A Revisionist's History: My First Encounter With Off-road Cycling

During my early childhood, we moved often. Not long after Dorian, we ended up on Red Fox Court in Kuna, Idaho. Kuna is a Boise bedroom community possessing few, if any, redeeming qualities.

And yet, unlike my shadowy memories of Dorian, Red Fox Court stands out as bright, clear, and positively cheery in relationship to Dorian. Also there was that dry, irrigation canal that ran behind our home. On Saturday afternoons, dad would ride his dirt bike up and down the paved embankments of the canal with one of us kids desperately clinging to his waist. Not only that, but a Circle K convenience store—with all the attendant “advantages” that come with a convenience store—sat less than a city block from our front door. How is that for the very picture of convenience? No, “the Court” wasn’t all bad.

I had many firsts on Red Fox Court. I earned my first set of stitches there (a subject for another revisionist entry). Then, there was the day I learned that clear plastic bags do not good astronaut helmets make. Once when checking the mail at 8:30 in the morning, I saw the moon in broad daylight. But of all the firsts, there is one that stands out in stark relief from all the rest: I learned to ride my bike and in the process realized that my life would be drawn to wheels like a moth to flame.

The love affair with wheeled motion pre-dated the two-wheeler. It began during the days of trike-dom. One morning, while pedaling my tricycle across the lawn near the northeast corner of our home, I suddenly felt the resistance behind the pedals evaporate and the bike accelerated effortlessly for a few moments. Evidently, there under the corner of one eave, the rain water had polished a slight dip in the lawn. Riding through the bowl had caused my stomach to drop as if riding a roller coaster. That thrilled me.

Layered over that thrill, however, I could sense something almost imperceptible. Like the hint of vanilla in a good chocolate chip cookie, there was something in the cushion of the grass combined with the near solidity of the sod below that contributed to the overall experience. I can’t quite explain what it was exactly that appealed to me about that. Maybe—to continue the food metaphor—the pillowy nature of the turf combined with the more solid substrate below the thatch to create two layers of flavor like sweet chocolate and salty peanuts.

Whatever the reason, this second sensation has over time become just as compelling to me as the more plebian "roller-coaster" thrill I first recognized. To satiate the second sensation, I’ve found myself drawn—almost instinctually—to fish-tailing in the snow, power-sliding motorcycles on dirt roads, off-roading in family sedans, trail running, and of course, riding single track astride what my seminary students have come to know as a "fancy mountain bike."

Up to this point, we’ve only discussed the symptoms—rather than the causes—of my tendency or inclination to traverse rough terrain. As for the causes, that's easy. I chalk that one up to genetics. After all, I’ve have it on good authority that my dad was a pre-eminent gravel-road racer. (See below, a picture of my father, what part of him that is visible, wrenching on his rally car.)