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Seat High or Low - |
We talk of that thrill in the beginning; that feeling of barely hanging on, of being unsure of the unraveling of the moment. The early days of riding compared to these, the experienced ones. We are way up here, Chris George and I, a few thousand feet above our vehicles, taking in the view from on high. From here I am a simple speck in this mountain country I have chosen as my new home, having left behind the familiar ocean side landscape of Vancouver Island. Here I am mystified by this expanse, this circular ring of peaks that becomes tighter, more confined as you rise above. Chris points out features: Mount Baldy, Whitewater, the Kokanee Burn, the direction of Nelson.
We are resting on a ridge so long and thin it’s as though we are perched on a dragon’s back. For all I know at this moment the world could be little more than an illusion, and all that is real is this cold air, this calm summit, this riding partner, this conversation of the white knuckle fear and boldness of our early riding days.
We are on the subject because of my comically elevated seat, the seat post stretched to its limit. With my long legs and the mixed up and down nature of this trail I have chosen to leave it way up, and Chris has been following me down twisting single track as I am pinned heavenward. It’s been a while since I rode down anything with my seat up, let alone elevated like a jacked crane tower. The funny thing is, on this high alpine trail I am not feeling so dedicated to the downhill. I am caught up more in the setting, the expanse of country around us. I have been having fun with my seat jacked, forcing me into a position beyond cross country geek, into more of a North Shore free rider’s nightmare - caught on a steep line with a giraffe for a seat post. That’s what comes with having these long legs and riding a bike with a 16.5 inch seat tube. However, up here I am not feeling pressure to rail the descent, perhaps because of the knowledge that this trail extends another twenty five kilometers into my future, perhaps by the reminder of my early days on a bike.
My normal ability to crouch and lean is forsaken, and I am left standing as high as these mountaintops, taking corners as though I have a wooden board nailed to my back, my hamstrings taut. I think of the catapult potential of the seat waiting just below my butt, and concentrate hard on each small rock. Tiny drop offs cause much gritting of teeth as I struggle to get my weight behind my center stage seat.
Chris has been getting a kick out of my attempts to rip it, and as we stand atop this ridgeline, looking out towards other long ridges and the peaks they octopus from, we discuss days gone by. Chris speaks of his love of the climb, of his lack of shuttle rides this year. I consider him hardcore, ten years my senior and out there climbing, and riding trails in a town famous for gnarliness. I am in awe of the fact that the trails I ride are trails he’s been riding for over a decade, and pedaling his way up there for the majority of it.
I think back to when I was fourteen, riding every day after school. Back then a thirty kilometer trail full of uphill like this would’ve been a cakewalk, and now I struggle, pushing my bike and enjoying seven inches of travel on the way down. Nowadays I can barely climb. Is it my knees, my hamstrings, or my will? Is it my character?
My descending skills have come a long way and these days I rail lines full
of drops and gnarl and log rides. A trail I barely hesitate on nowadays would’ve
been an impossible feat back then. But today, on this trail, not a single adrenaline
worthy move in sight, am I better off? Is it a sin not being able to climb worth
a damn, not being able to really travel anywhere upon my bike, limited to pushing
and shuttling up to trails full of consequence and danger?
Chris and I both agree that we ride for fun. Getting off on nature, on challenge,
on sending it with gravity at our back. My early riding days were full of white
knuckles, open mouthed descending, fresh achievements. With evolution has come
a carnivorous rush; aggression, more passion for riding the edge.
I gaze across these endless mountains that encircle my new life here in the Kootenays. Back home the mountains of my youth no longer remember my presence, hurling up and down their smooth paths on a light cross country bike, strong and agile and eager to learn.
Now I am roaming a new range of mountains, on a different bike, in a different fashion. There is much too lament, I acknowledge, but there is much to celebrate.
Chris and I continue along the trail, riding from summit to summit, up and down. I push my heavy bike up many of the hills, my thoughts turning dark at the thought of my former strengths. I resurface with thoughts of recent rides, of riding trails faster and more smoothly than ever before, on much more rugged mountains with many amazing riders. The fact is that today I am able to ride with my seat pushed way too high and still shred difficult downhill. I am riding things I never would have dreamed of in the past. It is a renewing and delightful experience to get a rush from remembering the past. No regrets please.
Chris and I arrive at the point where the trail separates a little from its continuum, like a wind picking up over water and churning stillness into waves. From here we will experience nothing but excessive downwardness. I am at a time of rejoicing. I have conquered much uphill today, even though I performed as a mere shadow of my former cross-country aficionado self. I lower my seat to its familiar spot, the distinct line below which the seat post is scuffed and faded. Here is the spot I prefer. In these high, rugged mountains so far away from my home and my past, I prefer to let gravity do the work. I lose Chris as I charge downwards, drifting around corners and relinquishing myself with velocity of today‘s uphill toil. Even with my senses erupting as I spiral down smooth, high-speed single track, I feel one last sorrow for the rider I once was. The strong, go anywhere youth; the uphill optimist of days past.
The next corner awaits, and I dive forward, my body alive and centered over
the bottom bracket. My seat is low and out of the way, and I push hard into
my inside pedal as I rocket. At this moment, I know the rider I once was would
have been in awe at the speed, at the bike, at the mountain. At this moment,
as I have been countless times before, seat high or low, I am happy.
| Riley McIntosh is twenty one years
old and has a homebase in Nelson, BC. He has been in love with mountain
bike riding since he was eleven years old, when he discovered the trail
network of Mt. Tzouhalem near his home in Maple Bay, BC. He raced cross
country and also on the road until he was seventeen. He began trail building
when he was in grade ten, when he convinced his high school to give him
course credit for building a bike path. During this time, although he
was mainly into road riding, he began building a 'freeride' style bike
trail for the fun of it. |
Bruce Robertson
Jamaican-born, Newfoundland-raised, Canadian citizen and cultural mutt.
Mountain biker. Illustrator. Hooligan.
Head to otherether.com for a closer look into Bruce's brain.
