Do you remember your first time?

I do. It was sometime in 1990. I was on a Trek. Antelope, that is. It was white and it was borrowed (Oh yeah, uh…Frank could I borrow your bike? I beg of you to forgive both the lateness of my request and its irrelevancy). The shifters worked. The brakes almost did.

The place was, of course, West Rock Ridge State Park in scenic New Haven, Connecticut. This is where I fell in love. I couldn’t believe what an awesome sport I was being exposed to. Flying through the woods much to fast, picking a line through nasty, bony single track, and of course, guys in spandex.

(sorry for that last bit, just seeing if anyone is paying attention to these ramblings).

I was so torqued up with mountain biking that the next year, I bought a Fisher Montare (Everybody sing: Montare, whoa-oh…montare, whoa-oh, oh oh…). It was a hot ride for 1991 . (unfortunately, as I’m sure many of you old-timers are aware, it had a glass jaw (see discussion below)). Life was good that summer. Well maybe not good, but at least tolerable. You see, I had a crappy job spraying chemicals on cars at the Acura dealership. I developed a near-permanent rash from those nice chemicals. So I told my boss about my rashes. Then, and I’ll never forget this, he told me, "I don’t pay you to think."

So you know what I told that tired hack? I said, "Sir, I strongly object to your statement as it implies you actually pay me. At $4.35 an hour, how could you really say you ‘pay’ me? Wouldn’t my position here be more accurately characterized as, at the best, an internship or, at the worst, a punishing servitude?

"Sir, if you don’t want me to think, that’s fine. However, you have overstepped your ministerial bounds by stating an implicit mistruth. While there may be a puny paycheck handed to me every other week, in no way could that piece of paper ever be considered either actual or constructive remuneration for the risk and toil I endure.

"Sir, if you wish to condemn or rebuke me, there are at least two grounds on which to achieve this petty goal. First, you can make disparaging remarks about my ass. It is broad and flat. Surely, no one with the slightest hint of fashion or true feeling would find it attractive. Second, you could remark on my abrasive personality. Those who aren’t offended by it, are only those who have yet to meet it."

Yes, yes. That day was mildly cathartic for me. And I think I’ve made my desired point: My job really really sucked. But at least I had riding at West Rock with my buds.

But then, my buds moved. And remember, this was before the Internet and wonderful institutions like bikerag.com, so finding some group to ride with was pretty darn tough.

And then my Fisher broke. The cute little weld at the seat tube and the bottom bracket, like all Montares, snapped. And then Fisher went out of business. And I was S-- Out of Luck. Later on of course, Fisher was bought by Trek. But by that time, I lost interest, and the Trek frame I was warranteed with was a limp piece of turd.

I didn’t care about nothing anymore. I was fired from my crappy job (or I just stop showing up). Then I spent the next few years fighting my addiction to Superfudge (By Judy Blume). I was able to finally get that monkey off my back by devoting a lot of time to collecting Needle Babies (the less-popular precursor to Beany Babies). But then, like everything else I ever believed in, the floor dropped out of the Needle Babies market and I found myself once again destitute and broke.

I can be honest with you people. I was about to pick up a copy of "Fudge." I figured that, hey, as long as I don’t back to "Superfudge," I’d be o.k. I can handle myself. So I went looking for my library card. But I threw it out years ago, so I wouldn’t be tempted to use it again. So I asked my mom if I could borrow her card (she knew nothing of my addiction) and went to the Wallingford Public Library. And I was steps away from the juvenile fiction shelves. Then, who do I see? Why it’s Joe from North Haven Bike. He says to me, "Stop…I’ve been there too."

He then handed me a pamphlet, and said, "You want to read something, read, this."

It was a Pro-Flex brochure.

I was curious as to what a "pro-active" rear suspension could do for me. So I followed Joe down to North Haven Bike and purchased yet another mountain bike which I could not afford.

I thanked Joe for saving me that day; for reintroducing me to the sport I loved so much; and most importantly, for liberating me from the burden of ever having a fat wallet.

Now since that time, I have had no desire to read "Superfudge." Heck, I even donated my favorite copy of "Tales of a Teenage Nothing" to the Salvation Army (sort of ironic, I suppose, donating a terrible vice to an organization devoted to salvation).

Which brings us to this recap (finally). I always noticed a gaping hole in the pages of bikerag.com. How could the world’s foremost authority on mountain biking and donut binging not include a review of the place that started it all for me, West Rock Ridge State Park?

So I pestered and pestered Puke. On September 29, 2002, he finally caved into my pressure. Puke, Pukemaster Di, and I left Wallyworld, to discover and rediscover West Rock.

Now PMD is no stranger to West Rock. She remembers countless midnight hikes she would take from Nickerson Hall at SCSU up to the pavilion at the peak to indulge in shots of Tequila and countless rounds of truth or dare. Sometimes, she insists, she would ride there as well.

But not Puke. This was Puke’s first time.

I could tell Puke was trepid with anticipation as the bikerag.com green van was winding through SCSU, up past Compton to the entrance of the Park. As we pulled in, we noticed some guy wrapping up a white garbage bag. But then, he saw us, so he attempted to conceal the bag. We thought that was odd. Why would this guy, with NY plates, go through all the trouble of throwing away his garbage in such a secluded place?

PMD had an idea. She said it was probably a drug drop. So after the guy with New York plates left, I went over to investigate. Underneath a laurel bush, I found the bag. I could see the contents and then yelled to Puke and PMD, "He’s a mountain biker."

Inside the bag were two Gus (tri-berry and chocolate outrage) and two water bottles. I guess he was planning for an epic. Puke wants to put a bikerag card in it, but he is all out. So he puts in a peanut butter Nature Valley granola bar. I take the bag back to its hiding place. Hopefully the owner of the bag and is neither overly skeptical of free gifts, nor has an allergy to peanuts.

So we actually start riding. Fifty yards into it, I get a stick in my deralieurlieureleierre (or however it’s spelled). It is toasted. I am angry. I figure my day is done already. Puke then grabs it and simultaneously says "That will be $29.95." The deraleruieir is fixed. Nice! (Don’t worry, the joke is on Puke, he forgot to charge sales tax ---yes, there’s sales tax on services in CT, and everyone seems to forget that). Puke says if I get him a recap, we’ll be even.

We continue down the red. I hear PMD scream. I turn around. Puke said it was the slowest wipeout he’s ever scene. He was almost able to pull out his camera in time to get three pictures off. Anyway, it looks like PMD’s deraileireere is toasted now. So Puke then works some magic with the leatherman. He charges PMD $29.95 (forgetting to add sales tax again). But as opposed the situation with me, i.e., letting me float on credit, he demands the money upfront from PMD. So she says "fine," and then handed Puke Two Thousand Nine Hundred and Ninety-Five pennies. She is laughing, then we try to figure out how many grams extra Puke is carrying around now. And we are about to hit Big Bertha: The hill that made Milwaukee famous.

But first, I needed to humiliate myself on some stairs. Puke got some nice shots of it.

And then we go on up Bertha. Not one of us cleans it. We get pretty darn close. And we would’ve made it, but that meddling gravity thing really slowed us down.

Then to the pavilion and the cyan trail. At Judge’s Cave we said hello to Antonin Scalia. He was writing a brief. I asked him if he could use big words like "contemporaneous" and "eviscerate." He pretended not to hear me, but I know he’ll make my dream come true.

We head on down the cyan. And ride up the buff triple-track paved (circa 1940) road. Puke comments on the fantastic traction it provides. I tell him to shut his donut hole. And we’re on the buff road for a good long time. We help out a nice family with a flat tire. Poor Puke forgot to charge them anything.

Finally we get to the dark blue downhill. It is kind of bony. So Puke says, amazed at his sense of perception "wow, this place is like the boneyard."

Then we’re on the white. Not much happens until PMD QM’s the planks. But then after getting into granny-two (I advised granny-one) she redeemed herself.

Then a little more road and up the yella. Apparently, I was going too slow for PMD, so she passes me right near the top. But then, a little thing called "karma" kicked in. Her derailierier screwed up and she was off her bike, swearing. I graciously passed her, beating her to the top. Never once did I ask her,"How do you like dem apples?"

Then more of the stupid road. Then finally the cyan trail, which was a cool, cool section. PMD does a wicked roller. Puke then disappointed me (and himself) by taking the sane way down.

Then we take the red back, which was very twisty and fun. Then is was not so twisty, which was not so fun. I make the best of it by picking wildflowers at 15 mph. I made a nice bouquet, but alas, I had no one to give them to (Sorry Laundry Girl --- you got to ride if you want my lovin’). So Puke jams the flowers into my camel back so I can give them to my mother (which I did). Then PMD and Puke get attacked by dog crap. While they’re trying to get it off, they roll into more. Ahhhh!

Finally, its getting dark and cold, we roll back to the bikerag.com green van. Puke opens up the bag of pennies PMD gave him for the fix, but then notices that they are Canadian. He’s all peed off and PMD and I are laughing. So he ends up throwing the bag into the woods. But then the ranger saw him throw it so gave him a $60 ticket for littering. This time, even bigger laughs from PMD and I.

Ahh…there’s nothing swifter, nor sweeter, than trail justice.

Ratings:

Sticks: 1,345

Schtick: 86%

Body-Blows: 14

Kids drinking dirty water from a puddle: 1 (2 if you include me)