Hello America | Part #7 – Let The Games Begin!

On two continents, 6,600 kilometers away from their home countries – we found two guys who literally swapped their lives: one in America, the other in Germany. How does biking feel in each of their new worlds? Who finds the best trails? Who drinks the best beer? Hear their stories and follow their adventures as they hit the trails in their new worlds.

Sometimes all it takes is a spark. The stone – or rather, the bike – has to get rolling once more, before new horizons reveal themselves. It works best when you encounter a new challenge before you’ve had time to create any prejudices. Although that’s easier said than done. Getting rid of the typically German attitude towards new things is harder than I’d expected. America is different, very different to Germany: louder, bigger, and more extreme in so many ways.

The ‘Land of the Free’ comes with baggage, bombarding you with ‘no entry’ signs, ‘prohibited’ notices, laws and many more restrictions. There’s a huge police presence, and America’s so-called civil society takes some time getting used to. ‘Support the troops’ we hear on a daily basis, especially in the capital. With the Pentagon, NSA and CIA all based in Washington D.C, the American flags and public declarations of patriotism are rife. The arsenal of weapons at the outdoor shops and the astonishingly high rate of crime go hand in hand.

Despite all its political and social contradictions, America is also a country where cultural and religious freedom is practiced. You can ‘worship’ whatever you like; a melting pot of cultures, they call it. This rings true in cities like Washington D.C, a hugely varied ethnic metropolis. Just like centuries gone by, America continues to attract migrants from all over the globe, landing on this giant continent in search of a new life. ‘Welcome to America’ isn’t just an empty phrase either; newcomers tend to be welcomed with open arms. And, as a German, expect a warm welcome as the country is highly regarded – particularly for its beer, fast cars and ‘Made in Germany’ stamp of quality. Renowned for Oktoberfest, American military bases and their own German ancestry, almost every American would be able to pinpoint this central European country on a map.

Respect the trails!

I’ve now found myself in the motherland of mountain biking, but – as I’d feared – on the ‘wrong’ side of the continent. Densely populated and flat, the East Coast to my knowledge barely has any trails, let alone riders. Whistler and the golden West Coast require a halfway-round-the-world trip to reach them. What a bummer, I keep thinking to myself. This country is just too big, and its distances unthinkable. Even the climate here on the East Coast is taking some getting used to. I start to miss the dreary dampness of Germany. Virginia’s intensely cold winter and subtropical summer are markedly different.

At the start of March the mercury starts to soars. In just a couple of days it’s 23°C, and the icy rain and 5 °C of the winter are a distant memory. The sudden onset of spring brings with it storms, hitting us on a daily basis. It’s like a monsoon, and turns the complex trails around D.C into mush. Grinding my teeth, I dutifully abide by the trail etiquette: ‘Don’t mess with wet trails!’ In a city with around 6 million inhabitants, this strict rule makes sense. The public network of trails are ridden by up to 100 riders on any given Sunday – they’d be destroyed in minutes if they were ridden in the filthy, wet mud.

Necessity is the mother of invention

Board-shorts and flip-flops might be in order, but there’s still no sign of Virginia’s riding season making an imminent start due to heavy rainfall. My opportunities to discover Washington’s trailheads are slim to none, and the bike parks in places like Snowshoe and Bryce don’t open until mid-May. I’m in a state of disarray, and my lack of riding is brutally painful. I discover that the East Coast gravity scene is already in the starting blocks, well, virtually at least. I head to Facebook and the online forums, get to know groups of riders, deciding to take part, like the lost boy that I am, in a race, the March15 Shenduro, a grassroots enduro race held in the Shenandoah Valley. Less than two hours from my base, the foothills of the Appalachians appear to have it made at this time of the year as mountain bikes can take on the ancient nature trails in the backcountry even in the wet.

As expected, the race is a disaster for me, largely due to my complete lack of preparation and absence of any prior knowledge of the local trails or technical stages, the downhill sections in particular. It might be bright hot sunshine, but the wind chill is high and the temperatures struggle to rise above 10°C, making the stream crossings and exposed mountain peaks tougher. After a solid eight hours in the saddle I finally cross the finish line, exhausted and a long way behind the leaders. Even though I don’t take away any trophies, I get to ride some great trails and have the chance to get to know a handful of riders from across the state of Virginia. Telephone numbers are dutifully swapped at the post-ride BBQ with its compulsory craft beers – and I hear the whispered word of a legendary secret spot not far from D.C.

I’m all fired up and the shaky YouTube videos confirm my hopes: it’s a veritable, wild freeride and enduro paradise with natural drops, northshore sections, loads of jumps, technical and rocky. Sick! A few days later I’m invited to join the secret group on Facebook. Any trips there need to be undertaken stealthily, and planned silently. Shuttling is permitted in the national forest, but too many riders would swamp this ‘secret’ spot. I’m surprised that I’m accepted so easily as a stranger. But this, I’m learning, is what the Americans are like: proud of what they’ve got and more than willing to share. It doesn’t even merit a comparison with the ‘trail stewards’ that often create such a drama in Germany. Another country, another set of silent rules.

(S)no(w) riding with friends

The weather is playing havoc with our plans, it turns bitterly cold and there’s monumental snowfall before our agreed weekend. Most riders cry off, citing safety reasons. You’ll need a snow bike, they presume… But Mike, Rob and Andrew aren’t the type to back down; and as much I’d like to stay at home in the warmth, I end up going too. I can’t miss my first ever shuttle ride! I have to admit that after 25 years of riding I’m still yet to have taken a pick-up up the mountainside so I’m excited.

Mike lives in Fairfax County, practically around the corner from me. The other two come from Richmond, the best part of 150 miles away. Almost three hours of driving for one day on the Big Bike? Sounds doubtful, but they’re keen. We meet about 50 miles north of D.C, where Mike’s truck gets stuck on a snowy incline. The 50-year-old, whose family hails from Cuba, gives a wry chuckle, twists his dreadlocks and tries once more to get it going. The sound of the throaty V8 Chevy’s engine is reminiscent of an army tank, as are its thick black exhaust fumes. When he finally gets the Chevy up and over the snowy mount, we congratulate him and Mike’s pitbull Pups gives us all a joyful sloppy dog kiss.

A bottle of India Pale Ale is pressed into my hand to warm me up, then we make a start on the first trail. The snow is so deep that our progress is halting – its pretty flat at the top, and a downhill bike isn’t particularly suited to tackle deep snow. The guys are ahead of me, they know where they’re going and I follow blindly. Snowy slush and fogged-up goggles aren’t the best combination, and nor are drops that are threatening to collapse when you don’t know the landing. I’d say this verges on dangerous. But the IPA trail beer does its best to loosen me up, and the others reassure me: ‘trust your bike,” they say with a smile. I eventually let go of the levers and discover that braking on ice and snow is overrated. It feels brilliant, ‘loose’ as they like to say here.

Mike has a lot more technical trails with boulders and rocky drop-offs planned for today, but the climb is a slip-fest as we have to cross wooden planks with no wire on them for grip. I decline the second time, plus it’s getting warmer by the hour, with snow turning to slush and the trails wetter. Aware that we don’t want to destroy the lines, we call a timely end to our fun.

The good times continue back at Mike’s, who steps up to take the role of grill master – until the bomb drops: a few locals take to Facebook to express their dissatisfaction with us riding ‘their’ trails on that day. A seemingly endless but fairly conducted shit-storm takes off. As a newbie, I’m better off on the sidelines. I’d had an incredible day on the dirt with some great, new trail buddies who I already hoped to see again soon.

The spot is so good and so extreme that we head back a few months later with Mike’s crew. The word ‘secret’ is completely out-of-place now, as the sheer number of riders of every sort out riding on this idyllic Sunday is immense. This time the long-travel bikes meet their match; whatever is hidden in the depths of the forests is unimaginable: steep, unspoilt, raw nature but still flowing and beautiful to ride with alternating rocky trails and loamy soils in the middle of knee-high fern forests. Then there’s the impressive battery of gap jumps, lovingly named ‘six packs’ by the locals. Just the Redwoods are missing otherwise you could easily think you were on the West Coast.

All that remains now is some serious optimism that the years of effort by the locals to legalise these trails will soon pay off. This secret spot has the guaranteed potential to become D.C’s number one trailhead and turn the U.S. capital city into another mountain bike mecca for the East Coast. I can’t wait!

Enjoyed this story? Take a trip to the rest of the series: Introduction | Freiburg | Goodbye Germany | Stromberg | What a Small World it is | My First European Bike Trip

Words & Photos: Steffen Gronegger

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