Those who ride better than their friends often ride alone. A small tragedy on narrow paths.
There's this quiet, nagging problem that people don't like to talk about because it sounds a bit like bragging. But it's not. It's more of a dilemma. One without an elegant solution.
The trails that I enjoy are too much for my friends. The trails that my friends like bore me. In between: nothing. No compromise, no happy ending, just a rift that widens with every metre of altitude ridden.
The allure of aspiration
I can hardly go biking with my friends any more. Especially not with girlfriends - it's a good thing I don't have any, I might add almost cynically. Some of them stop where it gets interesting for me. Others ride where the screensaver has long since switched on for me.
Of course, there are those intrepid few who keep going. The ones who don't get nervous at "steep", "exposed" and "loose". But they are rare. And above all: busy. In the end, there is often only one option - to set off alone.
Alone is freedom or loneliness
I envy people like my buddy Stefan K. from Regensburg. He doesn't need anyone. He just goes. In summer and winter. Alone on a ski tour, alone in the powder, alone on the slope. If the avalanche buries him - well, yes. That also seems to be part of his serenity. Maximum freedom through maximum independence. I admire that. I can't do that. I need company. Not as decoration, but as a sounding board. Without it, I stay at home. And that's unpleasant when you look at it soberly.
Educator on the trail
The alternative would be to take your friends with you. Right into the alpine terrain, into those narrow, rough lines where mistakes have consequences. But then I no longer ride - I accompany. I warn, wait, calculate falls. I see lines that I would ride and at the same time see how others push them. Downhill. This is the moment when sport becomes an educational event.
And even worse: I become the benchmark that nobody has ordered. I ride in front, the others behind - or not. And suddenly there's this unspoken feeling in the room: "I'd like to, but I can't." It's an unpleasant feeling. For everyone involved.
So the easy trails after all? The friendly, flowing, good-natured ones? Of course I could. I do it too - on a gravel bike, for example. Cycle-cycle-cycle, pulse in the green zone, thoughts in neutral. There's something meditative about it. But on a mountain bike, I want more. A bit of risk. A bit of adrenaline. Without that, I'm missing something.
There's no going back
The problem: I've forgotten how to see simple trails. Anyone who asks me for tips often gets a shrug of the shoulders. "I don't know them." Big eyes on the other side. "What do you mean, you work...?" Yes, I do. But my coordinate system has shifted.
Maybe it's because I've seen too much once. Too much good stuff. Trails that were too perfect, lines that were too clean, turns that were too ideally constructed. Anyone who has ever ridden in Whistler knows what is meant. After that, many local trails seem like sketches. Rideable, yes. Inspiring? Rather not.
It's like wine. Or with the sea. Those who know the best become demanding. And in the long run, sophistication is a rather lonely companion.
So what to do?
You can't go back. Forwards often means: alone.
Sometimes I wish I was a little worse. Or at least more frugal.
Instead, I stand at the start of a perfect trail, look down - and think: Damn. Beautiful here.
If only there was someone who saw it the same way.
Dimitri Lehner
Editor
