As a kid I spent way too much time with my face buried in mountain bike magazines. I’d daydream away the hours thinking about riding, imagining riding, doing everything but actually riding because getting to the trails required a car and a driver’s license that I did not yet possess. So every ride to school became an exercise in finding the little tidbits of my commute, and making them feel as much like mountain biking as possible.
I’d project all my angst and imagination onto those little pockets of terrain that felt real, and wring all the satisfaction from them that I could find.
Earlier this year, through a delightful string of coincidences, I met someone who grew up on the same street I did, who also works in the bike industry now. We reminisced about the log behind the grocery store that we used to huck off of, about the dirt pile by the old pool that used to be a dirt jump, and is now a pickleball court.
At the time I was so angsty and discontented. I was hungry for everything I saw in the magazines, for “real riding.” I was frustrated with the bad facsimile I had to settle for.
But I got lucky. I got to make a life that mostly revolves around bikes and I’m so grateful for it. But no matter how good the trails on Galbraith get, no matter how capable the mountain bikes I ride become, nothing will ever beat that feeling of making the absolute most of a non-feature. Sometimes riding a side hit to its full potential is better than the main event ever could be.