About a year ago, I was camping with my girlfriend in the
Ozark Mountains of the Upper Buffalo Wilderness, Arkansas. As we were getting back to the trailhead, we
ran into a group of longboarders. They
were there for the mile and a half descent into the Buffalo River valley, below. They’d come from Springfield for the smooth
asphalt and serpentine corners. I got to
talking with one of them, and he suggested that we follow him down the
mountain. Naturally, we obliged.
It didn’t take long for us to realize that this guy was
good. Really good. The road
dropped gradually at first and he’d scrub speed by carving back and forth, then
dive smartly into a sharp corner. When the road eased into a gentle false-flat,
I pulled up next to him, and complimented the skill of his riding. “Just wait,”
he said excitedly. I followed him around
the next bend and was met with the yellow, almost iconic, “steep grade” sign I
knew would be there. 12% this time. As the road dropped and his speed swelled,
the playfully carved turns soon subsided, brought out only for necessity. Each time he intervened to turn, the back
wheels would shutter violently, fighting left and right to overcome his
control. He’d reign them in though, just
in time to set up for the next corner.
When he rounded the last bend at about 55, I couldn’t follow. I braked hard to 35. After that the road straightens, then plummets
the last 300 ft. down to the valley floor.
What I saw when I first glimpsed him on the other side was unforgettable. It was mastery, artistry even. As the road dove further into the valley, he crouched further and further down - his torso flattening, shoulders moving forward, arms moving back. Headlong. All the clatter and struggle for control phased-shifted into fluidity and ease. I didn’t catch him until the valley, but I drove behind at a steady 60 mph before he began to slow. He turned into roadside park, and I followed. The look in his eyes was fiery when he told me that I had just seen the best ride of his life.
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