Id just moved to my present location here in the Southern part of the the Northern part of California's coast. Id been invited to go on a night ride on a local, and well off the beaten path stretch of single track not far from my house. I grabbed my lights, changed my clothes, and rode of into the setting sun to find my mates.
Up the long and winding road we pedaled until we reached the turn off to the trail head. They opted to continue on, and I split off on this trail Id only ridden once previously, nearly ten years earlier.
This was the first of two seemingly simple mistakes that would result in the longest night of my life.

As I enjoyed the descent, the canopy over head closed in, and I clicked on my brand new light. Winding back and fourth, along the cliff, and back into the trees I went, the chill from the air, and the darkness surrounding me. About a third of the way into the ride, my light began to dim, and I weighed my options.
Ether turn around, and ride back the way I came, which at this point would take as long as it would to finish the ride, or continue to let gravity guide me, and make it home in time for supper. I opted for the latter, which seemed like a wise choice, only until my light was all but dead. The winters storms had littered the trail with debris of all sizes, making it impossible to differentiate the trail from any other part of the ground. Unpleasant thoughts began to fill my consciousness, but I knew if I was going to make it out of this, I was going to have to keep my cool. Eventually, Id arrived at the half way point, and I came to the dreaded realization that I was screwed. It was an absolutely moonless night, which promised to fall to the low 20s before long. Dressed only in my Fenster knickers, lycra jersey, a Swobo long sleeve, and a vest, I was prepared, but as it would turn out, not nearly prepared enough.
I figured the best option at this point was to feel my way down to the creek, and walk the waters edge the last 1/4 mile or so to the fire road. I dropped my bike into the abyss, and judged by the clatter of it falling and finally coming to a rest, that the drop was roughly 12 feet. I lowered myself in and let go, falling and hitting my head on the ground. A flash of white filled my skull, and I sat, dazed, reflecting on this, the second very substantial mistake Id made that brought me to this point. I made my way down stream, with my bike thrown over my shoulder, scaling two sizable piles of dew slicked flood debris which all told took the better part of an hour and a half. All of this, and Id only made it 50 feet at best. I finally sat down, my feet soaked with the frigid water Id been trudging through. At long last, I resigned myself to my fate. I was going to have to wait this one out, and at what I estimated to be about 8:00 in the evening, I knew things would get worse before they got better.

At this point, I feel the need to mention that from the time I was a young child growing up in a small mountain town in Colorado, respecting the will of the outdoors was a lesson that was regularly drilled into my head. It was simply my blind enthusiasm to go play in the woods on my bike that made these lapses of judgement happen. I should have thought twice, but alas, I didnt.
Sitting at the adge of the creek, I pulled off my shoes, and sat yogi style, with my feet tucked in behind my knees until my legs fell asleep, and then Id stretch out and resume the position. This went on for about 10 hours. All through the night, I fought the early stages of hypothermia, and tried my best to ignore the hallucinations, of which there were some doozies. In the valley floor, with the canopy rising hundreds of feet above me, the darkness was suffocating. At one point, I remember reflecting on a story that my dad had told me of an ill-fated solo hunting excursion hed been on when I was a child. Alone in the woods, hed developed a case of pleurisy, which as I understand it, is an excruciating swelling of the sacks that encase the lungs. He said he was completely paralyzed with pain, and was only able to literally drag himself back to his truck the following morning when his substantial fever broke. 'Well' I thought, 'it could always be worse.'

Hours went by and finally the darkness began to clear. I then began to make my way through what Id estimated to be Northern California's richest grove of Poison Oak, back to the trail that perhaps ironically, was exactly where Id left it the night before. Eventually, legs bloodied, I emerged from the forest, and the sun shone on my face for the first time in 15 hours. I arrived home in time to find a completely freaked out girlfriend, and Eric Richter, whod already been on the mountain in an attempt to find my dumb ass.

Sometimes folks ask me why I insist on constantly riding with a back pack. I may be carrying too many clothes, too much water, or a never before used flashlight, but as I realized that night, and just what my mom has always told me, its better to have too much, than not enough.
See? Like the title says- bicycles are good for lots of things. What? Like you thought I was going to tell a story about standing on bicycles? Nope, sorry. I just liked the picture.

By the way, you should take a second and check out the County Line recap. If I didnt know better, Id say it actually looks fun. However, Ive known Rick for a long time. His idea of fun is a bit different then what Websters has in mind.