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Dirt Rag Articles
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Wild and wonderful West Virginia—when our photo intern offered a free ride to Snowshoe I decided to make this a “non working” Dirt Rag World Tour stop and simply witness the spectacle of Snowshoe, visit friends and finally ride some bikes in West Virginia. Many of you faithful readers know that yours truly spent his high-school years in West “By God” Virginia, however it was the four wheels of a skateboard not the two wheels of a bike on which I whiled away most of my time. I was by no means an outdoorsman then, and even some nine years since I’ve moved away, I have learned very little in the ways of the outdoors. But I try.
In the years since I left the Potomac River Valley I talked a lot of trash on West Virginia, “Man it stinks here—there’s nothing to do for miles, and nothing but a bunch of rednecks.”
In the two years I have worked at Dirt Rag thus far, I’ve gained a much greater appreciation of the outdoors. I now relish the opportunity to become isolated from civilization—to commune with nature. And don’t think that I haven’t heard the stories of epic mountain bike adventures in West Virginia. To be honest, I was a little scared of what West Virginia’s back country might have in store for me (what with all the trash talking I had done) but I came prepared to eat some humble pie. Without further adieu, here is my account—err, my adventure at the 24 Hours of Snowshoe.
Friday
In the middle of the night we reach the junction of 33 and 219 and stop at a gas station. As I hoist a 6-pack of 22-ounce beer bottles to the counter, I realize it is a state trooper to my right paying for gas. For a moment I fear that my unshaved face and tattoos make me appear suspicious, but I quell my instinctual disdain for authority and politely say hi, which is kindly returned. Welcome back to West Virginia, I think, where to this day I have never been hassled by state trooper (knock on wood).
Dirt Rag’s photo intern, Kyle Tingly, and I arrive at the Elk River Touring Center a good ways past midnight. Neither of us have a watch on, nor does the clock in Kyle’s Pathfinder work. A layer of fog hangs low over the entire estate, and an eerie light barely illuminates the restaurant, cabins and barn. Not a creature is stirring, and despite the notion that a bed awaits each of us in the cabin behind Maurice and Lockwood’s vehicles, the inclination not to disturb the silence comes over us. After downing our West Virginia sized beers, Kyle reclines in the driver’s seat while I create a bed with my sleeping bag, Therm-a-Rest and a tarp. Although the sky is a wash of dark clouds, there are millions of fireflies illuminating the air all around me. As my eyes grow weary, it almost seems as though the stars themselves are flying around the sky, blinking and diving as though orchestrated by mother nature for her own amusement.
Saturday
Since we arrived under cover of clouds, I had not yet the opportunity to behold the splendor of my surroundings. The mountains surrounding the Snowshoe Mountain Resort are awe inspiring—covered with patterns of trees that cry out to be painted, photographed or at very least beheld.
Kyle and I drop off swag at the Dirt Rag booth and are instructed to obtain wristbands from the Granny Gear office right behind us. As I enter the log cabin, all the tables, chairs and logs, which form the sides of the building, appear to point straight back to a seated figure hidden behind a laptop computer.
“Can I help you?” he asks in a polite yet assertive voice. I was hoping to meet the fabled Laird Knight sometime during the course of the weekend, and here I am face to face. For some odd reason there is large cast on his leg, which he jokingly asks if I would like to sign. I introduce myself, we shake hands and he informs me that he has to get back to work. I’ve heard that Knight is the consummate businessman, and I’ve got no reason to question that notion.
Shortly there after, I run across Chris Wilcox from Light & Motion, who introduces me to his fiancé Valerie and one of their representatives, Derek. Eager to ride as well, Val and Derek join Kyle and myself in a drive back to Elk River where Gil gives us a map, a tip to try Props Run, and proverbial slap on the ass.
We climb the mine road, which is a gravel road running up the mountain. We gain over 2,000 feet in six miles or so, which would not be so bad except that the large gravel makes it nearly impossible to stand up and stretch my legs. Never the less, I am inspired by the roadside wildlife as I climb (including a buzzard, turkey, deer and beaver). Unfortunately, while I do see many examples of wildlife, I do not see any signs pointing to Props Run. Collectively we determine that perhaps we simply need to ride farther on, and I curse myself for not having an odometer.
Miles and miles later we first begin to accept that I have gotten us lost. Admittedly, I have failed to recognize a single item from the ride description and feel that I should have turned back miles ago. Nobody is terribly upset by this, however, mainly because we encounter one screaming fast downhill section after another. Eventually we reach a bridge where two trucks are parked and several people are milling about.
A man wearing swimming trunks walks up the embankment at us carrying a 40oz Budweiser in one hand and a bottle of shampoo in the other. We show him the map and ask him to point out where we are; meanwhile one of the two old ladies (belonging to the pickup on the other side of the bridge) comes to peer in on our conversation.
“If you plan on riding back to Elkins you better find somewhere to sleep!” she laughs. Despite the fact that our rat-tailed nature bathing friend is spouting off town names that only vaguely resemble our destination (for example, Gradyfork) we heed his advice to travel down the same road for 10 miles and we will reach the town of Webster Springs.
Some time later we encounter the next sign of life when Val asks a passing motorist if there is a nearby pay phone. We are instructed to simply stop at the next house and ask to use their phone. Thankfully the inhabitants of the next home are all milling about in the front yard. A large woman sits in a lawn chair under a tree with a newspaper. She is too content reading it to swat the black flies that pepper her legs. Presumably her son, a robust young man with an axe slung over his shoulder, comes over to look at our map. Val pops the telephone question, to which the high-school aged girl gleefully informs us that we are “in the middle of fucking nowhere”. In other words, they do not have a phone. We ask how far Webster Springs is, and they inform us that it is merely 10 more miles and all downhill. At this point we officially form the plan of riding to Webster Springs and calling for a lift back. “How far could it really be?” I ask myself.
Miles and miles later I spy a speed limit sign. Civilization appears near, however the next home we come across is a decommissioned blue school bus with a makeshift awning and stovepipe jutting out of the roof.
“Think they’ve got a phone?” asks Val.
I’m certainly glad she hasn’t lost her sense of humor. I just hope Chris has a similar sense of humor once we get out of this little predicament. Derek is holding up fine, he’s a super-healthy Clydesdale, and Kyle is younger than I am, so he’s good to go as long as anyone.
Still farther down the road Val spots a lovely little home off to the left, and we remove the chicken wire gate and enter. A gentle old man invites us in to use his phone and insists we not take our shoes off. His home is full of antiques and cleaner than a hospital. His wife comes out to see what the cat has dragged in, and she is as pleasant and neat as the home she keeps. I feel as though I almost know these people.
As we step back out onto the porch, Kyle approaches with the two old ladies from the bridge. Ms. Green, the woman who had jokingly advised us to find somewhere to sleep is concerned about us, and offers to drive us to Webster Springs. The sun is beginning to set, and we gladly hop into the bed of her F-250 pickup truck. The bed, incidentally, is full of gallon jugs of water filled from the river where we first encountered them.
It is certainly more than 15 miles to Webster Springs, and let me tell you, it is by no means all downhill. We arrive in Webster Springs and after numerous hugs from the old ladies (who refer to us as children the entire time) we wave goodbye to two very kind and caring West Virginia mountain mommas. We wait for Jeff Lockwood to pick us up on a public bench in front of the only stop light in town. If you’ve ever heard the country song Small Town Saturday night, you can totally imagine what was going on all around us. A mere hour and a half later we are speeding down Route 15 with Jeff Lockwood at the wheel and, as a surprise bonus, Jeff Wuerthele riding shotgun.
Noting our disheveled appearance and obvious lack of nourishment, Wuerthele leads us into a traditional Irish pub nestled in the middle of nowhere along a highway that takes an hour and a half to drive 60 miles on. Having no money of my own, Lockwood mercifully buys me shot of Jamison and Wuerthele pours me a black & tan. Before we leave I take the time to read a newspaper article explaining how the owner has built this place in memory of his father, who died tragically years ago. Suddenly feel it is rather strange that I wind up in this bar. The owner, like myself, is an artist and a musician who has lost his father under traumatic circumstances. I realize, of course, it is merely a coincidence.
Sunday
We arrive back at the race scene after midnight and treat ourselves to chicken burritos. While eating, I hear a barrage of short jokes coming from behind me. I turn around to see none other than Big Gay Pete and Larry (with the tiger stripes tattooed on his forearms), two bike messengers from Pittsburgh who are here just to drink beer and talk bikes… or at least those items are high on the agenda. There are all types of people here at the race, and I personally did not hear a single spectator complain about paying a five-dollar entry fee.
I catch up with Paul Bell and company at the Cane Creek booth to have a beer and shoot the breeze—folks from North Carolina seem to be especially good for conversation. If you ask a good question, you get a good answer.
Hours later I determine it is time to face the music and go talk to Chris and Val at the Light & Motion booth. As I approach I see Chris’s face light up into a great big grin—whew! I begin sharing my story with the adjoining booth, also a bike light manufacturer and before I know it, it’s four A.M. Chris and Val let me crash in their hotel room.
I awake bright and early feeling a little worse for wear. I try to stay down, but I know I need to reestablish contact with Kyle. I also want to ride some singletrack before going back to Pittsburgh. The plan had been forged the night before, we were to meet Wuerthele at 4pm and ride singletrack before driving home.
We arrive at the trailhead closer to seven P.M. than six. After a quick sanity check we head up a rocky, rooted climb. Finally, I have arrived on hallowed ground… and it’s kicking my butt! Not only does the hill continue upwards into the horizon, but the rocks larger and more frequent. Wuerthele is handily climbing the hill and try as I may, I cannot keep right on his heels—if the roots don’t give me the slip, a rock does just that to my pedal. Suddenly he stops. A snake bitten tube is the least of our concerns as I tried to straighten Wuerthele’s bent rotor with my Leatherman tool. We decide that with the daylight failing and one bike limping, we should bomb down the gnarly hill we just climbed and go find that Irish pub again.
Sadly, the pub is closed and the only place open offers no vittles. We settle for a few pitchers of cheap beer and return to Elk River where we eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches out of Wuerthele’s hatchback. I know I am supposed to head home tonight, but I decide I have unfinished business with some West Virginia singletrack. We arrange to share a room with two beds, and I volunteer to take the floor. I adorn my Therm-a-Rest with a homemade quilt instead of my crusty old sleeping bag, and sleep like a baby.
Monday
In the morning we are served a proper breakfast by a beautiful young woman, but then sadly Wuerthele decides that he must go back to work rather than partake of a shuttle run up to Props Run. Kyle and I decide that hell or high water we were riding some trails, and when I realize a group is gathering for a ride, I locate their ride leader and ask for permission to join their ride. Nobody seems to mind that the Dirt Rag crew will be joining them, and I come to learn that we are in the company of Fats In The Cats club members. I know of this club because my friend Carl Schlemowitz has a t-shirt emblazoned with their logo.
They must have some good training hills in the Catskills, because this group can climb. And climbing is apparently the order of the day, as we ride at least four miles up the mine road before ducking into a trailhead on the left. We scamper down a technical hillside and then encounter roots, rocks, mud and partially sunken railroad ties in the trail. I bust a hump to stay on the leader, who is definitely a skilled rider as well as a bit of a horse. The downhill and flatland doesn’t last long as we begin to ascend again, this time the course gravel of the mine road is replaced by an obstacle course of singletrack. I find myself walking at some point and almost mercifully come across part of our group huddled around the first casualty of the day—a broken derailleur. Lickety split; this guy has his bike converted to a single speed. Onward and upwards!
I quickly come to learn that although West Virginia is full of surprises, it is nothing really out of the ordinary that makes mountain biking there so challenging. Rather, it is the degree, frequency and sheer volume of roots, rocks, logs, mud, hills, erosion, water crossings… and this is on a dry day. As I ride along, I can only wonder how tough things get when it rains.
Being a beginner still, Kyle had accidentally neglected to completely fill his water pack bladder before the ride, and thus I now find myself sharing. This is not a wise move on my part, however, as I also know of a slow leak in my own bladder. Halfway through the ride, I too run out of water. We eventually head downhill and everyone has a smile on his or her face as we regroup on the mine road. We decide to press on up again to the beginning of Props Run, figuring that since it is an eight-plus-mile descent, water would not be imperative.
I am wrong, of course, and after climbing only 2 or 3 miles of the mine road again I find myself bumming water from my new friends. I am expecting Props Run to be a screaming fast downhill, however I am finding it is really a slight descent through wickedly tough terrain. For a good long stretch, I encounter one steep stream crossing after another, each threatening to pitch me over the bars if I don’t wheelie and land with my front wheel on the other side. Between crossings there are roots, rocks, logs and mud. Occasionally I zip across a well-made bridge or the trail goes up to the left on an embankment, then back down with a swoop. Along the way, Props Run claims a steel bike’s non-replaceable derailleur hanger and at least a drop or two of blood from each member of the crew.
Eventually we reach the Elk River and find a man fly-fishing. After hours of biking in the woods, the group is looking ragged and I appear to be one of the few who has enough energy to ask the lone sportsman how far we are from the touring center. He kindly informs me that we are merely a hop-skip-and jump from our destination (though we would have to finish riding uphill on 219 to reach our cars which we had erroneously left in the parking lot at the start of the mine road). The fisherman also informs me that he used to be a mountain biker before injuring his knee, and now enjoys the comparatively safer hobby of fly-fishing.
As we reached our vehicles in the parking lot, the ride leader’s odometer was reading 28-plus miles. I could swear we have just done 60. Everyone is in a hurry to say goodbye and reacquaint themselves with creature comforts such as food, water, shelter and beer. On the drive home, I buy the best tasting submarine sandwiches I’ve ever had from a gas station outside Slatyfork. I think to myself, West “By God” Virginia—wild and wonderful, indeed. I’ll be back.
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