If I had my way, we’d go straight from June to October. Summer means heat, humidity, bugs, and months until ski season.
But I’ve also been looking for something that feels a little like skiing when there isn’t any snow.
People kept telling me downhill mountain biking was the answer.
Last weekend I finally found out.
The day after the country turned 250, I loaded up the truck and drove to Bryce Resort.
It was pushing a hundred degrees, and the humidity was miserable. I was sweating before I even got my bike off the rack.
Then I made my first mistake.
I showed up wearing a road helmet.
Not a full-face helmet.
Not even a mountain bike helmet.
Just the same helmet I’d wear riding around my neighborhood.
At the time, I didn’t think much about it.
Four runs later, it was all I could think about.
Every time the trail got steeper, I pictured going over the handlebars.
Eventually I admitted what should have been obvious from the beginning.
I rode into the shop and bought a full-face helmet.
Money well spent.
My pride took a bigger hit than my wallet.
The second thing working against me was the bike.
I’m riding a Rossignol Super Heretic.
The bike is incredible.
The rider is not.
This thing is built for riders who know how to jump, ride rock gardens, and charge through technical trails.
I’m still trying to remember where my feet are supposed to be.
Luckily, the bike is a lot better than I am.
It covered for plenty of mistakes that day.
I’m convinced it made me look better than I actually rode.
The funny part is that once I stopped worrying about surviving, something started to feel familiar.
The chairlift.
The anticipation at the top.
Looking down the trail and trying to decide where to go.
Picking a line.
Committing to it
.
Trying not to panic halfway through the turn.
It isn’t skiing.
But it scratches a lot of the same itch.
The biggest surprise wasn’t how similar it felt.
It was how different I felt.
When I came back to skiing a couple years ago, I was relearning something I’d already spent years doing.
Those instincts were still in there somewhere.
They just needed to wake back up.
Downhill biking is different.
Everything is new.
Every corner.
Every feature.
Every steep section.
I’m not relearning anything.
I’m starting from zero.
Honestly, that’s part of what makes it so much fun.
I’m forty-five years old and terrible at something again.
There’s something refreshing about that.
Nobody expects you to be good.
You’re just trying to make it to the bottom a little smoother than you did the last run.
Three days later, my body was still reminding me I’d picked up a new sport.
I expected my legs to hurt.
I didn’t expect my wrists.
Or my shoulders.
Or my forearms.
Apparently, hanging onto a downhill bike for hours uses muscles skiing never asked me to develop.
I’d do it again tomorrow. I’d just move a little slower getting out of bed the next morning.
Bryce surprised me too. The drive winds through some beautiful country, and the resort just sort of appears in the middle of it.
It’s not the biggest bike park in the country.
It doesn’t have to be.
It has a chairlift. Good trails. Friendly people.
And it’s close enough that I can spend a day riding without turning it into a major trip.
I’ll definitely be back.
Driving home, I realized something.
The country had just celebrated its 250th birthday.
I’d spent the day doing something I’d never done before.
Not because I had to.
Because I wanted to.
I think that’s part of staying young
.
Keep doing the things you already love.
But every once in a while, find something you’re completely clueless at and start anyway.
It’s good for you.
Summer still isn’t my favorite season.
I’d still rather be skiing.
But until the snow comes back, you’ll probably find me riding lifts at Bryce or somewhere else nearby, trying to get a little less underskilled every lap.
And stretching.
Definitely stretching.
Thanks for reading
Snowbound Yeti.
If you’re counting down the days until ski season but still want to spend your summers in the mountains, you’re in the right place.
I write about skiing, bike parks, gear, road trips, mountain towns, and the people who never really stop looking for the next run.
If you’ve got a favorite lift-served bike park within a day’s drive of Washington, D.C., let me know in the comments. I’m building my summer list.
