It was my intention to spend most of yesterday auditioning a few of the CDs that lately have been pouring in here like Lake Pontchartrain emptying into New Orleans. But first, I thought, how about a nice morning mountain bike ride in Cowiche Canyon.
At the bottom of that canyon northwest of Yakima is a three-mile trail on the bed of a railroad that was abandoned in 1984. It’s a great place to see wildflowers and an assortment of birds and small animals, mostly cottontails and an occasional reptile. For demented mountain bikers, the attraction is less the gravelly path along Cowiche Creek than the narrow dirt trail that snakes along the south canyon wall. From the rim of the high desert uplands to the canyon floor, the elevation drop (term used advisedly) is 450 feet. The trail is narrow, uneven, studded with large rocks and full of hairpin switchbacks, many of which edge out into space. If you are going to test your balance, strength and reflexes by riding this rollercoaster, it is a splendid idea to be sure that your machine’s brakes are functioning properly.
Somewhere in the dim (term used advisedly) recesses of my mind, I knew that the front brake on the bicycle I acquired for next to nothing at a yard sale was a bit weak. The fact came back to me powerfully as I began making my way down the first segment of the descent. In this photograph, the trail on the canyon floor is that thin ribbon way down there.
In the lower left, you see a portion of the trail I was on. The picture does not do justice to its pitch. Suddenly, gravity was moving me along much faster than one would think warranted by the negligible combined weight of me and the cycle. I jammed the front brake lever nearly into the handlebar, but it barely slowed me. The slightest pressure on the rear brake lever locked the rear tire into a skid that threatened to fishtail the bike and its occupant over the edge and dash us down among the sagebursh and fragments of basalt on the steep slope.
Experimenting gingerly with various combinations of pressures on the rear brake and what was left of the front, I was able to keep my speed down enough not to zoom off the lip of a 180-degree switchback. Somehow, I managed to stop the cycle and walk around the turnback, then remount and inch along to the next hazard. In that way, slowly, turn after turn, I made it to the bottom. When I got on level ground, I found myself looking around to see whether anyone had been watching. Absurdly, I was proud to have survived my stupidity and hoping for witnesses, but I was the canyon’s sole occupant. My only injury was a deer-fly bite.
Emerging from the bottom of the canyon onto a paved road and back into civilization, I rode immediately a mile or so to Revolution Cycles, where the always agreeable Mike readjusted the front brake. He asked if I’d had a good ride and where I had gone. Yes, I said, a good ride. Cowiche Canyon.
“We’re lucky to have that, aren’t we?” he said.
“Well,” I told him, “I feel lucky.”
Maybe I’ll get to those recordings today.
(Photo, Eric Noel, B.L.M.)