in the office of one of the departmental supervisors at work, trying to drum up some text for an ad we were working on when I suddenly found myself explaining the virtues of singletrack. I was looking for the right words to explain it, but they never came. Tortuous (which they would’ve mistaken for "torturous"), perhaps. Serpentine. Weaving, narrow, rolling, tight, loamy, soft, gorgeous singletrack.
I guess I can’t blame them for not getting it.
Then I told them this story about taking my brother on a mountain bike ride—12 miles of brutal riding on doubletrack and fireroad (maybe a little singletrack here and there) before we spilled out onto the Hawley Creek trail. It’s narrow, tight, descending, bouncing almost, and it takes you through three creek crossings. And when we got done, my brother said, "Wow, that was the most fun I’ve ever had on a bicycle."
Of course, they still didn’t get it.
But then, as I was driving back home from work, that’s when it sunk in: roadies don’t talk about stuff like that. I’m a mountain biker. The real deal. Even if I haven’t made the pilgrimage to Moab.
Wow. A fat-tire riding mountain biker. Even on my completely rigid hardtail. Who knew?