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Mammoth Day


Picture this. Simon and I are just back from some adventure. Maybe Tour of California. Probably tour of California, and it is a lazy Sunday morning, time to ride. Turns out Patrick is just back from Italy so we've all got stories to tell. Some from Patrick and some from the two of us. We are four with Tim rounding out the group. He's the quietest, possibly because of the suffering, but probably because he is content to just let us yammer away. He's like that - a smile, a nod, a snort of laughter to let you know that he is still right there with you.

We head out towards the falls, Alex Barr road specifically, and there is a bit of excitement because of it. The road out is mostly a highway, the old highway, which is great, but still filled with traffic. Alex Barr herself is neither of those things. It is the sweetest, steepest, mossy tree lined connector road that you have ever seen. The simple thought of being able to introduce this road to a newcomer, to take that steep descent towards the falls and then veer off onto what looks to be a bat-cave driveway. Something barely passable and totally rideable.

With that being said I still always manage to think that I've somehow missed it on the way down.

Once we hit the road Patrick is reminded of his time in the old country. The prostitutes lining old forest roads and his riding partners introduction to stinging nettles - shirtless. There is something for everyone on this road and on this day it does not disappoint.

At the top Tim thanks us for waiting. It is an odd sounding thing. For all we did was pee, take a swing from a bottle and rest a thigh on a top tube. Hardly something that could be considered waiting. And if our pace was quick on the way out in anticipation, it is echoed on the return by the memory of the climb.

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