They call it the Armpit of the Nation. "Flush twice--it's a long way to Jersey," reads many a restroom wall. The crappy rap is somewhat deserved: it's the most densely populated state, corporations release more toxic waste into the air per square mile in New Jersey than anywhere else in the country, and perilous Newark--site of the international airport where many travelers get their only peek at the Garden State--is a perennial top-twenty finisher for murders-per-capita.
How could any mountain biker leave Colorado in June--when the sun and singletrack shine for 14 hours a day--to spend two weeks in Joisey? I was asking myself the same question as I packed.
When you think of great riding spots, Moab and Tamalpais may spring to mind, but how 'bout Wawayanda, Allamuchy, Ramapo, and Watchung? New Jersey's riding stashes have funky names too, see, and the trails are remote, lush, technical and rugged. Not bad for a state whose highest point of elevation is 1,803 feet.
Burning after the first day of riding, it feels like we're back in Colorado: locals kicked our asses on a grueling forest route near the ski resort, and we're headed to a microbrew festival to swill from 30 breweries like Breckenridge, Sierra Nevada and Pete's. And there was that bear this morning...
We'd just pulled into Wawayanda State Park when a roly-poly young black bear with wet hair rumbled into the road and gave us a long stare, then loped into the woods without a care. Bear sightings aren't rare there, said our guide pair, and if we wanted to see more they could show us where.
Wildlife abounds here, and not all of it rolls on knobbies. We shared the woods with hawks, owls, rattlesnakes, deer, grouse, wild turkeys, rabbits, raccoons and woodchucks.
Billy and Pete at Vernon Cycles had hooked us up with the guides that morning. Lee was a 14-year-old nubbin who paid for his GT through manual labor. He hammered most of us into the ground. Lee cleared every section of the trail on his rigid bike, even where his fully suspended elders crumpled. Lee's partner/chauffeur Brian started his Saturday with a 40-mile road ride, and showed no strain as he steered us over the best airs and rockiest singletrack the verdant 13,000-acre park has to offer.
Time to smash some stereotypes. Yes, Bon Jovi hails from New Jersey, but not all Jersey-ites sport big hair and neon tank-tops in Camaros with fluorescent lights underneath. They're not all named Vinnie. Few are actually as obnoxious as depicted in movies like Clerks. Folks nationwide will jot down a quick trail map for you, but in Jersey someone took the time to etch us a truncated chart with legend and scale. (Okay, so he was a surveyor--it's still a pretty nice thing to do.) Only once during five Jersey rides did I see any litter, a bunch of gum wrappers.
The finest of those rides were in Morristown, General George Washington's headquarters during the American Revolution.
In the winters of 1779 and 1780, Washington and the Continental Army rode hard through the stony rollercoaster forest which would become Morristown's Lewis Morris Park. Over two centuries later the network of trails they blazed is rarely crowded, except during an annual NORBA race.
Reams of fallen trees and frequent stream crossings give way to short intense climbs and twisty descents in the darkness of the same woods that shaded our forefathers. Cruising through the mute timberland, you can almost hear the colonials stomping their feet to keep the blood flowing through the harsh winter, running low on food, clothing and ammunition, 9,000 men battling the forces of the biggest empire in the world. Their three-year enlistment paid a $20 signing bonus and the promise of 100 acres. Many of them died so we could be free to ride their singletrack today.
Wanna get high? Bomb down the sledding hill. The ritual is to fist both grips, shun the brake levers and just plummet. Terror and excitement drive the medulla of the adrenal gland to secrete the most powerful drug in the world--that is, if you could extract it from a live human--for a sick rush. It's free. And legal. A motion-sickness bag's worth of rutted, screaming vertical followed by 90 yards of flat grassy speedway that launches you up a berm into right field of some company softball game. Wash down that cotton-mouth at the frigid old well up the trail by the campsites. Wheelie off the two-foot drops from the tent platforms. And, if you can find it, splash out to the float at the secret swimming hole. Just make sure the water level's high enough before you Tarzan off that rope swing.
That's the thing about the Northeast. The mountains aren't as big and the trails aren't as long as in the West, but the rides and riders kick ass. A lot of the rides are just as cool (yeah, I said it) as the eulogized Western geography. The mud sprays you with face shots, sucks your wheel and makes you hang out with granny all day. In spring the leaves turn the woods into a terrarium; in fall they camouflage the terrain and booby-trap the stumps and rocks below. They snap, crackle and drop for those eight or nine glorious weeks when the trail carpet changes colors every few days and the treeline forms an earth- tone rainbow. Sort of like Banana Republic.
These are the thoughts gushing through my mind on our final Jersey ride. The seat clamp broke and I'm slamming through rocks, squeezing with my thighs as I sacrifice one hand to shove my shades on to block the debris spraying up from Andy's rear tire, still trying to steer the borrowed Stumpjumper that's at least one frame-size too small. I'm thinking, 'Man, there's no place I'd rather be than right here with my homeys,' and imagining those colonial soldiers, whom one history book credits with "a thirst for adventure" and "implacable ardor." Yeah. They sound like mountain bikers. And I still can't get that cursed Bon Jovi song out of my head from the other day, the one that goes: "I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride..." |
