Riding Illicit Berms and Jumping Jumps and Coming Out Alive

It's All Worth It

I went on a mountain bike ride in Pittsburgh on Sunday. It was nice. We worried about the weather, because — of course — it soured by the time the weekend came around. Nice weather during the week is nice if you don’t work or have lots of free time. For me, when nice weather strolls through my neck of the woods on a Tuesday in early March, I imagine my pining is nearly congruent with that of a prisoner with a window.

It rained and snowed and then rained a little more and got really cold over the weekend. Days earlier, one might have thought spring had finally sprung. But not me and every other disbelieving Ohioan. Oh no — we know that 70-degree weather in early March, no matter how pleasing, or nice, is farcical and fleeting.

So my friend and I put one some layers and went on a ride, whether the snow blew or not. And it didn’t, by the way. The temperature actually climbed to a balmy 40 degrees by the time we pedaled our way through the neighborhood to what appeared to be an abandoned park in Swissvale, a small urban borough just east of Pittsburgh. We hit some stair sets that almost bucked me over the bars. They were steep, man. It got the blood stirring for what was to come.

For years, the trail rats — they call themselves “Slag Force” — have cut berms and singletrack on land that is owned by an amalgamation of private and public entities whose actual owners have no face or country. If a person got hurt on these trails, good luck. Seriously. Apparently there’s an effort to legitimize the trails, but it doesn’t seem like the effort has as much gumption as there is to keep adding more trails and features. I think the Slag Force folks, as incredible builders as they are, want to keep getting together on the weekends to build berms and jumps and smoke weed and hang out. Right now, the community building these trails relishes in the fact their little gang’s exploits are underground. Anything official would rob the joy that comes with retelling stories with their buddies over drinks about that time they dove for cover in the prickly raspberry bushes when a train came screaming by as they cut illicit trail.

And I get it. It’s like turning 21 and being able to drink legally. It’s like the fun evaporates as soon as you don’t have to sneak your dad’s beers.

“What are you doing with my beer son?”

“Uhhhhhh, me and Bobby thought we’d just have a couple sips.”

“Dude, you’re 21 now. You’re allowed to drink a whole beer. But, seriously, go get a job and buy your own.”

Anyway. What those people are doing is pretty awesome, no matter how illegal and shortsighted. There are table tops, doubles, drops, sneaky rock jumps into berms — and the berms are like BERMS. Really built up. Professional looking. Downhill-park-like.

Here’s me, hitting the gap drop. Looks smaller on video. Super fun.

My friend and I spent a couple hours looping these new trails, hitting the drops and doubles faster and faster each time, knuckle punching at the bottom and enjoying the time outside. We even caught up with a long-haired dude working on building up a berm using a 5-gallon bucket and some blackened garden gloves. Used words like “cool” and “awesome” and “man” and “right on.”

On the final loop, I was feeling great. It was my best run and I pulled up with a little extra enthusiasm on the last jump that I had cased in my previous attempts. I knew it was bad as soon as I went airborne. The extra pull threw me off just enough and I had to bail. I ended up landing on my right side — on the same shoulder I had dislocated just under two years ago when I got hit by an SUV. And then my head smacked, hard, on the packed dirt. I got up quickly, ears ringing. Grabbed my bike that had landed in the briars and looked around the way you do when you’re looking to see if anyone had seen your crash. No one had seen, so I walked, ashamed, to the nearest spot I could find to sit. My hands were shaking with adrenaline. I checked myself and everything was fine. No broken bones or out-of-place shoulders. Just a wounded sense of pride. At least I didn’t case it.

Here’s to crappy weather and jumps and berms and friends and long-haired trail rats building underground community one singletrack mile at a time.

Get out and ride your bike, no matter where. It’s always worth it.