Das Rant
By C.G.

A Happy Rant

Whiteface Mountain. Nice.

In the immortal words of Joe Walsh: “I can’t complain but sometimes I still do.”

I’ve been doing just that while reflecting a lot lately on what it means to be an east coast mountain biker. Maybe it’s the arctic style air that has recently made its way down from Canada or maybe it’s the sadness I feel when I check on my Salsa Dos Niner that has been hanging from a hook in the shanty since October; icicles twisting peacefully from the dangling front wheel… The whole scene reminds me of a side of beef hanging lifeless in a slaughterhouse walk-in freezer only slightly colder and more disturbing.

Crunches on the ol budget will prevent me from attempting any sort of escape to Moab this year, which probably isn’t helping my depression any. I’ve been studying cell-phone quality pictures from last year’s trip lately which only enhances my natural lust toward partially sand covered rock and stacks of orange mineral towers contrasting a clear blue sky beyond.

So why then, does this potential desert rat stay on the east coast where sand is only found on the beach in summer time and the closest thing to a stack of mineral deposit is the concrete towers that greet me outside my duplex window and block my view of the Rochester cityscape beyond? The answer, it would appear, can be summarized in three simple words: Whiteface Bike Park. That’s right all of you ladder-leaping, skinny-strutting, double-dancing fools- there is more to life than Whistler and Mammoth. In fact it may come to a surprise to some that there are even a few mountains here in NY.

For those who have never been, Whiteface makes use of the legendary Adirondack Mountains and in case that doesn’t help you any, think vertical mountainside with many cedars and firs. Sure there are rocks, nothing like those big flat plates I crave in Moab, but more like baby-heads with a case of elephantitis. The dirt is black and loamy and the only time you really need to pedal is to approach the lifts. Just to clarify, I’m not a downhill rider and don’t pretend to be one. The one inch of rear travel that my Salsa boasts would have been driven firmly between my cheeks had I so much as attempted to descend a mere few feet of this course.

I took the road trip up with a few of my fellow MBT cohorts just as riding here was at its peak. The date was September second and in case you don’t follow the downhill scene, Whiteface hosted the second round of the Gravity East series. At just over 3 miles long, this course is quite a sight to behold. Riders flock to this event from all over the globe (some from locales as exotic as Brooklyn) just to duke it out against one of Mother Nature’s finest achievements.

Those 3.2 miles I was telling you about equate to almost eight minutes behind the bars. At times I was convinced that mathematically those seven odd minutes of balls out descending were probably equal to about a full week of what I consider aggressive riding in Moab. I was astonished at the ragged edge these fellows cling to around corners so tight that they almost loop back onto themselves and across rocks so gnarly that 11-inch forks would bottom out and buck like a bronco.

In the end even I came to forget that I hadn’t left the state. An event like this can be a real eye-opener to someone like me who insists on believing all of the good stuff happens far from home. Sure it was about five hours of driving each way, but the memories were worth the price in fuel and the Burger King gut grease that the trip entailed ten-fold. I forgot to bring my digital camera along so I don’t have pics to pore over like I do with Moab but maybe that’s for the best. You figure my column is called Das Rant so what good would I be if I filled it up with feelings of flowers in bloom and butterflies dancing where once sat a double Whopper.

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