Honestly, Pops is Why I Ride

A little history. My family and I moved to Alpine, UT in 1988, then a small community.

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Alpine is nestled in between gorgeous mountain peaks, with immediate access to trail systems and Wilderness areas. My dad made friends with some guys who were in to "mountain biking," a relatively new sport. My dad started to ride some of the local trails with these guys, and, shortly thereafter, bought me my first mountain bike.

I was in 2nd grade, the bike was a red, 24"-wheeled Giant Rincon. 21-speed, index shifters, rigid fork, cantilever brakes, plastic pedals with toe cages, and who-knows-what for a saddle. This is where men were born.

My pops wasn't shy about hauling me up the Hog Hollow trail, as we called it, to which access is all but eliminated now due to expanding development. One fateful day, after climbing to the top of what is now neighbor to the Suncrest development, the group turned back and headed down the dirt trail to the city streets--twilight (the time of day, not vampires) was approaching.

We get down the dirt trail no problem. My dad and his buddies liked to see who could be the fastest down "Chatfield Hill." 50mph was the goal. Remember, I'm in 2nd grade at the time, so of course I wanted to keep up! They take off, and I do my best to catch up. I'm churning my Biopace cranks as fast as I can. The last thing I remember was my handlebars wobbling. Lights out. I woke up as I was being hauled to the hospital, my face, arms, and legs covered in road rash. I had faceplanted onto and skidded across the asphault at probably 30mph (I have pictures--in storage). The culprit? A bent fork. Turns out, I ran into the back of a parked car a couple days before and bent my fork. Yes, I ran into a parked car. Undoubtedly I was doing something awesome. Bent fork = speed wobbles > 30mph. Lesson learned.

Needless to say, I recovered, and my red bike now had a chrome replacement fork. I milked all the sympathy I could for as long as I could, but had to man up at some point and ride some more. I did. I do.

Pops rockin his Gary Fisher Roscoe. Almost 57......

If not for my pops, I would probably be some Nancy with no ability to think for myself. I know a lot of Nancys. My brothers, for example. I'm glad I was taught how to not be a wuss. The bike has played an integral part in my Nancy avoidance strategy.

Pops is the best. See his lanyard? 

Thank you, dad, for hooking me up with cool stuff to do as a kid. You are today's reason, and the true reason, for Why I Ride.