Tekkening. Look it up on Google and you find a fair bit of unreadable posts with odd looking characters from Scandanavian countries. To me, Scandnavia evokes thoughts of cross country skiing and reindeer with crisp, lung burning air. My first foray into the shadow's of Martin's creek radioactivity couldn't have been further from that imagery.
"Realfeel of 98" the weatherman crowed over the hum of my air conditioning. I slugged a bottle of water and a coke in my truck in a feeble attempt at pre-hydration. A bowl of stale lucky charms 4 hours before was not going to provide the energy required if this place was anything other than flat. I had no information on Tekkening Trails other than directions of where to park from the Dirt Devils site on clubMTB.com. There could be anything at the end of this asphalt road.
The previous evening had seen me pulling an all nighter at work to rebuild a server that decided to trash about 10,000 user files for fun as the hard-drives slowly ventured into the River Styx. What was I thinking heading out here in the noonday heat? I was thinking adventure, I was thinking ANYTHING other than keyboards and cranky users. That's the funny thing about this new mountain biking hobby I picked up this spring. The harder I crank on the pedals, the less negativity enters my head from my cranky users and my cranky ex. It's both a mentally and physically purging experience for me. Maybe that's why I don't mind waking up in the morning with a sore rear-end so often lately.
I'm here. It's a pretty non-descript parking lot, but there is a big board with a map, and little pamphlet maps of the trails. A quick once over the big board and a stuff of the pamphlet into my seat bag with my cell and truck key and away I went down the gravel road and into the woods with the weird name. I had decided that I wanted to be a little adventurous. The blue trail along the Foul Rift of the Delaware was labeled "scenic". Scenic is for old lady's and people with skinny tires. No sir, I would not take the scenic path. I have portly tires and a jet black bike. I'm Darth Vader with a camelback dammit, and I want woods and rocks and sticks and mud.
This is easy. It's like the towpath with hills and trees. I passed the blue glow of the porta-potty about 100 yards into the woods and leaned into overgrown single track with the orange markers. This place must not get ridden a whole heck of a lot as the weeds from the sides encroached onto my new spiked platform pedals and threatened to untie my shoelaces. In and out of fields and woods the orange trail wound. Pretty easy stuff. A lot of twists in the trails kept the conservative side of me off the bigger rings. A couple of 3-4 inch logs took the high-speed mini-wheelies with ease. I like this place already. It's pretty hot on the field edges, but the woods are cooler. It must have rained this morning because the rocks in the trail are wet, but they are smooth river stones, and not much of them.
"Damn, forgot to hook up the cycling computer" i mumbled as I hopped off at the start of the first decent hill. Technology trumps reason, it's an illness I guess. Stupidity apparantly trumps knowledge because now I am at the bottom of a wet hill spinning my tire and wandering into the vegetation as i try to climb from a standstill. Well, this sucks. Time to walk it up I guess. Funny how your mental state changes. Last year, I could have been hiking here like a true bi-ped. I didn't own a bike and would have been happy with the trudge. Now it just seems so lame, a failure of sorts. This sport gets into your soul somehow, pushing you do do un-natural (and stupid!) things and never give up. Such a let down when you do, maybe that's part of being a newbie. Finally I reach a section level enough to pick up some speed and hop back on to my trusty black steed.
I'm soaked with sweat at this point. The walmart 2% that my horseshoes, stars and green clovers marinated in this morning is feeling a little squirrely. That little green guy on the box looked so happy this morning, at this point I could choke him and his silly accent. Fortunately, i filled my camelback to the top with ice before I filled it so a nice long tug of ice water evened me out a bit. A little more downhill, a little up hill. Trying to keep off the the brakes on the downhill. Brakes are a security blanket I need to shed. At least I am learning to use the front one rather than generate smoke with the rear...
Things start getting rockier. The smooth and rounded river stones are starting to mix with some sharper edges now so a little weaving is in order and I am back to enjoying myself. I can duck off of orange to head over to the sissy blue trail, or keep going onto the red trail. Did ol' Darth eat lucky charms before battle? I guess not, he couldn't get the spoon into that helmet. Plus, milk breath with all that breathing would not a grand leader make.
Red it is.
Hamburger. That's what my shin feels like. I have no idea what I just hit, but my pedal caught on something hidden in the weeds. These new pedals Liz Allen suggested are sweet, and I slip off way less then the crappy plastic ones that came with it, but this is a side effect that will take some getting used to. No pain no gain, no guts no glory, ride fast and ground meat metaphors begin to apply.
This trail is getting more difficult by the yard. Gone are the smooth stones that my suspension soaked up so easily. These boogers are sharp, odd angled and frequent. I have to get off and push again. I think it is primarily a skill deficiency, but the heat, what's left of my shin, and my energy are draining from me pretty quickly. The next 3/4 mile or so provides more of the same pedal a little, two-step a little. This place is beautiful, but a little beyond my skills, at least in my present condition. I take solace in the fact that the granny blue trail lay just ahead of me. Smooth sailing back to the truck is just what the Dr ordered after the humiliation Ma Nature is just piling on at the momet.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a little blue sign, and rock piles, oh dear. OK, scenic at this part means 40 foot cliff 2 feet off the "trail" with a beautiful view of the river below. It also means pretty much no dirt and basketball sized rocks piled upon each other. I am reduced to riding granny gear for 30 feet, walking 60, convinced I am about to splatter bike parts in multiple directons at any moment. This is no Jacobsburg. It is certainly no towpath. I am feeling less like Darth Vader, and more like the Will Farrell character in that Taladega nights trailer.
I learned a lot the last 100 yards. I learned that pedaling over rocks in the wrong gear can send my heartrate up through the tree canopy. I learned that if I concentrate, and stare where I want to go rather than at the razor sharp nasties (Thanks Liz) I can actually navigate some things I would not have thought possible 10 minutes ago. I have also learned that obstacles at 45 degree angles to the trail can take my back tire and shoot it about a foot from where it started. I also learned that these bikes are pretty darn tough, even if it is a cheapo from Dick's.
The trail starts to open up, it's soft sand with only scattered smooth rocks here and there. I am back up to a respectable gear and getting some good wind through my helmet to help cool this sweating heap that seemed so invincible 45 minutes ago. The sights and sounds of the river have always been special for me, and now I am back to enjoying it and taking my eyes off the trail, if ever so briefly.
As I piled what remained of me into the truck (that should have had the windows cracked) I felt myself already wishing for more. This weekend I want to try Jordan and the Sand Pit at Salisbury, but I'll beat this place someday and will be back to practice the conquest in the very near future.
Note to stupid: Eat a real lunch next time and leave the lucky charms for the little princess!
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