Two Wheels & a Hat Full of Memories

By Mel Bearns

There’s a picture I just saw by John Gibson that stirred long-dormant memories of epic rides on two wheels long ago. It shows two riders going down a muddy country road and a man on horseback riding towards the camera leading a packhorse with what appears to be sugar cane. I instantly “fell” into the picture and started reminiscing, because a great deal of my early memories on dirt feature pastoral icons such as this one.

When I was much younger I rode almost every other weekend with my father on scenic trails and country roads, passing by small homestead farms, with rustic fences, rustic amenities and rustic people. Some rides started out in tropical climates that gently faded away as the trails and roads led higher and higher and the air thinned and became crisp, the smell of pine permeating the cool breeze. Others were in deep cool forests with dappled light and moist loam. Sometimes we rode on open grasslands and sun-scorched hills, crashing through streams and rivers.

I remember opening and closing rickety gates to continue on to destinations that always promised solitude and soul-stirring panoramas. And most of all I remember the feeling of independence that always came when I rode – born from the sense of adventure and unknown challenges surely waiting around every bend and over every rise. And the smells forever impregnated my being – rich loam, forest duff, baked grassland, clean rivers and the mist of waterfalls, farm animals and mud and food and people and sweat all commingling whipped into a thick sensory stew that made me feel incredibly alive.

Rite of Passage

I learned all about camaraderie from riding bikes with my dad and our friends. I learned about being resourceful and how to make broken things work again, whether it was with wire and duct tape, or jerry-rigging bits back into a functional state using ingenuity, pilfered parts and more than a fair share of cussing. I learned about doing thorough maintenance and the importance of pre-ride checklists. I learned that if someone is behind you, it’s good form not to drop them. I became adept at drinking red wine from an antique bota bag – the original Camelback. And I had more fun during those magical 7 years or so than many people will ever have in a lifetime.

Those times were full of rich, wholesome rites of passage. I always looked forward to riding again as we’d load the bikes up and head home. Sometimes caked in dust, other times shivering and drenched to the bone and slathered in rich organic matter. We were always famished, stomachs grumbling in anticipation of feasting on a fabulous post-ride meal which was always a ritual. I’m very grateful to my Dad for teaching me how to care for mechanical things – after eating we’d usually while away however long getting the bikes cleaned up and ready for the next outing. The time we spent talking, wrenching and enjoying being in the moment is forever etched in my deepest core – and to this day I still experience moments of Zen when I’m focused entirely on my bike. And I know that I wouldn’t trade my experiences and memories for all the video games and spurious entertainment in the world.

Do or Die

We often rode trails that were narrow, nasty and sinuous – the kind that did not suffer fools gladly. The price to pay was due in broken parts, contusions and lacerations. Our unspoken motto “if at first you fail, get on and try again,” offered few alternatives when we’d encounter gnarly technical sections we’d never ridden before. The crashes were often spectacular, stoking the chest of war stories with rich fodder for the telling. Success in cleaning a particularly difficult section always felt incredible – the recounting always burnished and embellished to enrich the tale and add color.

I had many friends back then that were deeply jealous, as they were not allowed to own or ride a dirt bike. The poor sods had a serious Jones going, and my stories did nothing to assuage their wants and desires. I relished this uniqueness, and its singularity made me feel a part of something outside of the everyday. The risks involved made everything clearer and sharpened my focus from an early age on – I learned a lot about physics and the laws of motion from hands-on experience. And as a previous column of mine touched upon, I’m still developing new and different ways to experience the joys of physical and gravitational laws. Some things never change.

I think it’s only fair that I mention that these rides that I recall didn’t occur on a ”real” mountain bike, they took place on stinky, curmudgeonly Mexican 2-stroke dirt bikes. Had mountain bikes been invented then, well I most likely would have been riding one, but not only do I digress, I’m dating myself here. However, since I was on two wheels and riding on dirt, I am taking a spot of license with my narrative.

Fast forward to ’95, when after far too many years of really not riding very much of anything – other than my stinking heavy Schwinn Varsity that refused to die – I found myself inexorably pulled into mountain biking and laid down cold hard cash on a brand new Klein. The first ride was truly magical, and it took me back – way back – to when I was a kid riding with my Dad. All the old feelings rushed in – the camaraderie, the joy of riding, the oneness of being in touch with the Earth. It was as if a stifling and oppressive murk had been lifted and in its place pure happiness was allowed to take hold. I rode and crashed like a newbie and loved every minute of it. The graduation from toe clips to clipless pedals a revelation that lifted my abilities and reduced undesired bodily contact with the ground – allowing access to technical trails that had previously been unassailable.

There and Back Again

Over the years since I first threw a leg over that magical mountain bike I’ve gone on to ride in some very special places, with some incredible people. I’ve learned to suffer the climb with stoic resolve and have found that there is beauty still in solitude. My bike is like a balm for my soul – more necessary than ever during this brutish age in which we live. It helps me keep the child inside alive and well and gives me the strength to live life fully – without artifice or hollow props. And it brings me closer again to the things that really matter – stripping the false veneer from this modern life allowing the vibrant colors and smells and textures of nature to flood my senses and rekindle my spirit.

Every ride is unique – I’ve learned that even though I may have ridden a trail many times, there’s always something different to be found. Whether within or without, a new experience is waiting to happen – the trick is to remember to open my mind. Capturing meaningful moments in time is a gift, and I look forward to many more. Every memory is a placeholder in time and they mark my progress as both a rider and a person. And now as a father-to-be, I look forward to those times and places when I’m able to ride with my child and forge a whole new set of memories for both of us to share, as I have with my own father.

I think it’s quite brilliant that all it took to bring back a lifetime of memories on two wheels was just one picture. And like old friends I hadn’t seen for many years, all these memories were eagerly welcomed, surprised to find that they too have become better over time. So in closing I’d just like to say Thanks, John. Through your lens you took me back to special places and special times in my life.

“When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human race.” H.G. Wells