Sometimes I gotta wonder where my mind is. 90 degrees, humid to fuckall and I’m gonna go bike some trails I know nothing about. All I’ve heard is they aren’t lung busters, and they reward you for being technical and having cajones. So, you know, forget the heat index. Forget the holiday weekend diet of crap foods and gallons of beer. Forget that fact that I’ve only been on my rig like 4 days this year. I strapped on my cajones, watched a few YouTube videos about how to get technical skillz and hit the trails.
I landed at Lowes Creek Country Park and immediately had to head back out because I didn’t have $3 to pay the trail fee.
I grabbed some cash and made my way back to the park. Naturally, there were no trail maps left in the box labeled “Trail Maps,” so I had to head out into unfamiliar territory. The oppressive sun, the strange trails, warning signs all over the area that read “I stand with Scott Walker” and the uncertain future all had me feeling like Charles Marlow.
So I went out and rode trails. I saw only 6 other riders and only from a distance. Being out there in the heat was like a death wish. But I rode the shit out of that place for about 90 minutes. There were some cool features. Like this for example:
I have dreams of people hitting shit like that after a slight rain and just sailing off the edge. What lies beneath—pain, sadness, small gardens of illegally grown marijuana—only a few have lived to tell about.
Then later I came to this:
Again, I’m sure this zone is wicked fun after a rain.
I decided to hit up Blue Mounds State Park for a Memorial Day ride. Again, the humidity levels were disgusting, but the temperature was lower, so I figured I would be fine.
I arrived at the park and ended up riding the yet unfinished Pokerville trail with two strangers. They were both on 29ers and thus felt the need to bust jokes on my bike. These guys had probably 15 and 25 years on me. They were oldies, and I was immediately lessoned. How they rolled that place so quickly is beyond me. It strikes back to one of my frustrations with Blue Mounds—it is so hard to keep any sort of momentum. That place is all rocks and roots and will destroy your fucking tires and body. It’s masochism on a bike.
By the time we wrapped the Pokerville trail, One guy was a million miles ahead, the other blew a tire and I was on my own. I took to the other trails when the thunder started rolling in. I was here when the rain started:
But I kept going. The rain never came down too hard, it eventually stopped and the sun was peaking out again. That means it got st-st-steamy. The kind of steamy that fogs the glasses on your friggin face. It was gross. But I made it out.
My legs are dead today.