nocturnal creatures

Daylight is in short supply during the winter around here. Well before sunset, light begins to leak out of the woods like oil from an old engine. Sure and swift, dusk fills the space between trees. If you aren’t careful, it’s easy to get caught out on a ride, forced to pick your way back to the car, straining your eyes in the half-light.

I am not one of the careful ones, and getting caught in the dark is a shoulder season ritual for me. Near the end of one particularly dark ride, a frightened dog walker berated me for not having any lights. She was right, of course. It was irresponsible and dangerous. Worst of all, it wasn’t any fun, riding blind in the dark.

I’ve never been opposed to night riding, but I’ve never really been stoked about it either. It was sort of like an olive bar at the grocery store. Sure some people love it, but I never felt the need to partake. This year, though, I’m trying crazy new things. I rode my bike in January! Since that turned out to be buckets of fun, I might as well see what this whole night riding thing is about.

Everything feels wrong on my way to the trailhead. It’s well past 8 pm, the sky is a shade of inky blue, and the streetlights are blinking on. The night is still, almost stifling, and it’s unseasonably warm. Somewhere out over the treetops, an owl hoots. I spend ten minutes fiddling with my new lights, and spin off into the woods. The owl hoots again.

For a little while, it feels like we are the only two creatures out here. This owl, its lonesome song, and me, the quiet bellow of my lungs. The dark trees watch me pass in silence. Soon, the owl’s hoots fade away, and the darkness encroaches bit by bit. I make small tweaks to the lights mounted on my handlebars and my helmet. Not realizing how far ahead I look, even when climbing, I have my helmet light pointed far too low, leaving a hazy patch of trail up ahead. Lifting my head up too far feels wrong and creates a dark vacuum in front my wheel. I point my handlebar rig down at the trail just in front of me and my headlight way up ahead on the trail, satisfied at least for the way up.

I like climbing singletrack because I forget about everything except what’s in front of me. Obstacle by obstacle, the trail churns away beneath my wheels. At night, this effect is amplified. I don’t have a sense of where I am beyond the immediate bubble of my lights. Trail signs glitter far away, and I can only guess what beginnings and endings they mark.

Certain small details, otherwise unnoticed, light up at the touch of my lights. A row of stones like glittering teeth lined up on a notch in an old stump. A nose protruding above them, and two dun eyes, also stones. Stoic, the face watches me pass in silence. I see the husk of a tree hollowed out by lightning, the charcoal black interior sparkling. A new tree grows within its cavity, wearing the older one like a jacket. The burnt bark stands out, its shade of black almost shocking against the softer nighttime dark.

A small mouse scurries up onto a pad of moss by the side of the trail. It stops, inquisitive, and looks at me for the space of three long breaths. It is no larger than a teabag, and I must seem to it a strange, illuminated giant. The mouse is unbothered, eventually disappearing into some small hole or another. Its eyes hang in the night for a moment, two small gemstones punctuating the silence.

Before long, I emerge onto a fire road at the top of the climb. The moon hangs patient in the sky, just barely skimming the treetops. Its soft glow convinces me that the night isn’t so dark after all, so I turn my lights off and the world falls away completely. It is black as pitch. My fingers in front of my face, the fire road, the trail sign—they all disappear in the dark pit of night.

Then the sounds come, a soft cacophony of chirps and rustles and cracks. Any manner of creature could be hiding just steps away, stalking me through the night. I hear waterfalls and the slow drip of wet moss on stone. There is no light but that of the moon, and there are creatures lurking among the half-shaped tree trunks. The forest, which seemed so small in the glow of my lights, is so enormous it makes me queasy. The city is a far-off dream. My fear subsides when I turn the lights back on. The forest shrinks to a bubble maybe 50 metres wide, where I can count all the trees and the spaces between them. Nothing hides in here, and the light keeps the creatures away.

I ride Lower Oilcan, home to rooty, mellow tech without too much exposure. When I first began thinking about night riding, I presumed it would be about flow trails, wide smooth ribbons without too many obstacles to trip me up. I didn’t expect that the careful precision of tech trails would jive too well with flashlights, not even strong ones. Several people told me I was wrong, claiming that fast flow and night riding do not mix well, but that the slow pace and small pool of light would keep my focus on the trail right in front of me. I’m no expert here, so Lower Oilcan it is.

Much like it did on the climb, the trail beneath me unspools with ease. I’m thinking only about the next obstacle, the next golden pocket of tacky dirt. My lights illuminate roots in an interesting way, paving a sort of bridge across the top and not dwelling in tricky holes or divots. Tentative, I catch little airs here and there, but I’m generally frightened to let off the brakes and open it up. It still feels like I’m racing at lightspeed. The ashy trunks rip by in a blur; the night consumes all sound except the rattle of my chain.

Under the gaze of my lights, the trail ahead is amply lit. There are only a few moments when I dearly miss the daylight. Some corners bank around trees in such a way that keeps the exit in shadow, until I come around the apex and find the trail where I hoped it would be. This is an exercise in trust. I lean the bike into a void, both hoping and knowing that the dirt and the corner will hold, that I’ve correctly guessed what the exit will look like.

More frightening are the moments when my lights skim over a small drop but can’t reach the hollow right below it. Without warning, the trail is replaced by a dark vacuum, a void that wants to consume my spinning wheels. As happens in the daylight, I sail right over the drop. My wheels land on solid ground, but my heart beats hard for a few breaths longer.

Halfway down, the lights of the city fight their way through the forest canopy, forming little pinpricks against the night. They remind me that I am not so far in the wilderness. When I turn my lights off for a second time, the darkness is not so frightening, and the creatures don’t seem as loud. Instead, the city hums a quiet hum, far off in the distance. I still have some ground to cover, and the night is still dark, but I feel a twinge of sadness.

I finish my ride on Lower Expresso and Pennzoil, both easy flow trails. I know them well and have few issues riding them now at normal trail speed. I don’t pull as hard on the jumps, unable to gauge the landings as I am used to, but I think very little about what I’m doing and where I’m going. It’s a blissful reprieve, riding alone in the night and letting my instincts take over.

By the time I get back to my car, the owl has moved on. The night is silent, save for the occasional car rumbling by up the hill. This far corner of the city feels metropolitan, and I quickly forget how absolutely desolate the forest felt when I was standing at the top just fifteen minutes ago. Right as I’m packing up, I see a set of lights roll out of the trailhead. We exchange a clipped “hey,” and he drops down into the neighbourhood. I listen for the space in the night left hollow by the owl’s departure, wondering what other nocturnal creatures might come to fill it.