Summer is in full-swing in the Duggan household, meaning I have gathered enough material for yet another mountain biking post.
This year, I am getting serious. After my first trip out and several icings of my nether regions later, I finally bought some padded biking shorts. I call them my butt-saving shorts.
The first trip to which I am referring occurred around Memorial Day, and my husband, Dan, rode ahead of me in the beginning. But I made him switch places with me after he pissed off some pedestrians by not saying, "On your left."
“They are on a biking trail. They should expect bikers,” said Dan.
“It’s not a biking only trail," I pointed out. "You're supposed to give an audible signal. I know it's difficult for a ninja, but it's on the state driver’s test and everything now.”
A few minutes later, a biker who passed us and called out, "On your left," in a friendly voice.
“See that’s how you say it,” I said.
Dan spit on the ground.
“Gross. I don’t like boys anymore.”
“He was weird," Dan said. ''Who takes a road bike on a dirt trail?”
“Gees, you're really judgy about who can be on this trail today.”
"Would you drive our Fusion on one of the dirt roads around here?" he asked.
“No, but people do. It’s Idaho. People drive anything anywhere the hell want.”
A week or so later, we were mountain biking in Montana, and we almost got chased by a bear. I say almost because we didn't actually get chased by a bear . . . or approached by a bear. We didn't exactly see the bear either, but we got close this time.
In Big Sky, downhill is the more popular mountain biking medium, so when Dan and I showed up at one of the cross-country trailheads, the maintenance guy was so happy to see us. He gave us all kinds of information on which loops to ride, which directions to head, and which portions of the trails were still closed. There was no one else at the trailhead, translation, no one else to scare off the bears ahead of us.
It began innocently enough. We saw a lot of elk scat and a few hoof prints going up the mountain. We reached the top of the loop, a nice, challenging climb. As we started to descend, I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Dan," I called in a shaky voice, "I don't think this is from an elk."
Dan would normally take one look at the scat and brush it off as horse or some benign animal. But I'm proud to say I've leafed through "Whose Scat is That?" enough in the bookstores that I can recognize some animals by their feces.
"That probably is a bear," he conceded. "I don't know how fresh it is . . ."
"Let's hope it's not five minutes fresh."
There was no sense in turning around. We were over halfway finished with the trail, and the bear could have easily been moving the opposite direction. We ran across a bit more scat and a bear paw mark. I talked to Dan loudly and often, and Dan kept vigilant and wore bear spray on his hip.
Toward the end of the trail, I swear I heard a weird growling noise, but Dan thought it was most likely the wind.
"Those trees were making some strange creaking noises in the breeze, Becky."
"Yeah, but do they sound like this?" and I let out a long, rumbling belching sound.
Dan just stared at me for a minute and then shook his head and continued down the mountain.
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| Why do you take me on these scary trails? |
"I've heard the rattlesnakes are really out in the foothills right now," she said. "We don't want you getting injured."
"Yeah, me neither," I agreed. "Let me tell you about the time I almost got eaten by a bear."
More mountain biking fun:
End of the Summer Mountain Biking Fun
The Mountain Biking (Almost) Disaster
Adventures in Mountain Biking
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