Testing our mettle in Park City

PARK CITY, Utah—Park City is like a carnival for the rich, but with much worse traffic. That didn't matter to us, though: we aren't rich and we didn't come to drive.

Instead we found ourselves in a charming basement condo owned by a wonderful young couple who had lived in Park City during the salad days—when every square inch of land in the region wasn't being scraped clean to build super-sized condominium establishments or 22,000-square-foot rustic log McMansions to be occupied by out-of-town owners for a couple weeks a year.

Thank goodness we met Tom and his wife first before running into the snooty hoards who have come home to roost in Park City, lest we would have packed up our belongings and fled far, far away. Well, that is, if we had been able to get through the traffic.

Each morning the streets of Park City jam up like the colon of someone who eats only Wisconsin cheese curds and maintains a constant state of dehydration. Cars idle on roads for miles and miles, waiting for a chance to crawl into the city so their out-of-town occupants can serve the ritzy residents and see to their every extravagant whim.

We spent our first morning in the Old Main Street district, recoiling in horror at the weekly crafts fair that sets up shop there. We watched throngs of people hovering around crafts booths looking for something to spend the spare cash on that was burning a hole in their pockets. Children in Izod or Abercrombie were encouraged by their parents to throw dollar bills on the ground at the street fair and then use their boat shoes to stomp on the hands of any of the service-sector denizens who reached for the green mannah. One woman with a sweater wrapped around her neck (it was 85 degrees for God's sake) harangued her child for leaning on a downtown railing.

"Don't touch that, Spalding! It's been touched by poooor people!"

Okay, so maybe that's an exaggeration, but the downtown scene was gross.

Our thoughts immediately turned to the wonderful biking trails we had heard so much about. Tom was generous with his time and patient with us newcomers. He invited us to accompany him on his evening ride—a marathon climb and singletrack tour around the myriad ski areas that tower above the town.

Some 2,000 feet or so above the Main Street area, we rode past the very hip copper roofed compound that ABC News anchor Charlie Gibson uses for a winter retreat. From this cool-aired vantage point, it was easy to see the future development plan for Park City: Develop every single square inch, high and low, anywhere you might be able to offer ski-in-ski-out condos for any resort.

It was a plan enviable for its simplicity, and the assorted Greed Heads calling the shots seem to be following it to the letter. One development we rode past had added a 50-foot gondola to provide its tenants with true walk-less access to the slopes, even though the housing complex was about as slope-side as it gets. I guess it's difficult to walk in ski boots when you're only in them three days a year.

During the peak season, these high-end temporary homes fetch $400 to $2,000 a night. But interestingly enough, at this altitude, the roads have little traffic. Here in the heights of Snootyville, the roads are private, and signs alongside them warn cyclists or unwitting interlopers that they will be arrested for trespassing. Up here at least 60 percent of the residences are second homes, so there are few people at home during the summer. The roads in this exclusive area of the forest were a strange contrast to morning rush hour down below.

I had no idea where we were as we zipped around with Tom. A positive aspect of all the development is that property owners are putting in new trails like crazy, apparently to fulfill code obligations. Spiraling down a long stretch of singletrack we stopped to look at a mega-resort that was being carved into the landscape. Our guide said construction had started surprisingly recently, given the state of completion the resort was already in.

Our high-altitude tour with Tom ended with a raucous downhill through thick fields of tea roses and other wildflowers—hillsides of lush plants that soon would be nothing more than a memory once the bulldozers had made way for a new set of condos. The concrete cancers that were spreading across the landscape were not much more than a blur as we raced back down toward Park City. Because of the climbing we had endured earlier, the ride was an excellent warm-up for the next day.

Every town has its "signature ride" and word of Park City's Mid-Mountain Loop Trail has spread through every corner of North America. Of course we had to try it. Not just a little taste, but the whole buffet. Unfortunately for us, Tom had to work the next day, so we would be on our own. Thankfully he gave us some hints about the ride that would come in handy later on.

Here's a little word of advice for everyone. If you happen to find yourself in a new town and you're planning to ride trails that you've never ridden before, be sure to take a look—a good look—at the trail map and carefully add up the mileage. Caroline and I neglected to do this and we underestimated the Mid-Mountain Trail. Oh, our ride would probably be only 14 miles or so we reckoned after a cursory glance at the map, and since the guide says it generally follows the 8,000 foot contour line of the peaks, it had to be relatively flat, right? Oh, and all those trails Tom treated us to were so flat and smooth. They must all be that way, right? We'd be back at our comfy condo in just a couple hours, we figured. Right?

Wrong!

We quickly found out that "roughly following the 8,000 foot contour line" meant a lot of pedaling up and a lot of riding down on narrow exposed trail, much of it peppered with sections of sharp triangular rocks. A false move here could mean a long plunge over the side.

Oh, and one other thing: When selecting a trail in a new town that you've never ridden before, it's probably not a good idea to choose the route that has no possible bail-out points. Like it or not, we were committed to the whole ride once we reached the point of no return.

Some seven miles into our ride, Park City was a speck off in the distance below. We realized that our 14 miles was probably going to be more like 17, possibly more, and that our easy coast on smooth singletrack was not going to be all that easy.

One other thing: If you're riding unfamiliar trails in a new town, be sure to bring enough food to last much longer than you might think you'll need.

Once the realization that our ride was going to be an epic marathon that would also require a nice long ride on pavement back to town, we decided to take a little snack break. My Clif Bar looked like the pile of bear poop we had narrowly avoided about a half mile earlier, and it certainly didn't taste much better than what I would expect bear poop to taste like.

Fortunately, I had a lot of water, or so I thought. Somewhere around the 10-mile mark, my Camelbak started to run dry. Thank God for Tom! He had told us about a nondescript concrete restroom that had been erected by a private development called The Colony (I'm not making that up). Although the road through the development would have gotten us arrested had we decided to bail out there, and although signs in the woods warned us that vicious sheep hounds would rip us to shreds if we ventured off the trail into the private livestock areas, the restroom had a long-necked faucet that was just perfect for filling a Camelbak bladder, and the water coming out of it was cold and tasty! We were thankful that The Colony had spared no expense on anything.

With a new full supply of water and a renewed sense of hope, I was ready to finish out the ride. Of course, I never counted on the steady uphill section for the next four miles or so that would put the final trail tally near the 20-mile mark. Even though I wanted to hop off my bike, throw it over the edge of the cliff and stamp my feet like an angry little baby, the Good Lord blessed me with a hallucination that helped me get several more miles behind me.

In this dream state, I saw friendly German women in long skirts and braided hair, wearing those white hats that look like those ones you used to fold up with newspaper when you were a kid. These friendly German women would come zigzagging out of the woods with huge steaming platters of tasty pancakes held high above their heads.

"Pannakuchen! Pannakuchen! Pannakuchen!" they would cry on their serpentine quest to deliver their delicious ration of expertly prepared quick breads.

I'll tell you one thing, brothers and sisters, there just ain't enough German maidens delivering pancakes out there in America these days, and certainly not out here in the West. Rides like this one made me miss Minnesota.

Our epic ended back at town five-and-a-half hours later with 27 miles on the old odometer and a quarter-inch coating of dust on my legs and cranks.

We had a friggen blast!

We celebrated that night with some of the best sushi I've ever eaten at an incognito little place in a delapadated old strip mall away from Main Street called Sushi Maru. We ate like champions!

Park City's trails live up to their reputation, even though the town does not. We made fine friends there and we will be back again for more rides, even if we forego the ambience of the rest of the place.

See you on down the road.