Words by Steve Delacruz Picture by Seb Rogers
First published April 2001
Singletrack. There isn’t a single word in a mountain biker’s vocabulary that evokes as many memories or passion as this one. Ask any mountain biker in any part of the world about their favourite singletrack and you’re going to get a smile and a good story. It’s the common thread that binds mountain bikers regardless of bike technology, skill level or gender.
Pristine, twisting singletrack is the soul of our sport. Even downhill racing motoheads and hungover singlespeed freaks would agree on that.
Webster’s definition of singletrack as “having one track” doesn’t provide much insight into the power of the word. I’d define singletrack as the soul of mountain biking. Spinning through a forest on a twisting narrow ribbon of dirt is the foundation of what our sport is all about. The integral part of the experience. For better perspective, imagine mountain biking without singletrack. That’s a painful thought. No, that’s a miserable existence.
I’ve been fortunate enough to ride all over the United States experiencing truly magical singletrack. From the technical, wet, gnarled roots, lava rocks, bamboo groves and red clay of Oahu’s rain forests to the high speed, arcing turns in Santa Cruz, California and Mother Nature’s finest loam. The loam in Santa Cruz a couple of days after a rain is so sticky, it’s like Velcro – no brakes needed, just kick the rear end sideways, hit the apex of the bend and let it rip. You couldn’t ask for better traction. Spent 5 days in Bend Oregon riding with some friends on arguably the most magnificent singletrack in the world – one that comes to mind was 35 miles, all slightly downhill, lots of rollers, very tight and twisting right next to a river. One minute the air was full of mist and moss covering all the rocks, the next minute it’s 20 degrees warmer and dry. It was like being stuck in a Star-Wars-movie-Ewok-chase-scene. For 3 hours.
What more could a mountain biker ask for? North Shore singletrack in BC, Canada – all the shots in the glossy mags of crazy stunts and cliff drops don’t even begin to show what the trails in Canada are like. The singletrack is so gorgeous, words wouldn’t do it justice.
Close your eyes and imagine your favourite stretch of singletrack.
Remember the first time you experienced that winding path – how you lurched from corner to corner, braking and accelerating randomly as you firefought your way along it, brushing trees and slipping on roots.
Now think about the time when you got that singletrack dialed. The moment it clicked into one, smooth, sinuous curve, so that you didn’t just ride the trail – you experienced it, feeling every effortless turn roll under you, setting you up perfectly for the next, your body relaxed, wheels barely making a sound. That is the essence of mountain biking. That is the part that we can’t explain to someone that doesn’t ride.
Singletrack is why I ride. The climbs, descents, fire roads and rock gardens are just foreplay to the goal of hitting the next singletrack – and nailing it. It’s a moment that rarely happens, but when it does – and I can feel the shiver still – it’s a beautiful memory that lasts longer than the high of the trail itself. And it’s enough to see me through the darkest winter.
Singletrack is the simplicity of riding a bicycle.
Singletrack is a two wheel drift, clipped in.
Singletrack is the cold snap of a Spring morning.
Singletrack is the curve of a woman’s hips.
Singletrack is the couch, your favorite meal and cold one after a long ride.
Singletrack is the pungent smell of an old growth Redwood forest.
Singletrack is the tingle of that first kiss.
Singletrack is one less car.
Singletrack is the sharp edge of your favourite cooking knife.
Singletrack is not 9speed or metal-matrix-titanium-ultralite-unobtanium tech.
And, according to my girlfriend singletrack is just plain cool. Who’s to argue with such wisdom?
Steve Delacruz
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