Pants Club

Yesterday I joined the ranks with the Rip Your Favorite Pair of Pants Biking Club. This club has existed for sometime. Legend has it that it has been around since the creation of bicycles, back in the early 1800’s. Baron Karl von Drais is said to have officially started the club in Mannheim in 1818, the year after he publicly displayed his invention. The Parisian guild, which led to membership worldwide, was instated in summer of 1820 when Drais looked for greater and a more diverse support group.

I was first introduced to this club in late May this very year. My friends and I planned a wondrous trip down to a little city called Moab, located on the desert flats of eastern Utah. For those who don’t know Moab is a wonderland for those outdoor inclined people and for all that is good in the world. She is known for her camping, hiking, mountain biking, and off-roading. One of our friends Aubrey was graduating from Brigham Young University and planning on taking a job in New York City working for the National Basketball Association. Aubrey, who happens to be the most outdoor savvy of all our friends, had never been to Moab.

Maybe not the most savvy, but pretty savvy...

So naturally, as a going away present for our dear friend Aubrey, my roommate, Greg, and I set out to plan a trip to Moab. As Moab is a Mecca for mountain bikers, we decided to attempt the most famous mountain bike trail in the world, Slickrock Trail, and this is where our story begins.

Slickrock Trail is known for her unforgiving uphill climbs, her duplicitous downhill descents, her beautiful bends, her ridged rock formations. My favorite part of the trail is Swiss cheese ridge, a beautiful, relaxing straightaway, for a lack of a better word. Although this section is still challenging, it is possible to get a fair amount of speed climbing and descend the various prominences. Technical skills are required but this section is relatively easy physically. The trail starts in a parking lot and continues roughly two and a half miles until you reach the ‘main loop,’ a section about six miles in length. As Greg would come to testify, the placement of first two miles has no representation of its difficulty. Although the downhill portions seem most dangerous, as you get the maximum amount of speed and appear to have least control over your bike, Greg would soon come to realize the perfidious uphill ascents pose an equally dangerous threat, one of a different nature. As Greg followed me up a particular hill, he placed too much weight backwards and proceeded to pop a wheelie. As he slipped off the rear of his new bicycle, his seat catch hold of his Oakton lacrosse shorts. The pressure and momentum of his body was too much for the frail material and continued to tear his most prized possession literally from his body. These weren’t any pair of lacrosse shorts; these were the practice shorts that had led Oakton High School to an impeccable season, winning the Virginia State Lacrosse Championship and warranting Greg one of two enormous state championship rings. Greg was heartbroken but in that small moment he sacrificed a small token for a greater good, to enter into a greater cause, to get a greater purpose in life, to join a high rank amongst that very club named after those who have sacrificed and lost their very britches in the line of duty.

This was my first exposure to this elite league of gentlemen and ladies bounded together by a similar experience. At first, I admit that I laughed at my friend Greg and was glad to be excluded from their ranks. However, with time I would come to realize the importance of this fraternity in every young bikers life. It was yesterday that I fully comprehended the impact of this association. I went with my mountain biking class to Midway, Utah, situated in the foothills of the Wasatch mountain range near Heber, Utah with the intention to ride at the Dutch Hollow bike trial. After a hard ride through the Enchanted Forest, Boneyard Trail, and the 1000 Turns of death, we leveled off on a flat piece of trail called Aqueduct Trail.

It was an easy and fun straightway conducing to good speed. Everything was going fine but a split second would usher me into the previously mentioned institution. For a nanosecond I looked over the edge of the trail that led to the 100-foot fall over a 60 to 70 degree descent. As I diverted my attention from the trail to the enormous fall by my side, my foot catch hold of something, most likely a root or rock, off the side of the trail, which sent me, flying off the trial. In an entanglement of body and bicycle, I tried to stand up; however, something would not allow me to actually stand up. Every time I tried, my foot just slipped down. Quickly I realized that I was on an incredibly steep hillside and need to be careful where I placed my feet.

As I hurried to avoid being seen by anyone in my class, Grant came around the corner. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine,” I responded, as all men would independent of the severity of the fall. “How did you stop from falling all the way down?” As I looked back, I realized that I was incredibly lucky that I hit the only four inches of flat land on the hillside and miraculously stopped. “Did you rip your shorts?” Of course my pants already had two one inch holes in the front so I ignored the comment as I wiped off my dirty hands and legs. It wasn’t until we returned to the parking lot that I realized that I had really ripped my pants. There was a six-inch rip straight across, accentuating the bottom of my left gluteus.

Today was my day. I had finally ascended the ranks and could finally call myself a member of those glitterati.