Columns: Right Between the Eyes

Nature busted me for poaching an illegal trail last week. I was rolling along, enjoying that first moment of illicit thrill, having just dropped onto the trail, trying to ghost-float over the ground and not leave any tire marks, heart pounding with exertion and adrenaline, when a wasp flew up under my glasses, bounced off the inside of the lens, and furiously stung me three times right between the eyes.

"HA! Take that, trespasser!" As I flung my glasses from my head, ditched my bike and ran off into the woods, screaming, a burgeoning extra forehead already taking shape above my nose, the wasp hummed off unscathed. A black-and-yellow mercenary awaiting its next chance to inflict some pain on the world. After a few minutes of howling rage, I calmed down and accepted my newfound "Star Trek, The Next Generation" look, and began to come to terms with the headache and the strange, stretched-out feeling of my face. And we got back to our poaching.

At first, I was convinced that the wasp was somehow a karmic juggernaut sent to teach me some respect for the laws of this world. But, as the pain subsided and we kept rolling through this high Sierra wonderland, I began to question the veracity of that assumption. The only law we were actively breaking was a man-made one introduced in the last 20 years. What would a wasp know or care about this? Wasps sting when and where and how they want, usually when angered. Bouncing off the inside of a sunglass lens will piss a wasp off good and proper, just like riding past "no bikes" signage is enough to make rangers go berserk. But wasps? They could care less about signs or property lines or laws enacted in 1964 and modified in 1984 to specifically exclude mountain bikers from enjoying parts of the great outdoors. If there aren't mountain bikers to sting, there will always be hikers, hunters and equestrians. And they all react the same when you jab a little toxin into their skin. Laws of nature, that's all they care about.

A few miles later, back in legal land but still riding the exact same slice of geology as before, we split left and dropped down toward a remote lake. There was a rowboat at the lake, with oars in it, and it didn't leak. Getting it there must have required Herculean will and effort, or maybe a helicopter. We took it for a lap around the lake, and then tugged it back to the dry ground where we'd found it. Probably broke several laws in the process. On a granite slab next to an abandoned mining trail, we found some petroglyphs. Chances are, any Maidu Indian caught scratching his life story into the rock in this day and age would be promptly incarcerated for abuse of public lands. The 100-year-old hash-marks denoting the path of the trail could still be found on huge and gnarled tree trunks, but from there out, the remainder of the ride was an epic bushwhack. By the time we got back to town several hours later, I had added several bleeding wounds on my shins to the forehead high score from the early part of the ride.

This has been the story of my summer. Pain and suffering whenever I get near a bike, but always rewarded somehow. Either with a glorious sunset, a secret place or, as in this case, some petroglyphs and rowboat hot laps. I've done more damage to myself this summer than ever before. And I've ended up riding fewer hours than ever before because of it. It has been a summer of heat and dust, wrecked tendons, wasp stings, bacterial infections, food poisoning and not enough sleeping out under the stars. But the riding, while more brutal than I can remember, has been more rewarding than I could have ever hoped for.

In spite of the tattered clothes and wrecked bikes and worn-out shoes, the payoff has been worth every second of it. Even if it has meant breaking a few laws along the way.