When dreary winter weather rolls in and hangs on like a burr clinging to a ragg wool mitten, I find the temptation to hibernate hard to resist. But this only leads to bloat, muscle atrophy, and melancholia. So I try not to give in. Instead, I steel myself to face winter head-on. And there’s an upside to venturing out in foul weather. I usually have the back roads and trails to myself, especially when there’s not enough snow on the ground to rouse the sledheads from their tavern torpor. But it wasn’t business as usual in the winter woods this last week. I wasn’t the only traveler to venture out.

A pair of mountain bikers had beaten me onto the trail. This was doubly surprising. Not only was the weather anything but balmy, but the trail in question is no superhighway. It seldom runs straight for more than 20 yards or so, snakes up and down steep slopes, passes close by sheer drops, and crosses snowmelt-swollen streams on narrow bridges. And the thin carpet of snow didn’t do anything to improve traction.

Which is why I picked my way very carefully as I followed in the cyclists’ tracks, wondering all the while how they would fare in the miles ahead.

The answer wasn’t long in coming. A gentle downslope soon claimed its first victim:

I shot this photo while facing up the hill. One of the cyclists had skidded, and he (or she) had to work hard to keep from going over. The resulting hodgepodge of footprints also suggested a frantic scramble to dismount and get back on the trail. But the cyclists’ troubles were just beginning. A little further along, I came upon this scene:

I was having some trouble keeping upright myself, despite the welcome assistance of Yaktrax and a ski pole. So I wasn’t surprised to see that one cyclist had wiped out big-time as the slope grew steeper, skidding off the trail and fetching up dangerously close to both an exposed boulder and the butt end of a felled tree, the latter a relic of misguided “trail improvements” earlier in the year. (The photo doesn’t capture the slope’s steepness well.) The unfortunate cyclist seems to have had a little difficulty getting back up, too, and, sure enough, he (or his companion; I can’t be sure which) wiped out yet again just a little farther down the trail.

By this time, I’d guess that both cyclists were having second thoughts, though they’d come no more than a quarter of a mile. Steeper slopes and more rugged terrain lay ahead, and they had at least three miles to go. Did they make it? I don’t know. I left the trail and struck out across country, and I saw no more evidence that either cyclist had passed the way I went.

This episode left me with mixed feelings. Truth to tell, while I’m always happy to see cyclists venturing out in winter, I’m no fan of so-called singletrack riding. Although I often cycle down old logging roads, jeep trails, and similar woodland tracks, when I find myself on a narrow path frequented by hikers, I either push my bike or carry it. (Members of the UK’s Rough Stuff Fellowship have been known to boast that they never go for a walk without their bikes. And though I can’t honestly lay claim to the same degree of dedication, I can certainly understand the underlying impulse.)

My reasons for resisting the lure of riding singletrack are simple. I don’t like to ride at speeds that make it impossible for me to see other cyclists, walkers, or animals in time to avoid hitting them. On the road, under most conditions, this imposes few limitations. The highest speed I can maintain for any time still leaves me a comfortable safety cushion—except on long downhills, of course. But that’s what brakes are for. On singletrack, however, the maximum speed I can ride and still be confident of avoiding a hiker or small animal who suddenly appears around a bend in the trail is often no more than two or three miles an hour. At these speeds I might as well walk. And so I do.

Then there are the management implications. Knobby tires gouge deep trenches in steep slopes, which subsequent rains quickly widen and deepen further. Soon the trail is a gully, and the slope a morass. The outcome is depressingly predictable. All too often, singletrack enthusiasts clamor for “trail improvements” to repair the damage. And this, in turn, frequently leads to indiscriminate tree-cutting, trail widening, and other more-or-less destructive management “solutions.” Don’t get me wrong. I like to ride through the woods. But I don’t see why backcountry trails should be groomed for cyclists’ convenience. So when a jeep road peters out in a single track, I get out of the saddle and walk. The change does me good. I may even see more of what I came to see.

 

Still, I have to admire the enterprise of the two cyclists who preceded me down the trail last week, even if I have reason to question their judgment. And unlike the sledheads who will soon follow in our tracks, singletrackers don’t foul the air behind them as they go. Unless they’ve been eating chili, that is…

 
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