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Pedaling the concrete jungleย Down Under
By Sarah Hansing
Iโve been away from home for only about a week and a half now and already have realized that I am essentially a spoiled rotten kid. Not in the literal sense, mind you, but in the gluttonous options that our small mecca provides in the way of epic trails and sick dirt; in the variety of features and the litany of accommodations for different riding styles. Iโm not proud of myself, but I haveย โย without questionย โย become the entitled brat of singletrack.
Iโm currently in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Poor me, spending the winter in Sydney, Australia โฆ ย right near epic beaches and clear, warm water. Having awesome ย adventures with amazingly rad people (in spite of the occasional language barriers). The weather is phenomenal, the beer is great, I havenโt been eaten by a shark yet, I have endless access to Vegemite, and overall (aside from missing my Epicenter Family like crazy) I couldnโt be much happier. ย
But something keeps nagging at me. Something seems just a TEENY tiny bit wrong. I mean, something besides the proclivity to keep riding my bike on the right side of the road and nearly dying at least 3-5 times a day. ย
The thing is, in those 3-5 times that I see my life flash before my eyes daily, itโs likely attributed to me spacing out. Just for a second, Iโll sort of drift off, because Iโm thinking of riding the trails at home. Those miles and miles and miles and miles of glorious, snaking dirt ribbons that I can ride to from my house. Just tenย minutes away from my front door, is where I find my sanity, and myself. Itโs my Zen. I realize that now more than ever, I suppose. ย ย
And I feel like a total ingrate for all of the times when I just didnโt appreciate it enough, while I was riding it. Didnโt always take full advantage of the times I couldโve done even just the shortest ride up Emma McCrary, and back down again. Those times when I was grumbly because I agreed to go on a ride that I found myself desperately wanting to bail on the next day. I really MISS mountain biking. ย
That isnโt to say Iโm not still turning the pedals over. Iโve been reduced to *shudder* riding a ROAD BIKEย as the primary source of getting my fix, so to speak. But it just isnโt the same. Dodging cars isnโt the same as dodging trees, and avoiding potholes just doesnโt have the same vibe that picking a line through a rock garden does. Donโt get me wrongย โย the road riding here really IS beautiful. The roads are, for the most part, in spectacular condition and most drivers donโt seem to want to play chicken with cyclists too muchย โย even in the city centers. ย
But again. The concrete jungle, for me, just doesnโt compare with being in the woods. I suppose you could equate it to someone who is used to swimming in open water finding themselves doing laps in an Olympic swimming pool, or vice versa. The motion is kinda similar, but the experience just isnโt the same. ย
Fortunately, my partner in crime here has recognized that wistful (perhaps slightly insane?) look in my eyes, and has arranged for an Australian mountain biking adventure this upcoming weekend. I cannot even tell you how stoked I am to get out and get my tires good and proper dirty. Maybe even downright filthy, given the option. And Iโm going to enjoy the hell out of it, too. ย
Meanwhile, give the Caliย dirt a kiss with your tires for me, will you? While youโre at it, whisper sweet nothings to the redwoods, and give a wink to the berms and the jumps, too.
We live in mountain bike paradise. And life is good.
โFat Tire Tuesday columnist Sarah Hansingย has been slinging wrenches as a pro bike mechanic for 15 years (with the exception of a one year stint working for Trek Bicycles in Wisconsin.)ย Epicenter Cycling scooped her up as their lead mechanic and the shop’s crewย plans to โkeep her forever. Sarah loves riding singletโrack, wrenchingย on bikes, and hanging out with her jerk-face but adorable cat Harlan. (Who is a jerk.)