Soul Ride
Public Service Announcement: The Substack publication once known as Mountain Rumor is now publishing under the name Ryan MTB Blog. This is the first post.
“Ah fuck,” I yelped, my rear tire losing traction on a steep pitch of Sale Barn trail. The dirt was loose and powdery, a tricky section to tackle just ten minutes into a ride.
My body knows that those first few minutes of a ride are crucial. If my leg muscles feel tired, my reflexes feel slow, or I dab a foot down onto the trail like I did last Sunday morning, that could set the tone for the day. But in that instance, I re-centered myself on the bike, clipped into the pedal, and continued climbing up Grandview ridge.
That section of ridgeline is one of my favorites to ride on my gravel bike. I follow singletrack that contours the side of the mesa before merging onto a seldom used pump jack access road. Near the top, it’s onto singletrack again for a plunge down from the ridge into the swooping Spurline trail system.
My jersey jumped up and down with every small hop as I had a full water bottle in my back pocket and enough food to last for six hours of pedaling that weighed me down. I had a long ride on the brain.
Racers sometimes talk about ‘soul rides.’ They usually mean that this type of ride is completely unstructured in terms of training and performance. Go as long or as short as you want, as hard or as easy as your legs desire. When your bicycle rides are dictated by a coach behind a computer screen and recorded for them to see down to the second, a soul ride is for you. To be a bit on the nose, it’s all about riding for your soul.
Sometimes it feels like every one of my rides is a soul ride. I haven’t had a coach or a training plan for years, and the thought of having my rides—my escapes—overly structured by somebody else makes me feel unenthusiastic. Even though I do ‘train’ and attempt to increase my performance and fitness, nothing is planned further than a day or two in advance. I ride when I want to, wherever my legs and mind desire.
As I zipped through the flowing singletrack, my mind began to soak in the exercise-induced endorphins. Riding down this trail, dodging rocks and roots, swinging through twists in the landscape as if the tires were glued to the ground was exactly where I wanted to be.
Almost three hours in, I stopped in Bayfield for a water refill. Just east of the town’s small mainstreet, I dipped back into the gravel surface of quiet county roads. Rolling hills, twists and turns, ridges and hollers. This one was a roller coaster, and would have been even more fun without the speed zapping headwind.
If I wanted to go long from the onset of the ride, I really was going for it now. Dipping into Ignacio and past the casino was the furthest point in the ride from home—a moment that can be anxiety-provoking and adventure-inspiring in the same way.
The Tribal town of Ignacio would take maybe 30-minutes to drive there from my house, averaging 50 miles-per-hour at least. But I’d be pedaling my way back to Durango, past the farm that looked like a loosely-organized, meth-producing commune, past the house where I was chased by a dog once, and doubling back past the farm where I saw at least a dozen baby cows earlier that morning.
This section of twisting, rolling roads is where my mind, body, and soul all merged. Or were they in conflict? My mind told me to keep on going, we have to reach the arbitrary 100-mile mark. My body was getting tired, losing steam with each punch up another hill. But my soul felt satisfied, happy that I had even gotten this far.
No matter how slow I felt I was going, or how insurmountable the remaining hours of pedaling felt, my soul knew the physical and mental strain were not as painful as the ‘WTF am I doing with my life’ thoughts that I had been having recently.
You don’t need to touch your brakes on the steady descent from the Edgemont Ranch subdivision back into town. My gravel bike’s gears quickly spin out so I tuck in and let my body weight carry me down the hill, the shallow curves avoiding the need to check my speed.
A mile or two later, it’s been six hours in the saddle and 88-point-something miles. The drinking fountain at the park was dried up so I filled my bottle in the bathroom sink. Definitely not the most sanitary, but if I survived COVID I can survive anything. A final energy gel down my gob, I set off for the final miles.
As my watch continued to count the miles and minutes, something extraordinary happened. My legs were not bogged down in pain or sapped of energy. There was an additional wind behind my back. Onto a neighborhood singletrack trail I went. Then onto another, carrying more pace that I maybe should this long into a hard ride.
Getting closer to home and that 100-mile mark, my soul continued to sense forward movement mixed with a sense of groundedness. The sky was gray, the wind was blowing, my skin was salty, and my muscles were tired. But I continued to pedal like this is where I was supposed to be.
My mind weary from the road, I ticked off the remaining city blocks.
Something magical happens on some bike rides. Your legs become one with nature, propelling your body forward while observing every patch of grass, tweeting bird, and sunspot or shadow. It’s in this meditative state that you can explore the mind, going down canyons that branch off of your everyday thought patterns.
These are some of the reasons why my soul likes to ride.