For us there isn’t much of anything to say at the moment. We are stopped on the top of a small rise in the trail, the rain falling down on us. There is so much water in the air that I cannot see anything but the dark outlines of tree trunks in the mist.

 

The trail beneath us, and leading away from us down into the sodden forest, is a strip of dark chocolate dirt framed by bright neon green salmon berry leaves. They capture rivulets of water that pool before pouring down like small waterfalls onto the trail. Every protruding root and stone shines as if polished, smiling up from the ground. Water descends from the heavens to earth all around us.

 

Our breath rises in steaming clouds, and there is water pouring from our hair down onto our chins, into our mouths, running down our necks and down our backs. We are sitting on our bikes, one foot on the ground, the other on the pedal. Our bikes are covered in globs of mucky dirt, nomadic chunks of earth that have come along for the ride.

 

There is a small river of water running down the trail ahead of us. It is dark in these woods, and through the fog I can see the warm glimmer of town far below. I can imagine the warmth inside the houses, folks perhaps making dinner or sitting around the fire.

 

This evening our tires have been exploring the fine line between tracking and traction, snaking and sliding over twisting roots and slippery boulders, our grip to the earth dictated by this rough and off camber trail. Our bikes with us upon them have been moving downwards at a rate of speed that feels as fast as we’ve ever gone. It is as if we are racing the raindrops. They are falling and we are flying; downwards through this wet and wild forest as dusk descends. We ride down the trail like chased animals and our hoots and hollers must sound particularly primeval amongst the shadows and fading light. Huge tree branches absorb the sound of our passage and even as we ride it is hard to tell if the rushing in our ears is our tires rotating and impacting against the earth, or the patter of the rain; or perhaps there is silence. It feels as though our senses are both heightened and dulled at once.

 

We have stopped for this moment but we both know there is no good reason to stop. When the simple act of riding becomes extraordinary, stopping is not an option.

 

The only thing hot in this forest is our brake rotors, which hiss with each raindrop that is severed by their spinning rotation. Everything else is cold, rained upon, there are puddles forming even as we watch. We had made a plan to ride in the morning but I had begun to feel apprehensive when thick black rain clouds stormed into the sky above town. I waited for the call, almost hoping to pick up and hear excuses. However, it was the opposite, our friend Newman was ready to drive us up the mountain, the day was getting on, and a reference to our manhood was tossed into the slightly static airspace of our phone connection.

 

For us, paused here, almost invisible amidst this torrent, with night coming on, we are doing something that makes us feel unique. And as luck would have it, we have happened upon one of those rides that is special. For some reason we are not all that cold, and our riding has not been hampered by these conditions. For some reason our bikes are flying, and we upon them are carving and diving like charging men of battle. We are dashing through thick mud and uneven terrain, our speed through this sodden land almost mythical, impossible. We are hot objects in this storming afternoon, and are halfway down the trail.

 

My riding partner, without a word, breaks this rainstorm reverie. Instantly riding in battle stance, solid on his bike, ready to absorb obscured impacts. I follow closely and we are again storming down this trail on this strange night. Immediately we are faced with a slick rock strewn steep section that leads into a tight, root infested corner, but we skip like thrown rocks downwards, at high speed, with no problem. In front of me my riding partner takes an absurd leap, airing upwards and outwards, his tires at first skimming over wet gnarly surfaces and then spanning a gap between the solid earth as the land falls away. Without thinking I pull off from that same point; flying into the air, raindrops stealing my vision. I feel as though I am in the air forever, slippery things grinning up at me from beneath. Ahead, my comrade has already landed and is sliding into the next corner. I land with no hindrances, in a tumult of spraying puddles and soft earth that gives way beneath my tires. I slide into the corner going extremely fast, and dirt and water is flying everywhere. It feels as though there are people lining the edge of the trail hurling buckets of sopping organic material at us.

 

It is like there is a band of energy holding us together as we hurdle down the trail. It is getting dark, it is raining so hard we can barely see. We are riding our bikes in a reckless fashion down a slick trail riddled with obstacles. But for some reason we are not slowing down, we are not taking the danger into consideration. There is a hot surging force in the air between us as we race downwards. It feels like we have crossed the barrier of gravity and become unified with the trail.

 

All of a sudden we reach the bottom and even though I am soaked to the skin I feel a sharp pang of disappointment that the ride is over. At the same time my emotions are surging with euphoria. We approach the waiting truck parked like a glowing beacon, coasting, our suspension absorbing the final small bumps, the night sky a black frown. Through the near darkness, rain, puddles, and now thunder and lightning, we are greeted by Newman, hunkered down in the driver’s seat, hood up, smoke threading from his pipe.

 

Few words are exchanged as we load the mud soaked bikes, lay a towel on the back seat for our muddy selves, moving around like dredged, waterlogged things.

 

But for a moment, I catch my riding partner’s eye, and we exchange a glance that is communicative in the way the lightning in the sky tells us there is a storm tonight. Obvious. Like rain, like our downward passage this evening. It is natural for us to be out here, experiencing this. It is natural for us to pause for only a brief moment on the entire descent, to talk little, to ride hard and fast.

 

For us, we have simply reaffirmed something that we already know. As Newman puts the truck into motion, the rain falling upon the roof attempts to speak of it in so many drummings, but it is difficult to put into words.

Permalink | June 15th, 2010

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