Bloody, bloody Boise

Part 1: In which I become the turd in the punch bowl

BOISE, Idaho—It was a long drive from Stanley to Boise. We were hoping for a quick drive over the mountains. Instead, the breathtaking scenery of the backside of the Sawtooth Mountains and the Payette River rushing in the canyon bottom below compelled us to ease up on the gas pedal and meander our way toward our next destination.

An inviting back road lured us to a tiny lodge tucked on the banks of the Payette in the middle of nowhere, and we took mental notes that this rustic collection of ramshackle cabins would be a fabulous place to stay when we were old and grey. We made it back to the main road again after watching the Payette zoom beneath us on a rickety bridge. Birds chirped pleasently in the trees and Caroline provided color commentary on the region's history from one of our many guidebooks.

Despite being cramped again in the car, we were still feeling the after glow of Fisher Creek. The ride the day before had made us groggy and our legs were pleasantly tired, but we were both still blissed out after our experience. Moreover, with temperatures in Boise expected to rise above 100 degrees, we were in no hurry to exit the pleasant coolness of the mountains. So we slowly snaked our way back to civilization.

Despite being on vacation, we did have an appointment to keep. We were meeting two riders in Boise for a preview of some of the town's better trails. At just after 5 p.m. we met Dave and Al as promised in a parking lot at the base of Bogus Basin ski area. The blast-furnace heat got me to staggering when I exited the vehicle to shake the hands of our new guides. A two-pump handshake caused a torrent to pour from my brow.

We decided that in this heat, the higher the ride, the better off we'd be. So we saddled up and drove to the top of Bogus Basin.

Dave and Al are extremely affable fellows, and we were very chatty at the trail head in anticipation of the ride ahead. Dave looked like one of those cycling fanatics who finishes near the top during weekly club rides out in the park.

Al's legs were like mighty tree trunks. I recalled reading some bike magazine a while back that listed the Top 10 greatest myths about biking (the magazine was not Mountain Flyer, as we would never stoop so low as to waste paper on such inane drivel). One of those "myths" was that you could never use the size of a person's leg to judge their riding ability. See? Inane drivel! Clearly Al's legs were able to carry him places most people would fear.

Looking at Dave and Al and knowing that I still had not entirely shaken the Crippling Mystery Illness, I had no doubt in my mind I was going to get my ass handed to me on this ride. It didn't help my confidence much when I immediately had to change my tire tube after it had gone flat apparently without cause. The tire had ridden fine the day before, and Fisher Creek was free of pricklies for the most part.

As I changed the tire, Dave and Al explained that the Bogus Basin area holds some of Boise's best riding. On this day we chose the Eastside area to ride—a place that offered classic wilderness singletrack with just enough technical bits thrown in to keep you on your toes. Al would be riding it on a rigid singlespeed 29er.

We gleefully rode the narrow singletrack. The deep woods and late hour made things much cooler than downtown Boise had been. Dave an Al graciously put up with every request I threw out for photos, even if it happened to mess up the flow of ride. I was hoping to get the photos out of the way early on so we could concentrate on the trail. For the most part we did, and pretty soon I was feeling warmed up and looking forward to much more singletrack ahead.

Because both of our guides had played a heavy role in establishment and construction of the trails up at Bogus Basin and elsewhere in Boise, they were eager to show off the area, although both were extremely modest when it came to taking credit for their hard work.

I was starting to feel at my best as we made our way through a newly rerouted section of trail. The singletrack was steady, but extremely narrow. Nevertheless, I rode confidently, even managing to keep Caroline in sight for the most part.

Suddenly, my pedal caught the remnants of a sawed off stick on the downstroke—the only time it could have done anyone any harm. Fate had lined my crank arm up with a one-in-a-million chance of disaster, and I felt my back wheel start sliding out toward the outside of the heavily exposed section of trail. My brain went about making corrections for the skid just as my front wheel slammed against another small-diameter stump nubbin on the outside of the trail. Being the unwitting dweller in the middle of a perfect storm, I felt myself being viciously slammed to the ground. It happened so quickly that I had no time to land gracefuly. I was hurled to the ground like a sack of rotten potatoes. By happenstance I managed to get a finger on my bike as it began its descent over the edge, saving it from a long fall.

A firey pain gripped my forearm and leg. I ventured a peek at my arm and saw the crimson reminder that mountain biking is an inherently dangerous sport.

I tried to be good natured as I picked myself up and continued the ride, but, truth be told, the crash hurt like a bitch, so it didn't take long before my normally good-natured side retreated away from the forefront of my consciousness. I rode in silence at the back of the pack. I felt terrible for Al and Dave, who undoubtedly felt terrible for me.

About the time the adrenaline from the crash started to wear off—when the pain really starts to set in—we began the long climb out of the canyon. Rides in this area are bowl-like, and most begin and end with climbs. The firey burn of plants rubbing the raw area of my scraped and bloody leg gave way to a new pain: the annoying stitch of a cracked or bruised rib. The dire new pain hit just as we passed the carcass of an elk that reportedly had been eaten by a wolf that haunts the area.

"Great, I'm wounded and bleeding and at the back of the pack," I thought to myself. I started to go over my wolf defense strategies in my mind as I made the long ascent.

Needless to say, the excitement back at the trail head was missing when I finally grunted my way up and over the final push to the car. Here I was, the ride casualty for the day, the turd in the punchbowl, if you will. It is an uncomfortable position to be in—even with people you know well. I weakly apologized to my gracious hosts. The warm looks on their faces let me know that no apologies were necessary.

Half an hour later, at the bottom of Bogus Basin, a delicious glass of stout and a hearty helping of spicy chicken wings helped me feel almost normal again, and we enjoyed talking to Dave for much longer than he probably expected.

Not only are Boise's trails awesome, but so are its people. It is a friendly, friendly town. I'm hoping my scabs dry out soon so I can do some more riding around here. Only time will tell.

See you on down the road, and if I happen to meet you on the trail, I'll be sure to give you a wide berth. Hasta la Vista, babies.