The hot craze in cycling these days is the E-bike or electric motor assisted pedal bike. Naturally, we purists disdain the newbies who go sailing by us as we struggle up the grade on our “real” bikes, and take particular delight in making a display of our superior bike handling skills as we use them for slalom poles on the technical descents, though most of them stick to the wide open, dirt roads, while we favor the rutted, overgrown road less traveled.
The perils of Covid drove hordes of people from the malls and restaurants, to the great outdoors, where they behaved with city slicker naiveté. Our once pristine trails are now dotted with toilet paper, and energy bar wrappers. The narrow “singletrack” paths, so prized by the mountain bike elitist, have been widened by the clumsy maneuvers of the over-powered beginner.
E-bikes range in ability and price from a few hundred dollars, for a behemoth that weighs in at over 50 pounds, to the nimble, truly mountain-bike like Orbea that I covet, that tips the scale at under 40 pounds, costing upwards of $11,000. For a 120 pound woman, that ten+ pounds difference means I could lift the $11,000 bike onto my bike rack, over un-rideable rock gardens, and I could probably push it up trails too technical for my skill level to ride. I’ve been promising myself an E-bike when I turn 70, which is now only about a year and a half away.
The May-gray spring weather (or June gloom) as the lingering marine layer is called, has allowed us to ride the local trails longer, even though there hasn’t been enough rain to create any real traction this year. So, Sally and I headed up to the Crafton Hills Conservancy last weekend to explore some of the less frequented trails that drop off the ridge into the valley to the South. Less frequented, that is, before E-bikes made it possible for every couch potato in the county to access them.
We encountered several people walking up the fire road (a dirt road used by fire crews to combat wildfires) and a couple of groups of young people on E-bikes who breezed past us, chatting loudly over the music they were broadcasting so that everyone within a quarter of a mile was forced to listen to it. One walking couple commented with some admiration that we were climbing the hill on “real” bikes and the young woman, when learning that I was her grandmother’s age, gushed that we were an inspiration.
Our discomfort at having to ride in proximity to the great un-washed was quickly ameliorated when we began our descent of the legendary Motorcycle Trails. I can only assume that anyone who leaves toilet paper on the trail probably has other reprehensible habits. Not that I find the un-washed body nearly as offensive as the overly perfumed, which the mall crowd is prone to be. But I digress…
A few years ago, Sally and I rode these challenging trails once a week, until we knew every rut, of which there were many, every twist and off camber turn, and every lock-em-up slider descent by heart. We could navigate the nearly over-grown paths with such alacrity that better riders than we were left in the dust. One-trail wonders we were.
So, now we returned to test our aging mettle. Traversing a familiar ridge, we varied the familiar course by taking a track that followed an unfamiliar trail down a different ridge. Off in the distance, we could see that it would drop to the south side of the conservancy which would necessitate a short climb back to the car. The first couple of descents down the ridge were confidence inspiring, allowing us to gather sufficient momentum to pedal furiously up the next hill. The day was cool and we had no need to watch for snakes…or so we assumed. But the third descent proved to be a bit more exciting.
Cautiously rolling up to the brow of the hill, we scanned the trail below. The path was maybe ten feet wide, widened by many other riders having looked for traction to the side of the original track, but there was no obvious line. Loathe to walk a single foot of hard-won elevation, I steered a course down the middle of the extremely sketchy descent. My bike was built for just such a scramble and my tires were perfectly suited to the conditions. Skidding and sliding both wheels, it was an exhilarating experience to say the least. Sally, on her worn tires, had little choice but to point her bike downhill and hope to find some semblance of traction, or otherwise, be left so far behind that the coyotes would consider her fair game. I love this woman’s courage. This is the thing bonding is made of.
As we carved flawless turns coasting down the last few hills, we marveled at the pure joy of being able to share this experience. And as we climbed the half mile back to the car, still high on the adrenaline of the thrilling descent, we agreed, “We don’t need no stinking E-bike!”