I remember it well. I was hurtling through the last turn of the ride that I do with my neighbor, Ian, every Wednesday morning in Chino Hills, when a bee suddenly smacked me in the face and wedged itself under the frame of my sunglasses. Buzzing angrily, it then stung me on the cheek. This unprovoked attack set me up for a spectacular crash-n-burn, and when the dust had settled, I was flat on my back, unable to move. Ian rushed over and asked me what I wanted him to do. I told him to shoot me in the head for taking up such a ludicrous sport. But he said he couldn’t do that. Instead, he called an ambulance. Ian was also nice enough to call my wife at work—it was her first day back to school—and let her know that I was on my way to the ER.
That was eleven months ago. Since then, my left shoulder—which had sustained a serious AC separation—has returned to full functionality. And my right index finger, which had been badly dislocated, has mended to about as well as it will ever get. But more important, for those eleven months, I had stuck to my vow to shun bikes. I was quite content to stick with just hiking and rock climbing. If I ever wanted to spice it up, I could always indulge in pursuits that were wiser choices than cycling. Such as swimming with sharks. Or playing with rattlesnakes. The bicycles hanging in the garage collected a veneer of dust and cobwebs, and not once did I give them a second glance. I was over it. Done.
However, Terry didn’t feel the same way: She would rather go biking than play with rattlesnakes. It took me many months to get my head wrapped around that notion. (Just look at the data: There are way more mountain-bike injuries in the ER than snake bites.) I was stubborn. And she was patient (up to a point). Finally, I resigned myself to getting our neglected mounts, Fuel and Lush, cleaned and tuned up—and then hung them back in the garage. Another month passed. Then, the last week of June, we were on our way to Mammoth for a family campout, and wouldn’t you know it: Fuel and Lush were coming along.
My daughter, Heather, had put the trip together. She and her husband, CJ, were planning to camp for two weeks, while Terry and I would meet them there and stay a few days. We were looking forward to hanging out with family and in-laws; go on hikes; roast marshmallows with the kids; play in the snow (and there was lots of snow); and, of course, do some mountain-biking. I was stoked that I would be introducing my eight-year-old grandson, Logan, to the trails on Mammoth Mountain. He had cut his teeth riding the local hills around his home, and now he could sample the Real Deal. And granddaughter Hayden, as I would soon discover, was a little daredevil on her strider bike. She’s only four years old!
It is a wonderful blessing to be able to watch your grandchildren grow up. And it’s a double-blessing when they embrace an activity that you enjoy as well. Watching them ride bikes through the forest, whooping and shouting, brought the kid out of me. How could I not take to the trail again? If this was my wife’s grand stratagem… it worked. Now it was just a matter of steering clear of those damn killer bees.
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| Dazzling blue skies greeted us at Mammoth Mountain’s Main Lodge. With all the snow that dumped this past winter, the upper mountain was still open for skiing. One could easily ski in the morning, and then switch to bikes in the afternoon. |
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| Logan joined us for the day, and he was charged up, ready to go. We rode Downtown: a fun-flowing trail that starts at the main ski lodge and winds 5½ miles down through the forest into town. It was the perfect starter trail for Logan—and the only “green” that was open, as all the others were still buried in snow. |
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| Logan quickly gasped the nuances of finding the line through the turns. By the end of the day, he had the banked hairpins wired. |
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| The snowpack above us was melting like crazy due to the warm, sunny weather. There were stream crossings galore, the larger ones forded via temporary metal grates. |
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| The Loganator leads the pack. |
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| We rode Downtown three times, a total of about sixteen miles and 3,000 feet in elevation drop. It was Logan’s indoctrination to downhill riding. If he looks a little tired here, he should be. |
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| Fort Apache at Shady Grove Campground. This is Heather & CJ’s shiny new trailer. We held down four sites total, and there were so many kids running around, I lost count. Good times. |
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| Logan spent one night in our van, sleeping in the overhead berth with Toby. What’s it like sleeping with Toby? According to Logan, he hogs the bed. |
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| The summit of Mammoth Mountain, and der Pudelhund’s first 11,000-foot peak in the bag—though it might be considered cheating because he took the gondola up. What are the canine rules on this? One thing for sure, he loves chasing snowballs and skiers. |
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| Heather, CJ and the kids at one of the Mammoth Lakes. The Sierra Nevada has so much snow, the lakes are just now thawing out the last week of June. |
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| Hayden and her mom are out for a morning ride. Miss Hayden is already a pro on her pink Trek Strider. It’s time to get her some pedals. |
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An Interview with Downhill Diva, Hayden Morris
“You were quite fast on the mountain today, Miss Hayden.” HM – “Thank you.” “How old are you?” HM – (Holds up four fingers.) “Where did you get that awesome pink Strider?” HM – “Grandma and Grandpa.” “You ever consider adding brakes to that bike?” HM – “Nope. Brakes slow you down.” “What’s your personal goal in the downhill arena?” HM – “Whup my brother.” “Do you always eat your broccoli?” HM – “Yep.” |
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To see all the photos from this trip, click HERE.
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