Confessions of a Mountain Biker Part 2

Author: Chris Veal

Editor's Note:

The Veal Papers are a real-life excursion into some of the adventures of my long-time friend, Chris Veal. Having lucked out and made enough as a day-trader before the recent tech stock crash to forego the inconvenience of a full-time job for a few years, Chris is currently travelling around North America in his '78 faux-wood panelled Caprice wagon, taking in all the mountain biking action that the continent has to offer. Occasionally, he's been e-mailing me his diaries. He's now sent a sufficient supply so that, with his permission, I will begin to publish them regularly on ecmtb.com.

While his journals might not be of great importance, they're certainly entertaining and definitely provide some first hand insight into what the mountain biking scene is like on the rest of the continent.

The journals he's sent me have been left mostly intact; the only changes I've made have been to correct major spelling mistakes and add occasional foot-notes on items of particular obscurity or interest.

Without further ado, here's the first of many instalments of the Veal Journals.

What Goes Up, Must Come Down

09/09/2000 - St. Jovite, PQ

Rolled out of my sleeping bag later than I meant. I must have been more tired than I thought after my marathon run east from the Sault. Hookin' up with those gals from Montreal camped across the way last night probably didn't help either. Hot damn, but those French chicks can drink! I remember one in particular, Josee… the green eyes, the hair, the 8-Ball locked to the bike rack… who could forget that?! That or the fact that they asked me to tag along to Tremblant (1) the next day to shred some trail… she must be the godfather, 'cause that's definitely an offer I couldn't refuse! I just wish I'd refused more of that malt liquor the Quebecois call beer… "Fin du Monde" is aptly named, 'cause my head felt like the end of the world, that's for damned sure.

Already late, I fired up the beast and headed to town for a bite and a coffee at a depanneur (2) and a quart of oil for the Caprice. Then I made tracks for the ski hill; I had a date to keep!

I didn't arrive a moment too soon; the girls were already strappin' on their armour as I tore into the parking lot and screeched to a halt in the midst of a cloud of dust and oily exhaust.

"Bonjour, ladies", says I as I dragged myself out of the car, still somewhat delicate from the beery campfire the night before. "Ah, Chris" says she, in that husky little accent of hers. "You sleep well, non?!". "Non!" I replied with a seedy grin; she gave a little French laugh and exclaimed, "Well, mon ami, you bedder shake out da cobweb before Tremblant, she does eet for you!". As you'll soon find out, there was more truth to this than I cared to find out. Had I been smart, I would have gotten right back into the Caprice and roared away. Ah well, I've always been a sucker for a pretty face.

Speaking of that pretty face, well, that did it for me; I lost no time in dragging my ride out of the cavernous depths of the Caprice… 20 minutes later I had a lift ticket and me and my ride were on the way up the hill. I managed to load so that I could sit next to Josee; and chat her up. She had crept off to bed the night before while I was regaling the ladies with tales of my exploits in Fernie… talking about your scars always works, but apparently not this time. Blast it!

Despite looking the look and talking the talk, I've never been all that much of a downhiller; truth be told, anything much steeper than a bunny hill sets my insides a-quiver. Somehow though, as long as the steeps aren't too steep, if you take my meaning, I've always managed to swallow the fear and get it over with, while only occasionally making a mess of my pants. As the lift slowly climbed the side of the mountain, so did my fear. Josee, it seemed, could almost sense it. Indeed, she appeared to revel in the hopefully invisible discomfort she caused me by pointing out rocks on the ever steepening slopes and making cracks like "Oh, see dat rock dere? My frien' Jacques will always walk crooked because of dat one!". The sick feeling inside me rose even further.

By the time we reached the summit, I could scarcely keep my knees from shaking. Blasting myself for a fool, I couldn't believe I let a pretty face and exotic accent drag me up the side of a mountain… dammit, heights scare me! I was to forget my shaking knees all too soon however, as Josee suggested a "tres facile" run down Nansen(3) as a warmup. Having glanced at a trail map while buying my ticket, I remembered Nansen as one of the easiest summit runs. A flash of hope within me grew… maybe these chicks weren't that hardcore after all. I felt like jumping for joy or bending down on my still knocking knees to give thanks to whatever benevolent being had decreed that I should live. Boy, was I wrong.

I survived Nansen nicely. It was long and winding and never particularly steep; it wound it's way lazily back down to the base of the mountain. "Good fun", I thinks to myself; "They'll never want to do anything trickier than that." I began to get cocky at that point. You see, I was pretty sure that they'd want to do that run once or twice more or a couple of other easy ones and call it a day. Maybe they would have too, if my ego and big mouth hadn't gotten in the way.

So, puffed up as a peacock, I was first in line to go back up the hill, randy as an old goat and desperate to impress Josee at any cost. "That was fun!" I exclaimed to her with a manly grin, and then, certain she'd refuse I said "How about something a bit more challenging?!" I could feel my stomach sink to my toes and then start to dig for China as she replied with glee "Ah, Oui Chris! I know just da ting!"

There is nothing more resourceful than a coward trapped. All the way back up the mountain, my mind raged to find a way out while my gizzard quivered and my bowels turned to gel. I was considerably more glum by the time we arrived at the top, because by that time, I'd reached the inevitable conclusion that there was no way out but down if I wanted to save face. What would they say back home if it got around that old Chrissy Veal had gotten off the lift and blubbered like a schoolgirl? No, it just wouldn't do; better to face plant in a rock garden or a spruce tree than swallow that bitter pill.

The terror of the moment squeezed all memory of the route we chose out of my sweat-drenched mind. All I know is that it was steep, rough and twisty. Even my well adjusted v-brakes could do little to scrub off the speed as we rocketed downhill. "Blast it!" I thought, noting Josee's shrill, gleeful laughter as she blew past me as if I was standing still. There was nothing for it but to try to catch up.

The rumbling in my bowels grew progressively worse as my speed increased; it seemed impossible that I should still be clinging desperately to the bike as the impacts from rock garden after rock garden tossed me about like a leaf in a gale. Farting in terror, unable to bring my bike to a stop, I bombed downhill at insane speed. Glancing ahead, I saw that I was finally catching up to Josee and her posse - not because I wanted to, but because I found it impossible to pry my petrified fingers off the handlebars to activate the brake levers.

Then, we were at the bottom. As the steepness of the slope decreased, I was finally able to force my quaking fingers to the brake levers and bring myself to a stop. I collapsed on the turf in a heap of quivering sweat, never so glad to come to a stop in my entire life. Looking up, I saw Josee and her friends approaching. Legs still shaking, I got up and straddled my bike as nonchalantly as possible. Josee trilled "Oh, Chris! Dat was a wonderful run, non?!" "Of, course!" says I, my old confidence returning, "a fantastic run!" "And the last I'm gonna do with you, you maddened hen!" I thought to myself.

As it turns out, it was the last. Half way back to the lift, my instinct for self preservation saw to that, for suddenly, I collapsed to the ground as my knees appeared to have given out due to an "old lacrosse injury". Strange that, I don't think I've ever played lacrosse in my life. Funny how those things happen. I spent the rest of the weekend back at the campground with the girls lavishing me with sympathy, among other things. Bikes and beauty… could life be more grand?

Footnotes:

1. Mont Tremblant, at 875m, is the highest peak in the Laurentian range and offers close to 100 downhill ski trails. Unfortunately, as of this summer, Tremblant will no longer offer lift access to mountain bikers.

2. Depanneur. One of many independent corner stores / gas stations / liquor stores found throughout small-town and rural Quebec.

3. Nansen. This trail was named for scientist and explorer Fridtjof Nansen, famed for his trip across Greenland on skis.

Posted by Chris Marks at October 14, 2003 08:01 PM

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