooth, fast slows down and the most complex puzzles of wood, dirt,
rock and ice…effortless. Then as quickly as it washed over you the end
of the section is reached. Stopping to exclaim, wanting to bellow joy at the
top of your lungs, you look back. As if you could see a stripe of energy hanging
like the aurora in the forest air. Some glowing marker of the moment of brilliance.
But there is nothing. Only ice, trees, steam and silence. A halting whisper
slides from your lips as the only marker that anything occurred at all.
“Did you see that?”
"Stop. Breathe. Drink. Laugh. Marvel."
Coda
The space left after its passing is filled by weariness. Reserves depleted and
aches rising. The pace slackens and the world begins to return. Brain throbbing
with endorphins and breaths measured to be even. Jokes still flow but take longer
to tell. The icy mud and frozen sandpaper dirt slip away as your tires roll
from singletrack to the doubletrack that points toward the trucks, several hills
away. Stop. Breathe. Drink. Laugh. Marvel. Without noise or notice, it begins
to snow. Recharged by the spectacle, you turn to the only other soul that has
witnessed this with you. All of this.
“I don’t think the heavy stuff is going to come down for quite some
time yet.”
Ed Snyder
Say your piece here.
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