When I lived in Brooklyn I used to frequent an Italian restaurant. The proprietor was quite proud of his neighborhood bona fides and lifelong tenure, and he鈥檇 always make sure new customers understood that he鈥檇 been there long before the yuppies arrived. One day, as I dined, I listened to him regale a table with the tale of how he鈥檇 contributed to the charming character of the neighborhood. 鈥淵ou know those hedges around the corner?鈥 he asked rhetorically, as his indifferent customers attempted to eat their antipasto. 鈥淚 planted those hedges!鈥澛
The diners were not impressed. Brooklyn is a place of many world-famous landmarks, including the Brooklyn Bridge, Prospect Park, and the Coney Island boardwalk. The hedges around the corner from the Italian joint are not among them, and are of interest to virtually nobody, with the possible exception of the neighborhood dogs. Nevertheless, I can now relate to his wildly overblown sense of pride, because recently, I helped to do some trail work.
If you鈥檙e new to mountain biking鈥攐r even worse, a roadie鈥攊t may surprise you to learn that trails don鈥檛 just magically appear in the forest like fairies and toadstools. Rather, they are generally the work of indefatigable volunteers who tend to them in their spare time. When a tree falls, or a storm washes away a section of trail, or some high school kids have a beer-fueled pukefest on prom night and don鈥檛 clean up after themselves, it鈥檚 your local trail stewards who deal with it all. As the busboy clears your table well before you鈥檝e even had a chance to sit down, so do your local volunteers see to it that the trails are tidy and rideable for your weekend hammerfest.
When riding off-road, I strive to be scrupulous and considerate, and I鈥檓 well aware of the consequences of poor deportment. I try to stay off the trails when they鈥檙e muddy, I yield to both hikers and their ill-behaved dogs, and I refrain from blasting butt rock from my handlebar speakers聽at all times. However, I鈥檇 be lying if I said I go the extra mile of, you know, helping to build or maintain trails. In this sense, I鈥檓 like a responsible high school student who went home after prom instead of joining the puke party, and got a brand-new Mercedes for graduation: sure, I may be getting good grades and stopping at all the red lights, and I suppose that counts for something, but deep down I鈥檓 troubled by the knowledge that I haven鈥檛 paid my dues.
Nevertheless, despite this faint sense of self-awareness, I鈥檇 probably have cruised on in luxurious leather-swaddled comfort indefinitely if it weren鈥檛 for my son. See, he鈥檚 recently become involved in scouting, which means he鈥檚 got to find lots of ways to be helpful. (I was never a scout, which could explain why my helping muscle is woefully underdeveloped.) He also likes to ride bikes. Thinking about potential volunteer opportunities to feed his relentless hunger for patches, it occurred to me that helping with some trail work would be a great way to teach him about mountain biking, earn him some new embroidery, and聽most importantly, assuage my nagging guilt. So we joined the monthly trail maintenance party at 聽in Washington Heights.
Highbridge Park聽is tiny and contains just a few miles of trails, but I鈥檝e long marveled at its sheer improbability and the huge amount of work it took to create Manhattan鈥檚 only legal mountain bike spot. And while I鈥檝e ridden there, and written about it, I鈥檇 never actually done anything to help physically sustain it. This is a considerable failure on my part, because Highbridge Park feels like it鈥檚 constantly on the verge of being subsumed by the urban environment that surrounds it. The trails themselves are etched into a cliffside that sits below street level, which means that not only does rainwater inundate them with natural debris, but people also dump all manner of trash onto them. Auto parts and sundries comprise the majority of the refuse鈥攊magine the aftermath of a Pep Boys explosion and you鈥檝e got the idea鈥攂ut building supplies, clothing, sporting goods, and spent intoxicant containers also account for a fair share of it. In two hours of combing the trails, along with a group of schoolkids who had also signed up to help, we filled enough garbage bags to put up a roadblock on the Harlem River Drive.
After we were finished,聽my son and I got on our bikes, and for the first time I rode the Highbridge trails with the knowledge that I鈥檇 actually played a tiny role in nurturing them. The pride I felt was grossly disproportionate to my minuscule contribution, but聽I basked in the afterglow for the rest of the day. Even better was my son鈥檚 declaration鈥斺淚 like mountain biking鈥濃攁nd the knowledge that he was learning the rudiments of trail maintenance and riding technique simultaneously, meaning his mountain bike foundations will potentially be much more sound than my own.
Trail maintenance is a lot like bike maintenance: when the sun is shining and you have a few hours to spare you鈥檇 much rather ride than work. However, once you roll up your sleeves and get to it, it can be just as engaging as a ride itself, and the swelled head you鈥檒l have afterwards is just as rewarding as a pair of sore legs. As my son and I left Highbridge that day, I took a parting glance at the contractor bags lining the curb on Fort George Avenue: See that trash?聽I thought to myself. I bagged that trash.