On The Pedals
By Jason Giacchino

Taking the AM Cross-Country

Long before the term “All Mountain” was dreamt up by some clever marketing department, the theory behind the genre was already well in practice. In fact I struggled with trying to mate various bikes to the concept for years. More often than not what ended up happening was I simply huffed and puffed out on the trails with overbuilt downhill frames in the unlikely possibility of stumbling upon a rock garden or rhythm section.

It was only recently that I began to build my bikes up with very specific terrain intentions in mind. I’ve been steadily moving away from the burly, overbuilt-bike mentality that had occupied so much of my obsession a few years back and have instead been turning to lighter, more pedaling efficient choices. Maybe it’s because I’m not getting any younger or simply on account of the fact that I spend so little time riding resorts these days. And while I have yet to fully conform to the XC side of things, I have reduced my suspension travel requirements from 7+ inches on down to 5. The meat of the All Mountain market segment has finally reached a level in which pedaling is actually quite efficient but still offers adequate suspension travel for all but the most severe drops and jumps.

I kept this logic in mind this past year when ordering my Iron Horse MKIII; Definitely a bike that could be pedaled uphill with enough travel in reserve to get loose should a jump or drop suddenly appear miles from the trailhead. Things had been going quite according to plan as the season matured from spring to early summer. I found the bike’s trail manners to be pleasant and even took to railing flat corners with the slightly rearward-biased seated position. The DW-Link rear suspension wasn’t quite as attention grabbing as the online hype may have suggested, but a steadily building appreciation for the design definitely followed.

The ultimate test for my trail bike came yesterday when my cousin, Mike Genovese, and I decided to explore a fairly new (completed in 2004) trail network that we had been hearing about. The trailhead is about a half an hour away as flies the Nissan Frontier. We arrived, unloaded, and set forth into the unknown completely driven by excitement. The trail network, we would discover by reading the large welcome sign, was the result of a federally funded grant and the unimaginable hours of labor-intensive volunteer work of countless individuals across eight municipalities. Known as the Rails to Trails project, the path we headed onto was once a functioning train-line that had been transformed for mountain bike, hiker, and horseback-rider use from 1998 until its completion in 2004. The trail’s surface, as expected from a former railway, was fairly level and straight, with a base of packed stone to avert rain-water rutting and swampy divots. Rivers and tiny streams alike were crossed by mighty trestles of wooden plank base.

It was hard to deny the initial elation that fueled us to hammer along as if being chased by a grizzly: The trail was loaded with vista points and landmarks, each highlighted by the map we grabbed at the trailhead. The conversation between us each time we stopped for a swig of water would go something like this:

“According to the map we’re only three more miles away from the next lake, should we go?”
“Sure, why not?”

And so we went, traveling along the perfectly groomed trail as it cut through towns and mountains, crossed highways and swiftly moving rivers. The string of destinations on the map kept the cranks spinning for nearly three straight hours when a realization struck us simultaneously (just about when we took our last swallow of water each): We still had to pedal back!

Studying the map we deducted that we had traveled 12.5 miles away from the parking area. Neither of us had brought any food along and our water-packs had gone dry. There was little choice but to turn around and start spinning. We had passed a little town on the way up with a single grocery store/ gas station that represented nearly the half-way point back to the truck. Fighting off thirst and the dizzying effects of a world-class bonk, we kept the pedals rotating for the six miles back. A pack of Twinkies, a bottle of water, and a Snickers bar later, each of us remounted with renewed hope and bellies full of sugar. We put our heads down and charged into the slowly setting sun, becoming ever more aware of a couple realities:

1) The lack of grade was nice because it meant little climbing, but it also meant no coasting either.
2) The stony base was not only pounding our bodies, but offered unbelievable resistance to our slowly rotating wheels. Stop pedaling, stop moving forward. Instantly.

The remaining seven miles were torturous exercises in fighting through the effects of thigh-burn. Vista points we had cherished on the way up passed in blurs of heavy breathing and focus. We arrived back to the truck a little past the 5 hour mark having traveled across a total of 25 miles of life-sucking stone. I debated kissing the truck in Christopher Columbus grateful to step foot on land theatrics but decided against it when I remembered we still had to load the bikes.

Am I happy that I took my All Mountain model over some wispy dedicated XC mount? Sure but I wasn’t at the time! Actually now that the lactic acid has stopped coursing through our muscles, I’m already beginning to view the trip with fond memories. Next week I’ll be telling my coworkers how amazing it was and a few days after that I’ll want to do it again.

Questions? Comments? Love letters? Send 'em to Editor@mountainbiketales.com.