The "A" line was a risk, but he took it. It led straight down the nasty incline and was laced with hazards: cracks that could trap a front wheel, ledges that might stall forward movement, and drop-offs that might buck a rider forward into space. It was the path of broken bones but also of speed.
As he approached, the path appeared above the lip of the outcrop of granite. Too late to bail he thought to himself, stretching his arms to full length and dropping his butt off the back end of the saddle.
The line was steep, and he let the bike
drop into a descent along the primitive, harshly sharp granite wall. From this
point of entry there could be no retreat. As the front wheel fell away over the lip, he
could feel the rear un-weight and threaten to rise forward, potentially throwing
man and machine into a cartwheel down an unforgiving slope of naked rock. He
feathered the brakes so the front would not lock up and pitch him forward. He sat further back and dropped his butt down lower,
almost scraping on the rear tire as his abdomen rested on the seat. This was
it, the balance point, beyond which any steeper angle of descent would toss him
into space.
The bike
rolled forward, the front fork absorbing the impacts of ledges, and he steered clear of the wide fissures running down the ramp; he kept the
bike and rider from stalling.
Now he
could see the line around the steepest section and took it, nailing the curve
perfectly as the rock leveled out onto the packed dirt of the trail. He could
hear chasers behind him clicking out of their pedals, shouldering the bikes and
making their way down the drop on foot, sliding when their cleats caused them
to lose purchase on the exposed edges of stone.
He caught
his breath and settled back into his rhythm, cutting through the tight curves
of the fast, rolling, packed trail. He cut the corners close, just missing the
overhanging cholla that, if touched, could attach itself to his shoulder or
knee and burn there with its spines that pulled the skin in a tug-of-war, stretching it too many directions
to easily dislodge.
Finally, it was just
the trail, the line of the trail, and his breathing as he hunted for the
zone, the zone that would heighten the dangers and his reflexes, would let him
breathe through the pain rising and falling in his neck, his triceps, the
burning in his legs. He had to move fast, that much was a given, but better, he
had to move as fluidly and gracefully as water running through a gauntlet of
boulders.
Yes, it was
here that he was at home, oddly and paradoxically, moving, at speed, dizzy with
exhaustion and endorphins. He could see nothing but the trail in front of him,
hear nothing but his breath and the pounding of his blood in his ears, feel
nothing but the desert terrain traveling through the aluminum of the bike frame
in the form of shocks to his hands, wrists, feet, and butt. His body shook as
it absorbed the vibrations, muscle flapping slightly in spite of being tensed
to control the trajectory of ground flight along the desert crust.
He thought
of nothing in particular, but scraps of love, longing, and loss drifted in and
out of his awareness. Sometimes the world faded behind the insistent drone of
necessity and became a kind of harmony. He could see his life in perspective.
It made more sense. This was the moment, the ongoing moment of utter focus and presence. The here-and-now communed with the passion of pushing hard against the terrain, the wind, and gravity. He almost caught something so elusive as to be ineffable, but there it was, just out of reach, the fulfillment of a contract written sometime before birth, signed in his DNA.
He chewed
away at the miles and lost track of time. The angry gnawing in his belly told
him that he had been out for a while – an hour? Two? It didn’t matter. As he
progressed he noticed spectators along the edge of the trail. He was
approaching the finish. Cowbells clanged and women leaned in toward the trail,
eyes behind him, looking through him for their lovers. He pushed hard and
nobly. The chute grew large as he closed in on it and then it was done.
He wheeled
the bike out of the lane of finishers and bent over the bars to breathe. The
air came hard. He was more tired now than on the bike. He knew he had not won
and no one was waiting for him at the finish, so he walked his bike away from
the flags, banners, and time clocks back into the solitude of the road where
his ancient Subaru wagon waited.
Spiffy SUVs
with expensive racks, windows and bumpers covered with the exotic, splashy,
mountain bike decals, lined the road leading up to the staging area. The long
line vehicles stretched over a rise in the road and reappeared where the road
rose again, further toward the vanishing point, beads on an undulating wire,
shrinking into the distance. He ruminated on the how the numbers of people had
grown over the last few years, at how the races were more professional,
high-end, increasingly exclusive, with higher entry fees and more corporate
sponsors.
He reveled in the euphoria that
followed any hard ride, the glow of muscles that have worked hard but now got
to rest. Hey old paint he said to the sway-backed wagon as he unlocked the door and threw his helmet
onto the passenger seat.
Then it was
business. He flipped open the skewer of his front wheel, popped it off and
lifted the frame onto the fork mount on his roof. He could do this in his sleep
and he liked the mechanical efficiency of his task. The front wheel joined the
helmet in the cockpit of the wagon before he lifted open the hatch to extract
some clean clothes for the trip home. He sponged off with some camp soap and
rinsed with cold water from a jug he placed on the bumper. The cotton shirt
and cargo shorts felt good as he re-entered the anonymity of everyday costume:
he was now just another guy on the road, heading home, back to life.
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