by Bettina Freese

I lost my singlespeed virginity. I was scared to try it. I hated the thought of suffering pain, burning legs, screaming lungs and the humiliation of pushing my bike.

I was so very wrong. I mean, it hurt. Bad. But what my I did not expect was how light and graceful a rigid singlespeed could be, and how it would return my focus to the details of the trail. The absence of 21 gear choices made the mental aspect of my riding much clearer: I’ve been a wimp.

Although full-suspension bikes are bouncy and fun, squishing over logs and off rocks, they are heavy, and too much of a good thing can promote sloppy riding as they mow over practically everything.

My maiden singlespeed voyage was through town-avoiding the steeper avenues. I kept grabbing for non-existent gears, the rapid-fire levers grinning at my eager thumbs. I even pushed it a few desperate times to avoid standing up on the pedals. I jumped off a curb and forgot to expect the hard landing, jarring myself on the impact of the rigid rear wheel.

Then I headed out to Bent Creek trails, where Tim Bateman took me under his brotherly wing. It was he who taught me the art of building a wheel for this bike and then stripped it of its gears. It was he who convinced me to do this to myself. I begged for a quick loop on the lower trails where it wouldn’t hurt me so bad all at once.

We ducked into the woods and I was immediately amazed at how fast I was going with seemingly little effort. The rear end was so light that I could maneuver it over root beds without a sound. Once I got used to maintaining speed to avoid changing gears, I realized that this was about technical riding and finding the best line, which was quite different from the line I had been taking on the full-suspension.

I was feeling confident until he told me to save some for the steep part…steep part? I thought I knew this road. This bike was already changing the trails for me. I got off to hang across the handlebars during the steep part. I refused to push, letting my heaving breaths return to gasps before returning to the saddle for the last mile of rolling climb. I was ashamed of myself for using smaller gears in the past, letting my wimpy brain prevent me from working as hard as my body was capable. Although there was nothing technical, small stones became obstacles. Tim taught me how to use the water humps to my advantage by pedaling down, hard, while rolling off, taking advantage of every teeny extra bit of momentum. I nearly kissed him in gratitude.

And then came the singletrack downhill. Sweet geezus, I fell in love with my Rockhopper again. At first I spun the pedals madly, looking to my legs for speed. “Use the trail,” Tim said. “The rocks and berms will increase your speed.” That’s when I found the flow. It was akin to flying. I quit pedaling, breaking or reaching for gears and let the trail be my guide. It became a playground of multiple dimensions beyond how I had viewed it in the past. I thought that this must be how people like Joe Moore look at any trail-finding the line that offers the most fun. It forced me to pay attention to every rock and root, the way the trail dipped and curved, and using all of it. I laughed deliriously until my tears obliterated my view. We shot out of the woods and came to a screeching halt with goofy grins plastered to our faces.

“See?!” Tim asked.

And I did. I saw that the perfect meld between pain and art was the singlespeed (SS) bike.

Bettina Freese has elevated herself to SSlut status and is sorry to ruin your quiet time in the woods with her raucous laughter. Official complaints: Lulafree@aol.com.