Opinion: Mountain Biking Not Worst Thing for Trails

May 16, 2014

The trail, following power lines on an abandoned farm in Cranberry Township, Pennsylvania, didn't look that imposing. Yes, it was steep; but I'd cut my teeth mountain biking up and down the sharp ridges of southwest Pennsylvania. Despite my wife Heather's dubiousness—I could practically feel her eyes roll behind me—I decided to give it a go.

Mountain biking is one of my favorite outdoor activities. The fast exploration of new trails, the thrill of coasting down steep hills, even the effort of chugging up those hills are all very much my thing. But I say this a little sheepishly, knowing that for many serious outdoorspeople, my wheels and I are anathema.

I understand that my bike can tear up trails; that's one reason I stay off the trails in the mud season, or when it's raining. I also have to admit that my experience is limited to the resilient hardwood forests of the northeastern U.S., and I appreciate that other places may be far less able to bounce back from mountain bike use. But ultimately I think that the instinct to condemn bikes—or any other specific trail use—misses the point.

I don't know if I was missing the point, or just being unobservant, when I launched down that steep hill. But it wasn't long before I realized I'd made a mistake. Try as I did to keep my weight back, I soon felt my back tire begin to lose traction, then lift off the trail. I tried to lean back more, but it was already too late; the bike and I, like parts of a giant wheel, began somersaulting over each other.

It may surprise people who've lost their patience with mountain bikers to learn that we have our own bugbears. I've heard horse riders complain about mountain bikes' effects on trails; but I've biked far more trashed trails full of hooves than those full of narrow wheel ruts. I've also biked trails so thoroughly destroyed by wide ATV tires that you couldn't find a safe path. Still, I hesitate to condemn either. There are worse things for the trails.

Amazingly, as I held what I hoped would not be a death grip on my handlebars, my bike and my mutual pivot down the hill proved largely—mostly—painless. We simply rolled to the next more-or-less level portion of the trail, at which point we stopped. Doing a quick mental self-survey, I found that I wasn't even hurt.

But I'd forgotten about momentum, and the fact that the still-tightly gripped handlebars now formed a pivot point for the back end of the bike, which was still moving. I looked up to see my rear wheel coming at me like a giant fly swatter. It plastered into me, snapping my eyeglasses and leaving spoke-shaped indentations in my face.

Yup, there's always worse. But that wheel of doom was not the worst part of my story. That came a few years later, when people who couldn't envision a use for a fallow farm other than housing developments, or a park that isn't synonymous with soccer fields, graded that farm, eliminating most of the hills. The slope that tumbled me is still there, but far less steep. Tamed. Domesticated.

There are worse things than Vibram boot soles, mountain bikes, horses, and even ATVs. The week before the demolition began in earnest I took a last bike ride around that farm. Half-way through I met an ATV rider. We both stopped; I took a drink. We nodded at each other. Brothers at last.

I'm not arguing for universal access for every use. I'm not denying there are places where my bike should be limited, or even banned, and I’ll happily condemn anybody who doesn’t observe a little courtesy toward other people using the trails. I am saying that in a world ruled by the bulldozer, these arguments seem like a distraction, a strategic error.

There are errors, and then there are errors. After all, as I said to Heather at the time, if I'd been going faster I'd have made it down that hill.