By Chris Scott
Photography by Chris Scott, Evon Lee, and Sheldon Putter
My sister introduced me to the world of mountain biking during my final months on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada, before I left for Taiwan. I'd owned a beat up Kona for a few years, but had never gotten past the level of road rides into town and pedaling along the local paved cycling trail - hardly the stuff that induces an adrenaline rush. But that summer we had a wonderful time grinding our way, hacking and wheezing, up the Comox Lake logging road and blasting down the dozens of trails that snake through the forest there, occasionally stopping at some vantage point to soak up the panorama of Georgia Strait and the Coastal Mountain range that spread out in front of us.
When the time came to leave home and start anew across the sea, a deep sense of reluctance set in to bid farewell to what had been the most enjoyable hobby of my life. We were to leave at five am on Friday morning. Thursday afternoon saw us on the trail for one last ride, the skin of the Arbutus trees crackling under our tires and the surface of the lake sparkling lazily in the sun.
On arriving in Taiwan I was happy to discover the price tags for bikes here were a lot smaller than back home. Unfortunately, there were a lot of necessities to buy: scooters, air conditioners, and furniture, so dropping forty thousand NT on a bicycle was hard to justify. However, a grab-life-by-the-horns South African couple I'd met upon my arrival needed no justification. Sheldon insisted on lending me the money, bought himself a bike too, and told me about a network of trails he'd discovered in nearby Hutopi.
The next year and a half was glorious. Saturday night would see us ripping up the nightclubs till dawn, then out on the trail by noon and riding for hours alternately expelling sweat, blood, and endless laughter. Occasionally Sheldon would have to stop to regurgitate the remnants of the night's excesses into the bush, but he was always back on his bike in seconds, barely breaking the flow of our ride. As time went by, our daring
expanded to encompass lines and hucks that we had initially only dreamed of doing. Trails that seemed too steep to ride came within our ability. The feeling of accomplishing what we had previously thought impossible was indescribable. Riding home into tropical sunsets each Sunday, we reveled in a state of purity that only complete exhaustion can bring.
When we got tired of the same old trails, we hooked up with another rider and trailered our three identical Giants to Taidung for a weekend of gun-toting maniacs in the bar and bleary-eyed Sunday morning rides. Even getting lost for three hours and being unable to find the trailhead couldn't blemish the majesty of the trip.
But nothing lasts forever. Worn out from endless forty-hour weeks, shady bosses and repeated traffic mishaps, Sheldon and Elaine pulled up stakes and moved back to South Africa. I did my best to keep riding without my partner, but it was clear that the magic was gone. It felt like the polarity had shifted, and those trails, that once came to me in midweek dreams, now repelled me. Being out there alone, in the place we had shared so many triumphs, was oppressive. It was the sharing that made the experience. So, my bike sat and collected dust, tires slowly going flat as the months passed.
During that time I met the coolest girl Taiwan had ever seen, and to my surprise, she agreed to marry me. She'd never been to Canada so we decided to take a long honeymoon there. As planning for our trip progressed, memories and dreams of riding came flooding back. I could think of little else. When I shared my longing to reclaim the glory of the trail with my wife, she readily agreed to join me, even though she had never done this kind of riding before. Around the same time, one of my old riding partners was looking to get rid of his Rocky Mountain RM7. Crafted like a Panzer tank, this hand-built bike has fat assed knobby tires, hydraulic disc brakes, and more suspension than most 4X4 trucks. It is made to be hurled off cliffs and bulldoze anything in its path. Kevin said he'd hold it for our arrival.
We arrived home in mid July. The warmth of the coast seeming frigid compared to the sweltering heat of Taiwan. But when I picked up my gleaming new ride a nagging fear crept over me. Would the thrill still be there? Had I already achieved all I could from riding?
Happily, it took all of five minutes to exorcise these demons. As soon as we turned off the road and hit the first descent, I felt the old rush again as if for the first time. Every root was a challenge; every rocky chute and skinny was an adventure. The biggest thrill, though, came from watching Evon. Her initial trepidation gave way to increasing confidence, until, reaching the end of our first ride, she was tackling and nailing stunts I remembered taking weeks to work up to. It became easy to forget how inexperienced she was, but even when our encouragement put her in over her head, she took the crashes in stride remaining bruised but unbowed. Neither fear of pain nor the occasional hangover could keep her away from the ride.
Over the summer I once again became a whore for the trail, riding with anybody whenever the chance arose. The Comox Valley offers an endless array of riding, from the sticky sweet singletrack of Hornby Island to the world-class freeriding of Mount Washington. Like a shark in a frenzy, I devoured as much as possible, then found room to cram in a little more.
I've tried my hand at countless sports and hobbies over the years, but my lack of skill, patience, or coordination soon sapped the thrill and turned play into work. But it was never that way with mountain biking. Lightning has now struck three times on two wheels, creating lifelong memories and cementing peerless friendships. The knowledge that it can strike again at any time is a source of contentment the likes of which I've never known.
