Upon Reaching Mountain Biking Mecca  − 22 October, 2000

Dateline: Mecca, Utah
(not its official name)

What do you say when you first pull into Mecca? What can you say, really?
"Praise Allah"? "Holy shit"? "That took a while"? No, it was more like
"Well, I'm here." Okay, so maybe this place isn’t so magical to you that it
filled your dreams for years. But it was always in the back of your mind.
You knew that some day you would have to see what the fuss is about.

You roll into town and the first thing you think is "this place is pretty
nice." It reminds you of that terribly friendly little town in Argentina
where you fell in love years ago. The town that was so perfectly suited for
vacationing, not because it was trying to accommodate you, but because the
residents enjoy big parks with big fountains and loud ice cream vendors and
siestas and street-side cafes. That same charm is here, even though this
town is clearly trying to accommodate you. So far it's working.

You go shopping in the grocery store, and you realize that everything about
this store was placed with you in mind. You had planned on going to several
other stores after this one to pick up the sundries you need – needle nosed
pliers, white gas, sample-sized shampoo, a cutting board, a cooler – but
they’re all here. Not only that, but on the ends of the aisles are impulse
bargains in combinations you thought were yours alone: tuna and salsa.
Chili and saltines.

Ever since reading _Generation X_ you realized that you never wanted to be a
part of a focus group – you hate the idea that your personality could be
compressed into a media-friendly format and labeled something like adult
contemporary. Having long hair and mountain biking has nothing to do with
your liking Mountain Dew, Damnit!

But here you have been targeted with the precision of a sniper, and you
really can’t complain. Slowly you realize it’s not just the grocery store
but the whole town. Bike stores serving lattes, gear stores, a taco stand,
campgrounds - except for the lack of a good dance club this city could
hardly have been designed to suit you any better. You have found your
tribe. You start feeling like Gonzo in _Muppets from Space_ when all the
other gonzos pour out of the spaceship.

Finally you get out to the trails. Why fuck around? You head straight for
the Slickrock Trail. The beautiful scenery, the steep slopes, and most of
all the 10 miles of uninterrupted rock trail are what made this area famous.
You don’t even need the map you got from an old hippie biker in town – road
signs direct you to the trailhead. You pull your bike off the car and hop
on.

As you ride, emotions start bubbling up and building and building to a
rolling boil until they explode in an orgasmic release of wonder. You get
off your bike to kiss the rock it’s attached to. The feeling is like
growing up in a small farming town and the first time you leave you visit
Manhattan. Sure, you’ve seen pictures and watched TV, but here it is, in
your face the way only New York can be. In an instant you realize that not
only are skyscrapers real, but so are all the places you’ve ever seen on TV.
All the postcards, all the calendar pictures, every magazine cover you’ve
ever seen comes from a real place and you could go there and live it for
yourself and that’s what you’re doing right here with your lips on the
slickrock.

The more you ride, the more the whole idea of mountain biking makes sense.
That ridiculously low 20-32 granny gear has its raison d’etre diagramed for
you in a dashed white line painted on the sandstone going up a 45 degree
angle. Point your nose straight, lean forward, crank like hell and with a
few hard grunts you get to the top. You look down and wonder if you could
have even walked up that. Why do you love riding slickrock? Because your
tires hold the rock like a rottweiler holds a bone. But the next time you
climb, your foot slips out of the toe clip. As you crash down you hear your
friends nagging "when are you going to get clipless pedals?" Your shoulder
throbs. You wonder why couldn’t you have dislocated it here.

Ah yes, your friends. Why aren’t they here? That’s a good question. They’
d love this place as much as you do. Part of you thinks this is a solo
journey. Or is that just an excuse? I'm not sure I'm ready to tackle this
question just yet.

Until next time the ether touches down, this is your pure gonzo-nosed
journalist in the field signing off.

Love,
Leo