My first mountain bike
Canmore mountain bikes. I got my first mountain bike when I was thirteen or fourteen; it was a no-name bike from Toys ‘R Us or somewhere like that, outfitted with lousy, heavy components and a rigid fork. I rode it hard though, slowly exploring the trail system which was five miles or so from my house, which eventually developed into the second-best trail system in the state (though that may not be saying much, as I lived in Minnesota).
I eventually upgraded to a Pacific mountain bike. It was a tank, it must have weighed thirty-five pounds, but the components were a little bit better and at least it had front suspension. I continued to explore the trail system with my friends, finding spur trails and side tracks off of the main loop. It was slow going since the trails weren’t very well-marked and there was no map to speak of, but we had fun flying down hills on tight single-track and dodging trees and branches. I made myself mountain-biking t-shirts and imagined myself riding in the world cup.
Finally, after a considerable amount of cajoling, I managed to persuade my parents to chip in so I could by a real mountain bike, a Klein Pulse. The bike had decent components, but what I was really after was the frame. Klein was the first company to throw itself into shaping and molding aluminum, and the Pulse was no exception. It was a mountain bike without a single round tube; everything was butted, extruded, and shaped. It felt light and stiff under pressure, and it came with a Rock Shox fork to boot. I was in heaven.
I mountain biked a lot that summer, and I even got out on my road bike a little bit, though it couldn’t compare with mountain biking. Grinding out miles on the road wasn’t anything near as much fun as racing down hills and into muddy corners, fighting for traction while trying to keep out of the trees lining the trail. As my riding got better the trails got some attention, and the miles of single-track expanded. We had everything from tight, tree-dodging trails to huge mud-pits, from bridges to breakneck hills. I even entered myself into a race, only to realize about halfway through that racing definitely wasn’t my forte. While I was slogging through a new, mud-filled section of trail, walking doggedly alongside my bike, another racer actually ran past me, carrying his bike on his shoulder. His chain had snapped in the first mile and he had been sprinting the following three. It was rough on my self-esteem, though I did finish second in my division. Of course, there were only two of us in my division.
