SILVERTON MOUNTAIN TACKLES TEAM TELEGRAPH
by Missy Votel

I’m not sure what part of the word “extreme” I didn’t understand.

After all, with 10 years of mountain biking under my belt, I was practically a wise old sage of the sport. My first ride was Slickrock. OK, so I ended up walking my bike and a few of its assorted broken parts out about four miles, but the fact was I embarked on that adventure with nary a second thought. How hard could it be? If the Japanese tour group in jeans could do it, so could I.

Which is roughly how my line of thinking went when I signed up Team Telegraph (consisting of myself and a co-worker) to test out Silverton Mountain’s newly opened
“extreme” Hard Core mountain biking trail. How hard core could it really be? Sure, I wouldn’t be setting any records for fastest woman on two wheels, but if all else failed, the lock- ’em-up-hang-on-tight-and-holdyour- breath approach always worked.

Little did I know this would be required of me before I even set rubber to dirt. It’s not that I didn’t trust owner Aaron Brill when he loaded my bike onto the chair, precariously dangling by its seat from the chair’s top crossbar. Rather, it was my own handiwork I was second guessing. As I watched the mostexpensive piece of gear I owned swinging in the wind, separated from a rocky abyss by metal seat
rails and a strip of leather, I prayed I had fastened the seatpost tight that morning.

At the top, I reluctantly loosened my death grip on the frame of my bike, dismounted the chair and set off toward the horizon on what looked like an innocent enough singletrack.

I had scouted part of the trail from the chair on the way up but quickly learned how deceiving a perspective it was. From a couple hundred feet in the air, things tend to look one dimensional. Trees, logs and rocks – they all looked so small. But as I peered over the crest of the hill down the fall line at the relentlessly steep, sketchy
singletrack it hit me. This is extreme.

It was a cruel, unforgiving trail, made up of loose dirt, logs and switchbacks coiled tighter than the knot in my stomach. But that wasn’t the worst. The trail snaked insipidly close to the edge of the mountainside, seemingly hanging out over a giant void in a few spots. One twitch, one misguided steer, one sliding back tire, and you’d be starring in your own version of “The Other Side of the Mountain.”

Given my propensity for tractor beaming – that is, being drawn directly toward what it is I am trying to avoid – I opted to walk on a few occasions. However, those occasional dismounts soon became much more frequent, until I reached the point
where it made more sense just to stay off the bike.

Although the valley floor was still a long way off, I figured the grade had to lessen at some point. When we passed the sign warning of the point of no return, we knew we were in trouble. “Trail steepens considerably from here. If in doubt, turn back,” it read.

The thought of a steeper trail was disconcerting, but not nearly as scary as the
thought of pushing my bike to the top wearing a pair of pointy, stiff tap shoes
that doubled as ball bearings when not clipped into the pedals. We pressed
downward.

Soon, the singletrack gave way to a rough road, littered with baby heads
and scree. Not necessarily a soft landing, but at least it was straight and wide - a veritable red carpet compareed to the singletrack. I mounted my steed, grasped the brakes and assumed the controlled-skid position. I wouldn't necessarily call it "riding," but for the next several switchbacks I was able to use this method - haplessly flailing and swearing down the straightaways and taking the switchbacks on foot, or, occasionally, on my ass.

Finally, we rounded a corner to find ourselves gazing down upon the final straightaway. Buoyed by my lack of contusions, concussions or fractures thus far, I
decided to go for it. I lowered my seat, let off the brakes and began to roll. I soon found myself sideways and let out a bloodcurdling scream that was heard down in Silverton, maybe Ouray. Luckily, I was riding only slightly faster than a speeding sloth and was able to dab down to correct my runaway rear end. I finished right side up with all my teeth. A victory in my mind.

Once on flat land, Brill asked if we were ready for another ride, to which we politely declined. I like to limit myself to one whuppin' a day, plus my team member wanted to get home and go on a ride to make sure he still knew how.

It's safe to say I left that day with any hopes of an extreme mountain biking career dashed. However, it is nice to know that when I start feeling a little smug about my riding skills on the good old, nonextreme trails, there’s something out there to put me in my place.