Trail Tales – Sharing Some Next Level Sh*t Talk For Posterity’s Sake. 

Riding Fools

We are standing on a windswept bluff in Cumberland. Regrouping at the top of a climb and about to experience one of the truly great moments that a group of riders can share. That is, of course, riding a trail for the first time, when it is everyone’s first time. 

We are variably looking after a mechanical, snacking, talking sh*t, and otherwise burning some time. My friend Jackie* is a touch impatient** and the situation is getting borderline-peevish when three gents roll up the climb behind us. I remember them as two friendly blokes on Giant full suspension bikes and one, at this point, slightly piqued personage riding a black Surly single speed. 

We are a friendly bunch and banter is initiated immediately. They are locals. Maybe three minutes deep the inevitable question comes up: “where are you folks staying?” It is a benign enough question, and Jackie starts in with a fully positive review of the awesome digs we are renting. 

“Oh, have you ever stayed at the Riding Fool Hostel?“

*Name changed to protect the guilty

**Word changed to protect yours truly

Ever been on a beautiful sunny ride where in the blink of an eye black storm clouds roll in and the temperature drops ten degrees? Yeah, me too. Had Jackie stayed at the Riding Fool? Why yes, yes she had. Was it a good experience? Oh no, quite the opposite. Did she have any qualms revisiting said experience? F*** no. 

As she entered full rant mode the most peculiar thing happened. Buddy with the single speed looked increasingly incensed and his two riding companions vibrated giddily as if enjoying some shared joke. It was only as they said goodbye that I realized who the single speeder was…

Me: “Ummm, Jackie… I think that guy on the single speed is the owner of the Riding Fool and his buddies were just f***ing with you. He ummm, may have also built the trail we are about to ride.”

Jackie: “Good! Do you know how hard it is to get honest feedback like that?!” 

“It’s Just Golf, Gentlemen” 

Whether it was the Big Hoes* or the cigars** my regular riding group in the noughties would often end up in North Van’s Seymour’s Pub after a ride for beers and eats. Usually, we would sit on the patio to keep an eye on our bikes but if the patio was full we would make it work to sit inside. 

On this day, in particular, the place was a packed mix of dirty mountain bikers and clean-cut golfers who either did not break a sweat on the course or put on fresh branded golf-shirts and ballcaps after they wrapped up. 

We are laughing, joking, taking the piss when suddenly a deep sheet of silence floats down onto the entire establishment. You could not have cut the tension with Jeremy Power’s long bar chainsaw. I look around. Huh? Look at the TV. Oh, Tiger’s about to make a putt. Whatever. He sinks it, whatever‽  

The golfers sitting near us erupt into an orgy or short-sleeve collared shirts and white Nike baseball hats with perfect curves. Hugs, cheering, high fives. One dude starts crying. Crying. And, just as the wall of noise cuts to silence my friend Laurie*** says, at the top of her lungs:

“IT’S JUST GOLF, GENTLEMAN“

She covers her mouth with one hand and then the rest of her face with the other. There is not a face in the establishment that is not staring at her and in all honesty, at the moment, I was 50/50 on whether some golfers were going to get beat down in a mountain-biker v. golfer brawl at Seymour’s on a sunny afternoon. 

The stare-down lasts long enough to make the final cut in a Sergio Leone movie but finally, the golfers sit down quietly to commiserate and the whole room seems to relax and go back to whatever they were doing before an entire table of grown golfers were called out by one 5’2″ mountain biker. 

*Large-sized Hoegaarden beers

**Black beans rolled in tortillas 

***Yes, I am sticking with that name changing thing

Larry Talker And The Bright Green, Always Clean, MEC Backpack

Larry Talker* is a big thinking, slow to anger, intellectual, hand grind your coffee beans type who rationalizes his every decision. The guy, literally, can not resist deep thoughts and yoga as the sun sets on stone arches in Utah. It is beautiful. 

He also likely still owns the legendary bright green backpack. Unless he has managed to unload it onto another deserving party. In which case, I somehow doubt that individual understands the legendary prop which they now possess. 

At its peak, the backpack had its own theme song, band**, and my endless ribbing about how that backpack was never dirty. Did he wash it after every ride? Take advantage of MEC’s over-generous guarantee weekly? I even brought my sunglasses to a night ride once. 

Then, in Moab, Utah, after we replaced a couple of broken friends at the last minute, we came across the most confounding mud I have experienced in my life. We were caught out in a rainstorm and by the time it gave way to an epic, massive, rainbow the red mud had eaten my brake pads, rotors, and completely roached a fresh chain and single speed cog that were new that week. Ouch. 

I am trying to muddle through the futility of cleaning my bike, now caked with dried red mud thanks to the intense sunshine following the rainstorm, when a long shadow falls over me. An intense Larry Talker is standing over me holding his backpack with an expectant look on his face. Huh?

Without moving himself he slowly extends the backpack towards me. It is caked-through with red dirt. Forever infused with same infuriating formula that has destroyed my bike in an afternoon. Yes?

Larry: “Take a picture.“

Me: “A picture?”

Larry: “My backpack. It’s dirty. Take. A. Picture.“

Never did see that backpack again, Larry…

*Yep, that name change thing again.  

**Larry Talker And The Always Clean, Bright Green, Backpack. They were a worldly modern funk-jazz trio – obviously.