The first day

Despite having been around now for almost a decade, I didn’t know anything about the Farm until about three years ago when Nathan brought it up one day at a trail ride. We had just recently met at MST and he and his friend Vinny whom I’d also just met were introducing me to the pirate trail network on the North side of Salem Lake. Nathan is tall, hawk eyed, physically imposing, and has the wingspan of a condor. He talks with a classic North Carolina southern drawl that begs the use of words like “tarnation” and turns of phrase like “bless your heart”. He’s also a top tier trail rider that will leave you in the dust on the descents and gasping for air on the climbs. Vinny on the other hand has this Pauly Shore vibe going on, more apt to answer “far out man” than calling on southern idioms to express himself. But behind that disarming, chilled out demeanor, he possesses a razor sharp wit that you could miss if you weren’t paying attention. He’s not as much of a dominating physical presence as Nate can be, but his skill on the bike is undeniable and has a penchant for grabbing air time.

During one of our stops, Nathan showed me a grainy video on his phone of some jumps and what looked like a skinny made from cedar limbs. I was interested, but jumping wasn’t my thing and I couldn’t imagine myself really enjoying it, so I wrote it off as a “one day” thing. “You should check it out” he said. It wasn’t until a few months later that I received an official invite from JD. I had met JD at that same trail ride with Nathan. He’s the kind of person you know you could call on if you ever needed help and he would battle hell and high water to be there for you. He and I also share an appreciation for absurdist gallows humor, so we became fast friends. JD had been to the Farm once before and wanted to bring me in, but wasn’t sure what the etiquette was for recruiting new talent. I can remember early on that there was a good deal of hand wringing about bringing good beer and making sure not to be a freeloader. To that end we presented a case of beer to the regulars as a token of our obsequiousness, and asked for direction from whoever was giving it. Larry was quick to hand us both some watering cans and instructed us to water “lips and landers”. We did as we were told.

If you aren’t fully immersed in the world of dirt jumping (at the time I definitely wasn’t), we should take a moment here to explain. Dirt jumps are fickle creatures. Like an overly sensitive houseplant, they must be watered to allow the soil to compact and maintain a solid riding surface that’s fast and reliable, but not too much water or the dirt will erode, leaving rough channels and exposing rocks and other debris. You can’t ride them when they’re too wet, but they can also be dusty and slippery if they’re too dry. They’re forever imperceptibly crumbling and decomposing. Without a diligent caretaker, they will inevitably return to the earth from whence they came. Thus it is incumbent upon the riders to maintain them with fresh top coats of dirt, water, and periodic shaping and sculpting with shovels to keep an ideal trail surface and a buttery smooth feel. This constant upkeep is labor intensive and especially in cases like the Farm, entirely driven by the people who ride it. There are few rules regarding etiquette at the Farm, but one rule above all else demands obedience: no dig, no ride.

Larry is the de-facto trail boss at the Farm, at least he has been for the last two years. You can rely on him to have a vision, but also the gumption to whip the greenhorns into shape as he does with the dirt. He’ll hand out shovels and rakes and watering cans and order up trail work like the executive chef at a Michelin star restaurant. Except instead of garnishing salmon fillets with capers and dill with a dollop of lemon béarnaise sauce, Larry has the line cooks garnishing tables with farm fresh dirt, a sprinkling of stagnant pond water out of a leaky watering can, and a couple good whacks with the back of a flat shovel for that delicious release angle. Chef’s kiss. As one of the old hats at the Farm, he has a sense of personal ownership, passion, and responsibility to the place that has played an pivotal role in keeping the community alive for all these years.

We had arrived a little early that day. People were still trickling in from around the state (some from as far away as an hour or more), tuning up bikes, packing dirt, raking, and gearing up for ride-thirty. I didn’t really know what to expect at this point. What was the vibe like? Who are these people? Am I in way over my head? I felt like it at the time. When finally it was time to go, the tools went away into the dilapidated shed that doubles as a snake habitat, and people started pushing their bikes up the roll in. As a first timer, I was bewildered at the criss-crossing lines and trail names: Hot Sauce, Tuesday Night, Clouds and Rain, K2, Slope, Main. Mercifully, Caroline was there to show me the ropes, “follow me” she said. So I did. Caroline quickly became one of my favorite people to be around. Her disarming personality, joyful love of riding, and this almost saintly aura of welcoming energy immediately put me at ease and made me feel at home. She doesn’t send it big, but it doesn’t seem to matter to her at all. She’s there to ride the bike for the sake of enjoying the sport and the camaraderie it cultivates. Riding like this can easily devolve into an ever escalating, never being satsified with where you are endeavor, and Caroline doesn’t really seem to buy into any of it. I like that about her.

As the day wore into the later hours of the evening and the fire ring started to fill up, helmets hanging on handlebars and beers in hand, people started exchanging stories and passing down legends of Farm past. I sat quietly, not sure yet of where my place was or when I could speak. I listened with rapt attention and tried to decipher the relationships and happenings that led to the point in time we occupied at that moment. I came to find out that Larry and Caroline were married. I also learned about a skinny bear in New Hampshire during a trip to Highland one year, a story that’s been told and retold so many times since that I can almost picture it myself despite it having taken place long before I ever met any of these people. The laughs came easy and the conversation never skipped a beat. Before showing up to the Farm, I didn’t realize how much I missed sharing a deep connection with a group of like-minded people like this. But I did.

I don’t know why I had envisioned the Farm being this place of judgement, perhaps because of my own biases and self-critical doubt, but I can remember being worried that I wouldn’t “make the cut”. I wouldn’t be good enough to hack it and I wouldn’t be accepted into the inner circle. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. The range of skill level at the Farm is wide and doesn’t correlate at all with your place in the group. Sure, when Gledhill threw a 360 off the on-off on Slope, or when Daryl was backflipping the step up, there was this sort of unspoken respect and deference, but it didn’t make them somehow special or better than anyone else. They could do things on a bike I couldn’t imagine doing at the time, but sitting around the fire that evening, everyone was talking up each other’s accomplishments regardless of the magnitude. It didn’t matter if it was your first time clearing the smallest table at the Farm or throwing a tuck-no-hander off the step up, the stoke was the same and the best riders were always encouraging and pumping up the newbies that were just starting to spread their wings. I knew almost immediately that I wanted to be a part of it. This felt like a place I could make my home.

The first season

The Farm occupies a relatively small plot of land, maybe 5 acres in total, on a gentle slope behind a handsome farmhouse. The soil is sandy and mostly inhabited by long leaf pines, with a few gum and other hardwoods peppering the northern corner. A spiderweb of different trails branch out from the roll-in at the western edge of the woods. Bisecting the property is a small unimproved dirt road running from east to west, serving as the main return path to the fire ring and the roll-in. Most of the jumps are dirt, but a good number of wooden features also can be seen rising out of the underbrush, ranging from knee high kickers to overlarge booters I could barely reach on my tip-toes. The crown jewel (to me at least, Larry certainly has a different opinion), the most eye catching thing at the Farm, is the on-off. A large wooden platform situated in the dead middle, towering the height of a building over everything else. The deck is wide with a concave shape to it that just begs you to ride a bike on it. Only the best of the best ever seemed to ride it and people stopped to watch when they did. I was transfixed by this magnificent piece of backyard engineering. I wanted to ride it. I knew I never would.

That first season forever changed my riding. For as long as I had been riding bikes, the pinnacle of the sport was early aught’s era North Shore skinnies. I was obsessed with Fox’s 16mm bike film “The Collective” and especially the elevated trail networks reminiscent of something you would see on the planet Endor. Everything I was riding at the time was slow, technical, skinny, and rarely involved my tires leaving the ground for anything but a drop. I could do jumps, but I was far from comfortable with them and I didn’t really think I would like jumping anyway. Not for me, I would say. That attitude quickly changed when I started to get a taste for real air time. The Farm is a great place for this type of progression. The wide range of features and the encouragement of fellow riders makes it easy to find your footing and take your next step. When I first arrived, I was enjoying Hot Sauce, the common denominator for everyone riding at the Farm. Its most notable features are a peaked out table called Headquarters and a shark-fin immediately afterwards that guides you either further down to lower Hot Sauce or if you’re brave enough, the direct line to drop into Main. But beyond this, there were only a handful of other trails I was comfortable with, and I was far from good at making clean landings on any of those lines.

I don’t recall at this point what my first real breakthrough moment was, but if I had to guess it was probably Double Tap. This line is sort of the first stepping stone into some of the bigger jumps. It starts with the Hog’s Head drop (there’s a fake hog’s head hanging directly underneath), which on its own isn’t too difficult if you’re experienced with drops. But after that, things pick up rather quickly. The first jump is a set up for the main event. It’s a small double (i.e. the take-off and landing are separated by a gap instead of filled in with dirt like a table), so it wasn’t too difficult to get over this one for me. But the second tap goes considerably harder. It’s much, much steeper and the gap is bigger. This poses a problem for most beginner jumpers: getting bucked. This is the phenomenon that becomes especially pronounced on larger, steeper jumps where the bike tends to rotate forward, sending the rider into an inescapable head over heels, rider over handlebars death dive directly into the dirt. Anyone that’s been doing this long enough has experienced it at one time or another and I wasn’t too keen on having that experience ever again if I could help it. But I was even more keen to experience the euphoric sensation of stomping the bike down onto a lander after being launched unreasonably high into the air, so I persevered.

I spent an entire Farm session running up to the jump with every intention of just letting go, but always backed out at the last moment. I tried over, and over, and over again to get up the nerve but it didn’t happen. I left at the end of the day feeling defeated, but I knew I would be back again the next week and I knew exactly what I was going to do. I was on a mission and nothing could stop me from completing it, even if it took all summer. That next week I warmed up on Hot Sauce and then immediately set my mind to the task at hand. I did a few run ups, and unlike the week before, I felt like I was on the verge of breaking through that mental barrier. So, sitting at the top of the roll in, and with Vinny’s enthusiastic prodding, I let my fingers off the brakes and accepted my fate. Consequences be damned I’m going over this fucking jump. Drop, rail the turn, hit the double, brace…

It’s almost impossible to capture with words the feeling you get from suppressing your fears with sheer force of will. There’s a saying amongst the biking community: “commit, or eat shit”, and these are wise words. As you approach the jump and you cross over the point of no return, you suddenly feel this simultaneous sense of relief and excited anticipation. You know that whatever happens, you’re going over the edge and there’s no way to turn back now even if you wanted to. Grabbing the brakes would end in a guaranteed wreck and your only recourse is to just make it to the other side. This sensation takes on an almost physical form as it is so intense. Compression, extension, wheels leave the ground and yes, you know you have the right trajectory. The landing that was obscured by the face of the jump before is coming into view and you can tell in a split second that it’s right. You can relax now. You’re flying. This is what makes it all worth it, that less than a second mid air when you’re no longer tethered to the earth, when gravity has been vanquished and you have been crowned the victor.

Progression

Cleaning Double Tap for the first time was the moment when I realized this was what I wanted to do. Before that I enjoyed riding the Farm and slowly assimilating into the community but I wasn’t really thinking too much about what was next. Hot Sauce laps were starting to get repetitive and now that Double Tap was in the rotation, I had a reason to go off the Hog’s Head drop. This meant that every time I rode that direction, I was staring down the barrel of two of the biggest lines at the Farm: K2 and Slope. Slope was still something I considered to be far beyond my ability, but K2 was looking more and more like something I could do. K2 I assume was named after Kris with a K because he’s the one, as I understand it, who conceived of the whole thing. Which, now that I’ve met Kris and ridden with him a few places, that makes sense. Kris couldn’t be accused of riding slowly. It consists of 3 main jumps, followed by a few options to finish the run, either go straight over the long and low at mach-Jesus and pull hard into one of the step ups, or cut the berm to the right and cross the walk-up, also at mach-Jesus, and drop into lower Main. But let’s not put the cart before the horse here because jump #3 is the real deal, and there was only one way to get past it.

K2 is a rather large jump, it’s over head height standing at the base, but it’s most endearing quality is the mellow release angle. In real terms this means it is far more forgiving than the steeper faced features at the Farm. Getting bucked is much less of a concern and one could almost make it to the other side by going fast enough and holding on tight. Although I wouldn’t recommend that as your approach. I started instead with the run in. It may not be obvious to an outsider, but the act of successfully completing a jump starts well before your tires ever actually touch the surface of the jump itself. What I mean is, you want your bike and your body positioning to be as settled as possible. Being too far forward or back, or just generally not being ready to respond to the acceleration as you change from a forward to an upward trajectory, can easily spell disaster. The third jump on K2 being significantly bigger than the first two meant that you really needed those first ones to go well before you make the decision to commit. So that’s what I did. I spent several weeks, probably far too long in hindsight, running through the first two jumps to make sure I was absolutely solid before taking the plunge.

My memory of this time is pretty hazy and I’m writing this piece extemporaneously so for the sake of good story telling I want to use this moment to introduce another of our cast of characters, Eric. Eric is tall, lanky and embeardened, and devilishly handsome. He’s also wickedly funny and cannot seem to resist the temptation to make light of just about any situation. But as quick as he is to make a joke, he cares deeply for all of us. I remember one time getting a text from Eric, days after a Farm session where he wanted to apologize for some offhand remark he had made that he thought might have upset me. I wasn’t upset, I didn’t even remember the event in question. Yet the mere fact that he was so torn up about it that he thought to reach out just to be sure I was OK, exemplifies the type of thoughtful and caring person he is. And that kindheartedness and care bleeds over into his riding as well. So as I was sitting at the top of the roll in, contemplating my hundredth unsuccessful run up to K2, Eric was quick to offer to tow me in. I was hesitant, after all I wasn’t sure if today would be the day, but he seemed determined to work right along side me to get me over the line. And he did exactly that. It took probably a half dozen more tries to break through, but Eric was all in on getting it done.

I couldn’t tell you the date or the time, or even what year it was exactly when I first sent K2, but I’ll forever have that memory frozen in my mind of the moment I set my tires on the take off. It was truly terrifying. I was going so fast. Every piece of advice given to me by anyone who had ridden K2 before told me the same thing. Pedal until you think you have enough speed, and then throw in two more. I was expecting to get crushed by the overwhelming force of my rapid change in momentum, but instead felt this springboard-like lightness that propelled me higher and faster into the air than I had ever been before. And like my first time over Double Tap, I knew almost the moment I was airborne that the mission was going to be a success. It felt like an eternity, hanging at tree top height looking down on Eric as he stomped the landing in a cloud of dust. It’s almost impossible to have an experience like this and not let out some kind of primitive, guttural yell. And I did, of course. Eric didn’t miss an opportunity to share in that excitement and matched my energy in kind.

The road to 100%

From this point forward, I kept trying to grow my list of trails every week. Sometimes progress was slow, other times I would make big leaps in progression and knock out an entire line in one go. I was also starting to become more and more tied into the Farm family. In the beginning I was showing up whenever I could make time, but by the end of my second season of Farm riding, I was making sure my schedule was clear for Wednesday. That’s because the other key ingredient in the longevity of the Farm is its scarcity. You can’t just come by and ride whenever you want. The Farm is open for business during daylight savings time on Wednesdays only. Why Wednesday is the day, I don’t know and it doesn’t really matter because that’s just what it is. I’ve heard tell that it used to be on Tuesdays, but that sounds like bullshit to me. It’s like a law of nature at this point: Water is wet, gravity makes things heavy, and Farm day is Wednesday. You might think this causes problems for people and reduces the number of folks who will show up, and I’m sure that’s true for some, but more importantly what it does is create a shared time and place for everyone who really wants to be involved. If you could show up any time you wanted, you wouldn’t have the same tight knit bond between people who went out of their way to make sure Wednesday evenings are clear. Instead you might end up with the Saturday crowd, or the Tuesday crowd, and some of them might not ever meet because of scheduling conflicts. Wednesdays give the Farm purpose and make attendance deliberate.

Getting more familiar with the people and showing up on rainy days to dig meant that I started brushing up against the old guard riders that were sending Slope, Pickle Rick, and Main. I suppose that there’s always going to be some element of natural skepticism people have for newcomers to a place like this. Will they show up? Will they put in the work? Are they going to drive past the farmhouse blaring loud music and piss off Mr. Ward? You do not want to be that person, by the way. So it doesn’t surprise me that some of the top tier shredders like Caleb and Cajun kept their distance a bit in the beginning. Caleb was one of those people who would show up, seemingly out of nowhere, and would go hard on just about every feature out there. Caleb from what I understand also moonlights as a pretty phenomenal dirt bike rider, which comes across pretty clearly whenever you follow him on trail. Cajun also has some dirt-bike experience, but more than that he used to race downhill, which safe to say is the gnarliest of biking disciplines outside of pure freeriding. The stories shared around the campfire about Cajun’s exploits in the past are an integral part of the Farm’s mythmaking. So when I was sitting on the roll-in contemplating another run on K2, I was surprised when Cajun looked in my direction and offered one word: Slope? Caleb seemed to agree that was the direction we were about to go, as if I had any chance of following them into that line. I laughed it off like they were kidding but it became clear they were not. Caleb just casually said “you’ve got that, no problem” and as unbelievable as it might sound, it almost instantaneously erased all my doubt. I believed him. The line I had most coveted from that very first day at the Farm that I had thought was surely too much for my abilities was, with a single sentence, made a real possibility.

So began the mission to complete Slope. I didn’t get it that first day and I don’t think either of those two expected me to, but they believed I could and that was good enough for me. I set my sights on that very first jump, the daunting #1 after the canon. Riding into it you get the feeling that it’s not so much a jump, but a sheer wall. I know the release angle is nowhere near vertical, but it may as well have been. In my mind there was no way to make it to the other side, yet Cajun and Caleb would do it every Wednesday. Cajun warms up on Slope as the rest of us are still trying to remember how to pedal bikes on Hot Sauce, so I know it’s possible. But convincing myself it wasn’t going to end in disaster was another thing entirely.

This essay is getting a little long at this point so you’ll have to wait for the next part of the series to find out if I survived my attempts at Slope or if someone is writing this posthumously on my behalf.