116 3rd St SE
Cedar Rapids, Iowa 52401
A memorable ride
New trail at Pinicon Ridge Park is among the best in the state, but is now closed for the season
The Gazette offers audio versions of articles using Instaread. Some words may be mispronounced.
My second go in the drops took me to a large wooden berm, one that looked like a dimetrodon.
The feature carried my momentum and whipped me down the slope where my trail joined another in a one-way circuitous return route to the top. A biker with a full face mask helmet zipped by ahead of me from the other trail.
Just how did he get over there I wondered. This system was new to me, but not for much longer.
I think Central City is going to give Decorah a run for its money in the competition of best outdoors town in Iowa. The new mountain bike trail at Pinicon Ridge Park is the best around in my book.
One ride was all it took for me to hazard such a proclamation. Alas, the trail system closed for the season Nov. 1, so my trip would be my only for the year. It might be a long winter.
I was racing in my mind against possible showers and certain darkness. Rest easy, I don’t subject my aged Tacoma to any hard driving. I was saving that for my bike in the back.
The days left to ride after school were numbered and today was it. A stunning sugar maple in flaming orange greeted me as I parked and mounted my wheeled steed to get a little warm-up ride before I hit the trail proper.
The trail entrance near the Lundby Bridge was without fanfare. I guess the turning leaves were taking that role. And then I was climbing the single-track up and away.
The transition from civilian to gear-grinding mountain biker happened quicker than usual. The flow of the trail was so inviting, the curves and switchbacks weren't obstacles, rather enhancements, inducing my body to squeeze out more of whatever I had.
At this point in rides I’ll have taken on the sense of a wolf coursing the woods at speed with the pack. Their yips and howls encouraging me on. If not that then I’d be riding with Metallica or AC/DC; the effects are about the same.
The trail neared the ridgetop, crossed a gravel road, traversed a hillside and then scorched down the draw. It offered a modest jump, I declined and veered left on the bypass. This afternoon, discretion was the better part of valor.
Today the music was different. In my head was the tune President Theodore Roosevelt called the greatest fighting song ever, “Garryowen.” As a man who ditched his high-power desk job in the War Department to raise a volunteer army just to be the first to Cuba to fight the Spanish, Colonel Roosevelt had real credibility.
“Garryowen” is a rollicking song from Ireland and pairs well with boisterous tavern singing or charging up San Juan Hill. Or in this case, with a 29-year old mountain bike on a new trail. I kept repeating the chorus — mostly because the verse lyrics tripped up my tongue throwing off my rhythm asaddle.
“Instead of spa we’ll drink brown ale
and pay the reckoning on the nail
no man for debt shall go to jail
for Garryowen in glory.”
More hillside speedwork. Riding the contours just felt right. Though whoa to the rider who lets his or her mind wander because it was a long way down and it wouldn’t take much for the careless rider to reach the bottom the hard way.
My ride in came to a pause at a flattop staging area. This was the destination — a gravity powered playground. I had stolen a run on the trail in the summer while this part of the system was a messy construction site. I didn’t appreciate the vision then, but now I did: behold!
Like atop a skill hill, I had the choice of four plunges, or runs, down the bowl, through jumps for the intrepid, berms and ramps for all, and enough elevation drop to make me think I was holding my breath the whole way.
After my second run I waited at the top to catch my breath and take a slug of water. The masked rider from earlier and a companion approached. They took a narrow beam across a ditch instead of the loop-around safe choice.
George and Kyle took a moment, too. George was from Greece, Kyle was a Minnesota transplant. They both spoke how highly they thought of the trail. The men took the big jumps and attacked all the hard features. I was happy just to watch.
My third plunge took me through “Valkyrie’s Flight.” Fitting name because the loop-around faced me with a hill shaped like the Holmenkollen Ski jump in Oslo, just that I was supposed to go up it. Both times I petered out.
That hill had more fight in it than the RoughRiders.
I didn’t want to leave, but there was no negotiating with Father Time. The sun was low in the overcast making for flat light on the trail. The kind of situation that invites mishaps rather than glory.
The ride out was as righteous as the ride in. Gravity was my friend and I let him work. The soundtrack my mind heard was less and less Garryown and more of the forest sounds. And before I could regain the foot stomping tune I was at the bridge and back to pavement.
The trails will rest. In the spring I’ll stir with them. Hopefully I hear those stirring bars and verses of “Garryowen,” too.
Looking up, looking ahead, and keeping my pencil sharp.
John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D. teaches at Linn-Mar High School. He sits on the Marion Tree Board, and is a member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America
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