To Hell with Technology
- by Scott Cotter

I’m no technophobe. In fact, I like and am fascinated by technology. But I often find myself on the outside of conversations between other biker nerds when the talk turns to gear. I’m not saying I don’t appreciate gear either. Heck, I have some on my bike.

What gets me is that for many people the ride seems to have disappeared and in its place sits technology. They spend all their time thinking, talking and worrying about, what else, gear.

I belong to an email list peopled mostly by mountain bikers. Discussions never focus on the joy of a ride, the magic of bumping down some trail, listening to the crunch of leaves under the tires, or finding a sweet spot to sit and enjoy the silence.

But the darn emails pile up for miles when someone starts talking about using GPS to map trails. Huh? Those people would tell you that the gear is what makes it a whole experience for them. They’d tell you that having a GPS receiver on the handlebar is what makes them happy.

Hey, it’s a semi-free country. Do what makes you happy. You want to ride with GPS, that’s great. You want to spend thousands on a dual-suspension bike because it makes your ass feel better, more power to ya. What gets me is when people focus completely on the gear, on arguing whether hardtails or full suspension is better (yeah, I’m guilty of championing the hardtail cause myself…here and elsewhere...only because its simple and less prone to problems that can distract you from the ride). But why don’t people talk about the rides, why don’t they discuss at length what it feels like to be flat fried and humpin’ it through the woods as the sun’s setting, the day’s last golden flickers trickling through the leaves and scattering shadows over the ground.

There is hope. Singlespeeders – when they can get over themselves for being so damn cool – have the right idea. A simple bike can take you down the trail just the way a big thumping, double-sprung rig can. My friend Nate is the perfect example. He’s got a tangle of different parts on his Surly, but he doesn’t care. He just rides. And while he’s doing it, he oozes joy. The look he has is that of startled surprise. He seems truly amazed that, as an adult, he gets to do this wonderful, glorious thing. Sometimes, I swear, the look on his face is the same look you would have when finally getting to use the bathroom after holding it for an eternity. Somewhere between pleasure, release and gratitude.

I implore each and everyone one of you to remember the day you first rode a bike. Before you became self-obsessed, you didn’t care about the color, whether it had a sissy bar or cheater slick. What you cared about was the magic carpet ride. The way the wind felt as it brushed your face. The way your legs felt pumping up and down like pistons. You cared about riding.

So make a promise to stop and smell the forest more. Use your senses for something besides figuring out your wireless cyclometer, your heart-rate monitor, GPS unit or electronic, double secret NASA-approved core core shifting set up. To hell with technology. Ride your bike the way you did when you were young – because it just feels good.

A Fistful of Fruita
Grabbin' some fun, sun and singletrack in mountain biking's next Mecca
-by Scott Cotter

We had loaded the borrowed trailer with thousands of dollars worth of bikes, closed the doors and said goodbye like we'd never see them again. Our gear, including a keg of micro brew, hitched a ride, too. The hardiest of our group pulled the trailer non-stop from Kansas City in an aged Suburban with questionable mechanical integrity that had been dubbed the Fruita Assault Vehicle. The rest of us, being of sound mind, took the easy way. We flew.

We clocked in Thursday afternoon to find our gear, beer and friends waiting. Two hours later we were on the trail. And it was within the first 10 minutes of that first ride on the first day when it became abundantly clear that I was in Fruita to have my ass kicked. Just broke right off and handed to me. I wasn't alone either. I'd made the trip with eight other flatlanders and we'd spend all four days pawing at our shifters trying to find something with a little more grunt.

So it goes in Fruita, a little dusty gem on the Western edge of the state almost to the Utah border. You go up; you go down, and back up again. You fly through beautiful desert near peaks and ledges that jut majestically over the Colorado River several hundred feet below. And hope you don't pull a major Fred and float into the great, wide blue.

We rode all the favorites Thursday and Friday. Horse Thief's Bench with its slick rock, stair steps and water slide like dry creek bed. Mary's Loop with its views of the valley. Prime Cut and Chutes and Ladders with long gentle climbs turning into sharp, torturous ones. We even joined the Glitter Girls, local legends and highly capable riders known to shame men into wearing skirts during rides. They herded us towards Mack's Ridge, a knee-busting climb to a plateau that overlooks the town, valley and many crisscrossing trails below. All the while our youngest rider, ripened to 22 years, was affectionately being called Cherry until he burned in so many times his skin looked like it'd tangled with a rabid belt sander. His new nickname is Crash.

Making Friends
Our popularity was without question after every ride. After all, we had a keg of cold beer and made nice with everyone on a bike. More than once we heard, "hey, are you the guys with that good Kansas City beer?" Friday night, when our pursuit of a beer buzz became particularly boisterous, The Man came callin'. Seems it's against the law to ride on top of vehicles in Fruita. How were we to know?

Saturday, with our heads as bruised as our bodies, we hit Mary's Loop and Horse Thief's bench again in the morning and Front Side, Zippity, Joe's Ridge and Kessel Run-a group of trails with enough up and down to sting a mountain goat-in the afternoon. Sunday, we pushed the repeat button on Mary's and Steve's Loops before packing it in.

Overall, it was a good trip. We escaped with only a few cuts, scrapes and bruises, two broken wheels, a fried rear hub, a few flats and a couple of tickets for public stupidity. But hey, it was Fruita. And that means it didn't suck. Not even a little.

Pointers

It is the desert so go early. In April temps can already be hitting 90.
Clydes should ride heavy-duty gear. You're miles away from town and if something fries you could be baking out there a damn long time.
Take plenty of tubes. Pinch flats are common.

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