The Beginning
When I first got into riding trails in April of 2015, I traded a bunch of climbing gear for my first bike. With a 2010 Kona Dawg hanging precariously from the trunk rack of my car, I sped up the canyon road to the only trail that I knew, eyes glued to the swinging bike in the rear view mirror. I could think only of the upcoming summer. What trails would I ride? What trips would I make? Even from the driver’s seat I could feel the excitement of rushing through the trees at Mach 9, rocketing around corners and making the trail bend beneath me. I could practically smell the pine trees and feel the air rushing past my ears. I parked the car, threw on my off-brand “been-through-the-war” hydration pack, and climbed aboard my new toy. This was going to be awesome.
And then I started riding.
As it turns out, the only trail that I knew was the Southern Skyline Trail. Starting at 6,200 ft, it was a mile and a half of unbreaking uphill filled with loose, steep, rocky sections that ensured I was only able to ride for 5 consecutive pedal strokes. I pushed that stupid bike up almost the entire trail. My heart raced out of control like a car in neutral with a brick on the gas pedal. It didn’t seem that bad when I hiked it. I thought about just giving in to gravity and riding back down the trail to the car. But being the persistent and slightly obsessive type that I am, I’d be damned before I failed to reach the viewpoint I had in mind.
When I finally did reach the overlook, I was so wiped that enjoying the view of the reservoir below was virtually impossible. Looking at the objects in the distance gave me the sensation that I was “zooming out”. It was nauseating. I don’t usually throw up during exercise, but there’s a first for time everything and I was pretty glad that I at least had the sense to pack water. I climbed back aboard my bike and started the ride down.
As a lifelong big mountain skier and a generally physically literate guy, I felt like I should be able to ride downhill pretty well. I mean, I had spent my childhood riding my Diamondback bikes down stairs and off little rock walls, and I was like 11 years old. Plus, there was no way that riding a bike on a trail through the trees could be scarier than skiing through them at 40 mph. That was why I traded for the bike anyway; I wasn’t climbing anymore, and wanted a new mountain sport that I could excel at. Surely, the 26 year old me would be an animal on the trail.
I wasn’t.
Although the way down was better than the way up, it was far from enjoyable. With my tires inflated to 35 psi, I had -zero- traction on an already loose trail. The bike was fine–great, even–but I was a different story. I made my way down the mountainside in a sort of coast-brake-skid-crash cycle, acquiring quite a few cuts and bruises along the way. My arms quickly began to fatigue from grabbing the brakes–which, you know, is great when you have brake fade. When the trail finally turned back to dirt, it was so overgrown that at any appreciable speed (e.g., faster than walking) it was like death by a thousand whips. Each corner was a battle not to go over the handlebars. What had I gotten myself into?
As I got back to the car, now completely drained, I began to wonder whether this sport was going to work out for me. I didn’t expect to be a legend from my first time on the trail. I did, however, think that I was at least going to have fun. Instead, I had spent the only “me time” in a task-laden weekend suffering up and down a godforsaken trail on the side of a stupid mountain on a bike that I apparently sucked at riding.
Well, it’s been a year, and 3 bikes, 2 sprains, 4 friends, and nearly 1,000 miles of trail riding later I’ve learned a lot. Many of those lessons were hard earned. But many of the hard earned lessons would have been a lot easier if I had known about the resources that were available to me, and especially I had known which trails to ride and why.
In fact, that’s why I am starting Wasatch Warrior. My first ride experience was miserable. And while I agree that, more often than not, the first trail ride is hard for everyone, I don’t think that picking an unnecessarily difficult trail by accident should be a contributing factor. I rode the Southern Skyline because I knew where it was and where it went. The ironic part is that even closer to my house was as well-maintained and much easier section of the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. I’d heard about it, but I wasn’t able to find any information that could tell me about what it was like. Since the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t, I went to a trail that was not only way over my skill level, but a trail that is generally miserable no matter what your skill level is. As a result, I nearly exited the sport. No one should have to go through that.
Knowing the where, when, what, how, and why of mountain biking is a quest that all trail riders embark on whether they know it or not. I want to help be a road map. That’s the origin of Wasatch Warrior: to create a space for mountain bikers in Utah to come and find answers to those questions, so that veterans and those new to the sport can find quality information about what’s available to ride on the Wasatch. I’ll do the looking before you leap, so that you can get out to a new and exciting trail and know what to expect when you get there. I want to help riders in Utah get out and experience places they’ve never seen that are right in their back yard, without having to risk that oh-so-precious “Me Time” on disappointing trails, or track down the local guru–whose opinions about trail quality might be different from the person who is asking.
Look forward to coming articles highlighting one trail at a time, and hopefully (with the help of friends) some videos that will show what they’re like. I look forward to hearing from you all in the future, and if there are any trails that you’d like me to go check out, shoot an email to zachary@wasatchwarrior.com.
Ride on!