- The Trail Entrance Exposed – (This was written by Riley McIntosh in the spring of 2003 and an adapted version was published in the August 2006 edition of BIKE magazine)

It is only afterward that our brains quietly nudge us to come to terms, to pick apart the cobweb of experience. So strong, so complex. In the moment we live only for the moment; afterwards, we rejoice in our experience, savoring it like a birthday, hoping to extend it a little further, make the most of everything.

This morning I passed from sleep to waking in seconds. In minutes I was outside, pulled from my warm bed by the call of the mountain. The two minute preparation period, the bike, the pack, gloves, helmet. Water. Simple.

Outside the morning was a variance. Across the lake, a stroke of sun, to the south, a dark wall. Directly above me, wet trees, a misty mountain. I labored through the stratified layers that encircle my life; along city streets, heading uptown, into forest, to the land of far and away.

The ascent was long and steep enough that in the early morning air it took on some bit of fantasy. The strongest energy is that of pure desire, the need to be outside, striking out for a trailhead. Harnessed by gradient and sleeps cobwebs, it takes on dreamlike dimensions. I imagine that I am a humble man, trekking for days by guidance of prayer flags, seeking a revered shrine where wisdom can be attained. Perhaps I am a spawning salmon, striking rocks in the flashing waterfall, with only the sense of my belonging driving me forward.

As I push upwards, alone, a collection of things become apparent: my knuckles white, their row like a bony mountain range. The cedars that reach for me. Under my breathe I sing the song, the song I often sing, heading uphill: “so many people to love in my life…..why do I worry about one….but you put the happy in my ness, you put the good times in my fun….”

At the highest point of my sojourn the difficult journey behind me fades away, and I am thankful for those inclined units of smoldering calves and vertical resistance, those long, stringy moments of thoughtless, distilled images. Noticing the gritty surface beneath my feet, the silent trees.

Now, I stand before the trailhead. My bike leans against my hip. In the forest below crouches the great beyond, the monsters of crashing, of falling into the mud and rocks, and their opposite, the sweet butterflies of flow, of smooth lines. Beneath me lies resolution of this trail, three thousand feet of downward spiraling pathway beckons. From here the land falls away to streets and people passing, road signs, the ordinary slate. That world is far below, oblivious to my existence. I am situated so directly above town that I feel as though I could climb the trees and vault, sailing abruptly into the hustle and bustle.

I imagine that the landscape is open to my emotions, that the contours understand the deepness, the elements hidden. The forest adjusts to my presence, opening up. The whim of the land is a great organ heaving slowly.

Time has arrived at this instant: in a moment I will put pedals to foot, hands to bar, and the venerated movement of bike and body will commence.

As the descent begins, I pray for smoothness, for marginal error, for fulfillment. In achieving a certain fluidity we arise to that loftiness where we are able to discern the clearness of the air, the breath, the day. Here, three thousand feet above my house, the dependence in life lies far below. Individuality is strong and pure. I am pulled downward by the force that rules. Everything returns to the earth. Love settles, leaves grow and fall, death is ultimate. Now, I descend.

Acres of undulation flow beneath me. Individuality and dependence form strength. Dependence on the landscape, the earth ribbon, rite of passage. Strength is my passion, strength in my muscles as I ravage roots and rocks. The elements of nature cling to the edge of this uprising, as do I.

Route, trail, pathway, direction. The trail owns me, and I own the trail. Grand possession, my tires shredding soil, my toil reaping extensive single track.

The bike, the trail. Dirt and rocks, forest flashing. So fast, forever.

Afterwards, when I am back home, I sit for a moment, gazing at my bike, my helmet hanging from the handlebar. My mind drifts over the gravity of it all. The long ride, the long life. The mountain looms behind me like a giant, agreeable friend. Waiting to tuck me away in the expansive forest.

I sit far below the level of my thoughts. They rise to that enduring mountain, where the trees huddle together, supporting the rocks and soil. Far above me lies the trailhead, where entrance is granted in understanding of opportunity; unbounded prospect. Never ending are the moments, endless are the mountain ranges.

It was short hours ago that I slid my pack back on, fiddled with the vent zippers on my pants, flipped my pedals around, favouring a side. After that long climb the forest seemed to suck wind along with me, the green canopy bending to whisper in my ear, welcoming me, inquiring, accepting. In that moment my location was prominent, and the descent was evident. The entrance to the trail was that sudden doorway, the moment of discovery, when time is willing to step aside a little, slowing, breathing. The trail entrance exposed.