Don't Fight It--Ignite It

Sunday was good. A little riding bender now and then is refreshing--it puts things in perspective, or at least brings your limits back into focus. I arrived at Hollywood Sports Park in Bellflower, California, at 10:30 a.m. with my bike, gloves and full-face. Freshly manicured and watered dirt jumps stared back at me. Do I ride or admire? Just seeing smooth jumps that had obviously been built by someone who knew how to carve a lip made 11 anxious days of not riding insignificant for the moment.

It's like the feeling you get carrying a 12-pack of PBR out of the liquor store to your car. You haven't cracked any cold ones yet, but there's a feeling of security cheap beer and trails can give you prior to partaking in their goodness. Uncashed paychecks, a full tank of gas before a road trip, and meeting a gorgeous blind date carry the same inherent "good things to come" vibe.

I rode solo until the locals showed up and shredded the trails like Whitewater documents. One of the riders (still in high school) back-flipped the last set of doubles on his first lap--a typical marking of his territory. But these locals weren't self-absorbed jerks, and riding with a group of dialed jumpers is on the same level as having a conversation with the hot girl who doesn't know she's hot. You are less self-conscious, and she is unassuming. All the bullshit and baggage is put aside for an honest exchange of words, or in Sunday's case, an exchange of dirt jumping and industry rumors. Say what you have to say, ride how you want to ride--no subconscious pressure.

I can't stand riding with gloves, but I was wearing them for my palms' sake. My calluses had faded and my hands were soft. I hadn't ridden trails in several weeks and I often squirrel out even when I am in top form, so I opted for the extra protection and grip. Halfway through the session I switched from the health-conscious, Bud Light safety mode to straight up Budweiser--no gloves, no elbow guards. Park rules said I had to keep the helmet on. After being cooped up in the Bike magazine office for a week, feeling the wind of freedom on my elbows and knuckles as I flowed through the eight pack animated my mind. The barehanded whips were a release from a week's worth of deadlines and fact checking.

I needed this riding binge--hell everyone needs this. After a massive plate of tacos and two Aleve, I was asleep before my head hit the futon. I woke up the morning after with stiff shoulders and tight quads from five hours of riding and several mid-flight bails. I rolled halfway over and felt my back tighten up and my fingers writhe in pain. "Shit," I groaned, feeling the throttle-grip syndrome set into my hands as my tendons turned to rusty spokes.

It's like that promising blind date (who was so easy to talk to) got me drunk and pushed me out of the pickup truck at 50 miles per hour.