Life is full of things you always figured you’d do, but never managed to get around to. Writing screenplays, hitchhiking through the Northwest, whatever. Mine was mountain biking. I have no idea why it was; it just was.
Living in New York City, as I did for close to 15 years, I found that mountain biking is not the kind of thing one does without some logistical backbends. I commuted to work on a hardtail for a while, but trails are few and far between in the city, so the one time that old Trek tasted dirt was a single afternoon in Queens. And while moving to the Bay Area last year was a boon for my road riding, I never got around to exploring the off-road world. That changed two weeks ago, when I mentioned to a riding buddy that I was toying with the idea of finally getting an MTB.
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Everything You Know About Bike Fit Is WrongOf course, when that riding buddy happens to be Wired.com photo director Jim Merithew, an idle threat immediately turns into a spiritual journey. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be attempting to turn myself into a singletrack-navigating, berm-crushing dirtsman. And I’ll be taking you with me, especially if you are a complete n00b. I'll run it all down right here: what to ride, how to ride and where to ride.
First, of course, I’d need a bike.
Within days, a giant box stamped “Yeti” in big letters arrived at the office. I wasn’t entirely sure there wasn’t an actual Yeti waiting inside it. I trekked it over to Roll SF, my local shop, for a build, a fit and, hopefully, some advice.
Sam Kroyer, who owns the place, is not only one of the most respected wrenches in the city, he’s been an avid mountain biker since the sport first arose in the hills of Marin County. The guy still rides a fully rigid bike (though after seeing the bike you’re about to read about, he certainly seemed like he was on the path to changing that). We shot the breeze as he worked, and within a couple of minutes I had realized one very important thing: This bike was way, way above my pay grade.
Coming into this endeavor, I had assumed I’d learn on a hardtail — a bike with a suspension fork but a rigid rear. They’re lighter and stiffer, and for many people the only thing to ride when starting out. Because it’s less forgiving than a plusher dual-suspension bike, the argument goes, you learn good trail habits off the bat, rather than developing poor technique because the dual lets you get away with it.
Still, even if I was going to start on a dual-suspension bike, I figured it would be something I understood. But as soon as the Yeti came out, my folly was clear. The Yeti SB66-C is, well, it’s a beast. A murdered-out, carbon-fiber, all-mountain beast with Shimano’s top-shelf components and 150mm of travel in the front fork. The fact that it costs nearly $6,000 gave me pause, but so did the fact that the fork could take a 6-inch beating and I didn’t even know what “all-mountain” meant. Turns out it means the thing can climb like a hardtail and descend like a downhill bike, all while being built to take a beating off drops. And it looks like a damn juggernaut to boot. So much so that when Sam finished adjusting my fit with a plumb-bob and a practiced eye and handed me the stallion, I experienced a moment of actual fear.
There it was, black and squat, looking like it could roll through a Kabul firefight without so much as slowing down. “Take it for a spin outside,” he said. “See how it feels.” I took hold of the handlebars, looked down at the thing.
Probably shouldn’t mention I’m scared to get on, I thought.
I know what road bikes feel like; I had no idea how this thing would respond to me — or I to it. A couple of minutes test-riding the blocks outside the shop quelled some of my fear. It had two wheels and pedals, and while the ride is unmistakably mushier than a road bike — huge knobby tires mean a lot of rolling resistance, and with dual suspension there’s no way for a pedal stroke to translate into as much power as on a rigid frame — the thing behaved pretty much like any other bike I’d ever been on.
On pavement, at least.
Two days later, Jim honked his horn outside my apartment in Oakland. I came down the stairs with my bike (at less than 25 pounds, this thing is light enough that it doesn’t feel markedly different on my shoulder than my steel Schwinn single-speed), and we set off into the hills for my maiden voyage.
Redwood Regional Park, with its miles-long ridge trail of doubletrack, is a perfect setting to learn the feel of a mountain bike. Parts of it are wide and flat like a fire road, but it has enough rooty twisting segments and rolling hills that I didn’t feel like I was in the remedial class. Your first few rides, you’re going to want to stick to trails that are looser (fewer hairpins and switchbacks) and less technical, meaning relatively free of roots, rocks and obstacles. Yeah, your buddies are going to want you to bomb down that black-diamond singletrack when they go to the park, but you’ll either die or wish you had. Stick to the easy stuff for now. Learn your bike, learn what the physics feels like. Of course, the Yeti immediately made it clear that it didn’t care what the trail looked like; it would be devouring whatever I put in front of it.
A quick side note here: I should point out that I learn by reading. I know how ridiculous that sounds, especially for something as seemingly body-over-mind as mountain biking, but I’d spent the previous week devouring Brian Lopes and Lee McCormack’s Mastering Mountain Bike Skills, and I can’t overstate how much it helped me. If you’re new to the world of MTB, read it. Now. Getting out on the trails, I at least knew how to comport myself on the bike (weight on the pedals, chest expanded, hands light on the handlebars) and a little bit about how to corner (brake before but never during, weight your outside pedal, lean the bike but keep your body upright). And it worked. Was I ready for Red Bull Rampage? C’mon. Was I even ready for riding singletrack? Probably not. But at least I felt comfortable, and I managed the hour-long ride without getting bucked over the handlebars or sliding out off the trail. (Though I have a feeling about 97 percent of that was due to the Yeti, which rolled over root clusters like they were golf pencils.)
I stayed upright, in fact, until Jim decided to teach me how to pedal a wheelie in the parking lot. It’s a trick I’d never been able to manage on a bike growing up — I always yanked up with my arms, which meant my center of gravity didn’t change, which meant the front wheel had no reason to do anything but raise itself a couple of inches off the payment. My sensei explained only by moving my hips back and keeping my arms straight would the nirvana of a wheelie be attained.
“Do it with your feet,” he said. “The force of the pedal stroke will pop the wheel up, then you just have to keep your balance.” He also mentioned that I should keep a finger on my rear brake to keep from going over backward if the front wheel raised too high. Remember that, because it’ll be on the test.
So I drove my pedal stroke forward. Nothing. Again; nothing. Again; no — wait.... My wheel came up! Again. My wheel came up again — and stayed up for a full second. Again! Three pedal strokes! Again! FIVE pedal stro— OH CRAP I’M GOING OVER. Not backward, thankfully, but in my excitement over my newfound skill I may or may not have forgotten the whole stay-balanced-on-the-saddle thing, and went down hard on my left side.
A little blood, a little soreness, but the pain was nothing compared to feeling like I might just learn to love this sport.
