This news is met with great relief, sadness, or utter disregard depending on where you stand.
The Razorback Mountain Bike Park in Reddick, Fl is done, no more. The lease will not be renewed on the land in favor of some mineral mining operation. Cat litter maybe.
All I can say is I got my licks in, this cyber-journal has it all on record. Razorback is a trail that sharply divided the mountain bikers from the people with mountain bikes. Aggressive and steep lines charge through a slag heap of semi-toxic mine tailings. Ribbons of tape directing you into flinching corners and over blind drops.
No more spine climb, hero hills, granny’s revenge or Kiko Point. No more late night runs from the pole barn. Pa Ingalls will have to travel more than 100 yards for a ride now. So many things will change.
Squatch will have successfully waited it out, never truly tackling a centerpiece of Florida riding. “Razor-what was it called?”, He will say in the months and years to come as he saddles up for another series of serene figure eights on the road bike.
I hear Dave and the goneriding crew are planning a last hoorah November 2nd weekend, so there is still a little time to say goodbye.
-Juancho
Ahh, man, I’ve got the Spaghetti 100 road-biking event that weekend, or I would have been all over that bumpy shit.
My wimpy prejudices aside, that is a huge piece of mountain biking news in this state. I’m sad for Pa Ingalls and the boys (like Juancho) who have tackled that beast in the light, in the dark (without lights), and even ridden it at 3:00 A.M. when, despite being too drunk to walk, they still weren’t scared to roll out on that demon roller coaster.
Hey, we could drive straight from our spaghetti dinner down to Razorback, sleep in the car, and do the valedictory ride Sunday. Who am I kidding? I balk at Cadillac. Forget Razorback.
Meanwhile, my training for the Spaghetti continued today on vacation. Arose at 6:40 to ride the hilly roads around Monticello south of Charlottesvile. Not idyllic. Got an earful from from irate morning commuters (FU too; I’m on vacation, asshole!), slogged through rain, and ultimately had to call in Mrs. H. at the 30-mile mark to retrieve me after a wrong turn. Still, the day had its moments. Here’s one: a confetti shower of tulip poplar leaves toasting me while I climbed a hill.