For those considering 29er singles...

[dstepper]

If you put a singlespeeder and a gearie in the same room, there seems to be a lot of controversy over whether technology is good, or even necessary, for the MTB lifestyle. I use the term lifestyle rather than sport because I believe as a whole we ride a two-wheeler in the dirt to satisfy our passion and inevitably it becomes a lifestyle.

There’s that word again: passion. It’s probably one of the most overused words in the mountain biking rags, besides aplomb, plush or railed. Passion shouldn’t be mistaken for desire, need, want or crave. Those are terms best applied to our incessant accumulation of more bike parts. Passion is a pure emotion devoid of materialism. Passion is the internal force that drives you to be better. It lurks in the recesses of your mind and beckons you to drift off into daydreams when you should be working.

Remembering back to the day when I first lost myself while riding my bike, I had stopped worrying about my job, deadlines, and bills. I don’t mean that I physically became lost and couldn’t find my way back; time actually stopped for those few hours while I was negotiating tight singletrack. Everything that wasn’t physically before me ceased to exist. This marked the beginning of my obsession. I had become addicted to turning the cranks, pulling the bars, driving my legs, expanding my lungs, leaning the frame, and following the trail to the unknown.

Still missing that enigmatic element, I entered the race arena to test my mettle. The adrenaline rush of gravity racing was like being chilled to the bone on a hot summer day. Muscles twitching, every synapse firing, teeth grinding through my mouth guard, eyes focused 100 feet ahead in a dead stare. As I waited for the final electronic chirp, it took everything in my power to resist the urge to prematurely lunge out of the gatehouse in a desperate sprint for the finish line.

It didn’t matter how well I prepared. At every race, the spectators waiting at the finish line bore witness to a 175-pound tuna in protective body armor flop to the ground, frantically struggle with a full face helmet while slowly dying as it gasped for its last breath.

A glutton for punishment, I entered the cross-country scene like a wide-eyed doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming semi truck. Waiting in the conga line anticipating the starting gun sent my intestines into overdrive. With all of the posturing and sizing up of our rivals, we acted like there was one sheep left and we were competing to be the lucky ram. But alas, to the onlookers we were akin to brightly colored salmon frantically flopping against each other as we set out to ascend the mountain.

A mountain has a way of punishing those who attempt to tame her. Altitude is her first line of defense. Wheezing gulps of air reluctantly filled my lungs as I tried to match pace with the stronger riders. Mistaking the lack of oxygen for euphoria, I pushed harder to reach the summit. My breathing became ragged as I started to lose control. I lurched on the pedals while I yanked on the bar ends in feeble attempts to generate more power.
Once I reached the top, I struggled to hang on to the grips as I attacked the descent through blurred vision. A thought came to me: Sea Monkeys. This is what it must be like for Sea Monkeys to race on mountain bikes, except they wouldn’t be gasping for air like a fish out of water. They’d be gasping for water like a human off of dry land.

After having ridden every trail in the surrounding area, I eventually set out for new destinations: alpine meadows, desert landscapes, high mesas, and forest glens. Each possessed its own unique personality and challenges. We navigated our hardtails on twisting singletrack, carved down rock-strewn fall lines on full suspension, and launched into the air on gravity sleds. All was good, but still something was amiss.

And then one day, just for the heck of it, a friend and I decided to build a single speed bike. He donated a used steel frame to the cause. Granted, it needed some welding to repair a broken brake post, but she still had some life in her. I pulled a hodgepodge of parts out of wooden crates in my garage: remnants from my past obsession with up-grade-itis. I toiled through the night with Phil Wood grease, Loctite and a torque wrench and emerged the next day with what appeared to be a bicycle. Not a twenty-something geared race machine, or a fully suspended ridge rocket. No, this was just simply a bicycle.

So I threw on some shorts and a T-shirt, grabbed my helmet and headed to the trail. By the time I reached the trailhead, I was giddy with excitement. I eagerly strapped the helmet on, threw a leg over the saddle and pedaled off down the trail expecting to uncover some hidden mystery about single speed bikes.

At first I was a little confused why anyone would find this kind of riding “enlightening”. I mean it’s not like I could snap it into a higher gear and blaze furiously down the trail, allowing a sophisticated suspension design to absorb every rocky obstacle in my path. I also couldn’t cleverly anticipate the next climb with just the right gear choice while trying to choose the right line through the maze of dry erosion ruts. Nope. All I could do was take on whatever Mother Earth threw at me. Just the bike and me.

Then slowly, without realizing it had happened, I stopped being aware of all of those physical interactions with the bike. For the first time, I began to sense the trail. Each tree made its own distinct sound as I silently passed by. I felt the slightest temperature change as I descended into one valley and then rose out of another. Momentum robbing trail features became invitations to leave terra firma and loft gracefully to the other side. When the trail turned skyward, I just stood up and climbed. To think about the climb, was an invitation to accept defeat. Instinctively, I harnessed the potential energy from the undulating terrain and used it to drive forward. There was no more thinking about what I should do next. I just flowed.

I have never felt more connected to the trail as I do when I ride my singlespeed. I admit, from time to time I still pay a visit to my other rigs in the hanger, but they just don’t hold the same mystery. They are a distraction from the trail, whereas my singlespeed is purely about the trail. And that is where the “enlightenment” begins.

[Jman]

Well written, very well written.

[allison]

I like it!

[dstepper]

And if that did not make up your mind about big wheels rolling over every thing.

[CPATCRASH]

Originally Posted by dstepper

And if that did not make up your mind about big wheels rolling over every thing.

Hey! Is that a Jones bike?