MY hometown trails
“You can come over and check out MY local trails.”
Often you say this phrase to a friend, and you can barely contain your words, cut short by excited breaths of gushing pride.
Just last week, I invited friends from L.A., some of them expert racers on Team No Brakes, to come up and ride some of my local jump trails.
This gem of a riding spot, which shall remain nameless, is not actually in my hometown, but a couple towns south. So really I wouldn't be responsible if the place weren't up to snuff. But relative to the distance that my visitors were driving this was my hometown spot as far as they were concerned. So no excuses there.
Marla's secret hometown spot...
Immediately after setting the date and time, I realized I hadn't seen these trails in a couple months!
Visions of a newly paved cul-de-sac leading to grumbling bulldozers scooping up the last landing of my prized 8-pack flashed through my horrified head. Or an even worse scenario, it could have remained unridden all summer and the take-off lips might have eroded! Oh, the horror!!
My only recourse would be to go there a few days ahead of time, and take a look. I'd bring a good shovel, a rake, and a sickle (that's like an old-fashioned, human-powered weed wacker, for you kids out there). And I'd cross my fingers and hope for rain the night before my visit.
It's amazing the amount of work one will do to defend their hometown jaunty, snaking little prides of joy. You imagine your buddies will be hooping and hollering while they pedal and carve, declaring loudly through their helmets, “these are the best and coolest trails I've ever ridden! Therefore, I think you're cool!!”
Okay, I wouldn't go that far. But you know what I mean.
So I get up to the trails and much to my disappointment, I see a brand new fence surrounding the site. There are No Trespassing signs posted clearly. Darn, that means we'll have to climb over.
I walk up the hill, and peek over the fence and I am relieved to see the jumps are all still there, just badly eroded like I feared.
But I had my rusty shovel, my i-Pod, and a Red Bull coursing through my veins and I was going to fix every one of those key sections: every run-up, transition, face, lip, table top, landing, run-out.
And I did. After 5 hours of weeding, chipping, digging, shaping, caressing, breathing hard with hands on hips and staring at each section for its aesthetics, I was done. I was ready to show off my hometown jump spot.
Even if it was just a deserted lumpy junkyard with a bunch of dirt mounds and rutted with tire tracks.
Ah, hometown pride!
Often you say this phrase to a friend, and you can barely contain your words, cut short by excited breaths of gushing pride.
Just last week, I invited friends from L.A., some of them expert racers on Team No Brakes, to come up and ride some of my local jump trails.
This gem of a riding spot, which shall remain nameless, is not actually in my hometown, but a couple towns south. So really I wouldn't be responsible if the place weren't up to snuff. But relative to the distance that my visitors were driving this was my hometown spot as far as they were concerned. So no excuses there.
Marla's secret hometown spot...
Immediately after setting the date and time, I realized I hadn't seen these trails in a couple months!
Visions of a newly paved cul-de-sac leading to grumbling bulldozers scooping up the last landing of my prized 8-pack flashed through my horrified head. Or an even worse scenario, it could have remained unridden all summer and the take-off lips might have eroded! Oh, the horror!!
My only recourse would be to go there a few days ahead of time, and take a look. I'd bring a good shovel, a rake, and a sickle (that's like an old-fashioned, human-powered weed wacker, for you kids out there). And I'd cross my fingers and hope for rain the night before my visit.
It's amazing the amount of work one will do to defend their hometown jaunty, snaking little prides of joy. You imagine your buddies will be hooping and hollering while they pedal and carve, declaring loudly through their helmets, “these are the best and coolest trails I've ever ridden! Therefore, I think you're cool!!”
Okay, I wouldn't go that far. But you know what I mean.
So I get up to the trails and much to my disappointment, I see a brand new fence surrounding the site. There are No Trespassing signs posted clearly. Darn, that means we'll have to climb over.
I walk up the hill, and peek over the fence and I am relieved to see the jumps are all still there, just badly eroded like I feared.
But I had my rusty shovel, my i-Pod, and a Red Bull coursing through my veins and I was going to fix every one of those key sections: every run-up, transition, face, lip, table top, landing, run-out.
And I did. After 5 hours of weeding, chipping, digging, shaping, caressing, breathing hard with hands on hips and staring at each section for its aesthetics, I was done. I was ready to show off my hometown jump spot.
Even if it was just a deserted lumpy junkyard with a bunch of dirt mounds and rutted with tire tracks.
Ah, hometown pride!
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