ADVENTURE FOR THE REST OF US

by CARA MCDONALD

This past weekend i decided to take my mountain bike to the trails at Palmer Woods Forest Reserve for the first time. It was also the first ride of the season for me, and so it involved rummaging for my bike shorts—why is every piece of outdoor clothing I own black?—and putting the new bike rack on the car with some subtle cursing. The idea was a bit of a wild hair; I’d already puttered, gardened and farmers-marketed. I needed to go somewhere and get a little sweaty, and a jaunt to the trails seemed like an easy enough lift.

I don’t actually identify as a mountain biker. I came to it through road biking (also don’t identify: I bought the road bike during the Lance Armstrong years) which I came to through a pedal-til-you-barf spin class that had a hot instructor and good beats. So, I sort of acquired the legs and then the bikes and now I do bike, but I also know enough to realize when something isn’t “my sport.” In my experience, mountain biking is pretty fun, mostly, except when it’s terrifying. Or cold out. Or involves a dawn-patrol start time. Or ends in a sandy patch with a separated rib and bleeding abrasions.

I value adventure and think I’ve done a lot of it; some involved things like sharks or making poor decisions in a Bangkok bar. Turns out the definition of adventure includes the notions of “hazard” and “danger.” I’ve always held to a sense that it was just about putting your eyes on the horizon and sallying forth, maybe going somewhere wild and pretty without a lot of people. But part of what makes adventure fun IS the risk, just a sip of it; the danger brings out the brighter tasting notes and without it, adventure would just be a Really Fun Activity.

I’m not risk averse, but as I reach a certain point in my life, I like my adventures to like me back—not to leave me bruised and bleeding, or with my ego wilting in the hot summer sun. This was baked into our request when we circled around to contributor Liam Kaiser; Liam has taken our readers on some interesting jaunts, most recently a trip to Isle Royale which went well until Mother Superior got a little riled up. Could he guide us somewhere cool yet friendly? You know, maybe with some post-worthy photo ops not requiring tons of gear, specialized knot-tying or hours of driving down remote two-tracks?

This month, he brings us along on a snorkel outing anyone can do. Sure, you’ll need to work for it—get on a boat or paddle a board out to find an old wooden shipwreck in warm, shallow waters just begging to be explored. But it’s not stupidly dangerous or tediously time-consuming and packs enough summer-adventure feels to put some color in your cheeks.

No matter what we identify with as our brand of getting out there, we all need that. Just a soupçon of adrenaline to let us know we’re alive, we’ve still got it. As they say: A ship is safe inside the harbor, but that is not what ships are built for.

I unloaded my bike feeling optimistic—nothing but beginner and intermediate trails here—but still my heart started to pound. Maybe I imagined my poor rib creaking or my scars burning. As I wound through the beech trees and pines and the trails proved grippy and kind, I loosened my hold on the handlebars and started to relax. These trails were built for bikes, especially riders like me. Fast, friendly, rolling, but no unpleasant surprises, overly tight turns, slippery roots or jarring rock gardens. Every pedal stroke resuscitated my confidence a bit more, and then my joy. I let off the brakes, starting to seek out the bumps and dips, to opt-in for the tabletops and rocks. Just enough to know: Maybe I’ve still got it.

Cara McDonald Executive Editor cara@mynorth.com