When Marty signed up for little league, so did I. When Marty bought roller blades, I had to get them, too. When Marty got a girlfriend, I slathered on the Old Spice and started hanging out at the mall. And when Marty tried out for the varsity soccer team, I laced on my cleats and joined him.

It’s been 10 years since Marty and I have been in the same city. Still, I knew what had to be done when he emailed me a few weeks ago: “Went mountain biking. Cranked up to the top of a mountain, bounced down the back side without braking, then jumped my bike off into a river. It was a sweet ride.”

I registered for a mountain bike race the very next day.

The race I’d entered was the Tsali Challenge — an off-road triathlon beginning with a 4-mile lake paddle, followed by a 4-mile run, then a 12-mile mountain bike ride to the finish.

Problem was, I’d never been mountain biking. And I certainly didn’t know how to ride technical single-track trails. But if Marty could do it, so could I.

I rented a beat-up mountain bike and motored out to Tsali Recreation Area — about five miles off the Smoky Mountains Expressway near Wesser. Tucked back in the Nantahala National Forest, Tsali’s four-loop, 42-mile network of rugged dirt trails is a mecca for mountain bikers across the country. And on the morning of the race, its trailhead parking lot was an SUV ad. Two hundred competitors from Pennsylvania to Florida had trekked to Tsali, and most of them weren’t there for the ho-hum flatwater paddle or the 4-mile run; they had come to ride Tsali trails.

The race began on Fontana Lake, which surrounds the Tsali peninsula. Since I didn’t have a racing boat, I had to use my clunky whitewater kayak for the 4-mile paddle. Long, streamlined sea kayaks cut through the water ahead of me, while I churned sluggishly across the lake. Coming out of the water, I was almost 15 minutes behind the leaders and dangerously close to last.

But I made up a lot of ground on the run, and when I arrived in the bike transition area, I’d moved all the way up to 7th place. A front five finish at Tsali would definitely top Marty’s brake-less mountain bike adventure, I thought to myself. I clipped on my helmet, straddled my steely steed, and pedaled toward the left loop trailhead.

It all went downhill from there.

Literally. The trail plunged steeply into a ravine, where I squealed to a stop and toppled over. Four bikes passed me as I wobbled cautiously down another series of switchbacks and crashed sideways into a tree. I couldn’t get my feet back into the stirrups. I couldn’t get my bike in the right gear. And I couldn’t help but feel like a total chump as more riders zipped by.

What had I gotten myself into? I wasn’t even through the first mile of the ride, and I was already bone-tired and bleeding.

On the next downhill, I decided to let go of the brakes completely, just like Marty. After all, if he did it, so did I. I plummeted down a narrow, twisting slope, gaining speed. Branches slashed my forearms.
Rocks and roots rattled the bike frame. Everything was a green blur. Ahead, I could see the trail dipping sharply into another creek bed. I white-knuckled the grips, gritted my teeth and held my breath.

I’m not sure if it was the uprooted tree trunk or the granite boulder that slammed my bike sideways. But time seemed to slow down when I went airborne. I saw my bike twisting acrobatically above me. I saw the jagged rocks waiting for me in the creek bed below. It took a long time to get there. On the way down, I remembered when Marty broke his arm playing soccer and wore a black cast for six weeks.
What color cast did I want?

I landed. The bike landed on top of me. I waited for the sound of bones popping through flesh, but all I heard was the tinkling creek. Aside from a few gashes and a slightly swollen ankle, I was OK.

I was OK! I wasn’t much of a mountain biker, and I sure didn’t measure up to Marty. But there was one fundamental difference between us that I finally understood: Marty was never out to beat me — or anyone else. He was just out there to be out there, on the edge, completely alive.

And suddenly, so was I.

I climbed back on the bike, unclenched my grip on the handlebars, and clicked into gear. I pedaled quickly but without hurrying, and felt as smooth and seamless as the glassy lake below. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I was just riding. And for the first time all day, I was having fun.

Once I stopped trying so hard, mountain biking became easy. I glided around hairpin turns and snaked along slippery rock ledges. I even passed a few riders climbing the hill to Tsali Overlook. Then I slalomed down a steep gravelly shelf and breezed on through the finish.

“Well done, Harlan,” Marty said on the phone that evening. “I wish I could have been there with you.”

So did I.

(Will Harlan writes about the outdoors. He can be reached at wharlan@hotmail.com)

 

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