Top gear, no fear

In theory, nobody gets hurt. Photo/Mountain Biking Chiang Mai

Perched as close as possible to the peak of the mile-high mountain, we stand on the pedals, lean back, ease off the brakes and … whoosh! Reaching speeds of 50 kilometres an hour - that's 13 metres a second - we hurtle over the rocks, ruts and roots of Doi Pui, the Chiang Mai national park.

All the dirt-bike routes up here are advanced. Some, I'm told, may even be among the world's hardest. Even veterans sometimes find themselves walking the strenuous bits.  

In theory, nobody gets hurt. Our bikes boast spacehopper-suspension and we all wear helmets, body armour and in some cases goggles. Nonetheless, I don't relish the prospect of tangling with a tree, which could easily happen if I daydream or dither.

On my arrival at the bike base in old Chiang Mai town, I tell the boss - Hawaiian giant Aidan Schmer - that I cycled on roads a bit 20 years ago. He smiles and slots me into the M3 beginners group.

My guide, Ken, says everyone crashes - it's not a case of if but when. But nothing seems to bother the "born-on-a-bike" Californian. Even the threat of hitting a tree doesn't faze him - he describes it as "irritating".

As I swing around a hairpin bend, narrowly avoiding careering into the bushes, it occurs me that this is mad - the riskiest thing I have ever done in my life.

Mountain biking strikes me as a true extreme sport: tougher than mountain hiking, whitewater rafting or even rock climbing. Controversy surrounds its origins.

According to the coolest story, the first people to ride souped-up bikes were black Buffalo Soldiers - members of African-American US army regiments - at the end of the 19th century. They customised bicycles to cover 1,300 kilometres from Missoula, Montana, to Yellowstone Park in California and back, in a bid to test them for military use.

My bone-jarring mission makes me think less of those trailblazers than "Jackass"-style teen daredevils riding down staircases on skateboards.

A burly Quebecois in our group seems totally in his element, riding with the agility of a macaque. In an effort to ensure he gets his full adrenaline fix, he shoots down off-the-beaten-path routes with 90-degree slopes, whooping. When he takes a tumble, instead of groaning, he subsides into a river of cackles.

Most of us make do with the litre of water supplied back at base, but the jocks on the elite team drink liquids laced with electrolytes. Ken says some of the track they'll face when they branch off is five times harder than the toughest ahead of us.

Five times! That must mean they will be riding over pure rubble or raging rapids, judging by the thorax-shattering brutality of the stretches we face.

As Ken had forecast, we have no time to admire the scenery flashing by. The ground is so chewed-up that our eyes stay glued to it.

For the sake of momentum, we should release the brakes as often as possible. That supposedly enables you to sail over obstacles, although how anyone coasts over pine needles beats me - they're like black ice.

Everyone must stay five lengths away from the person in front to prevent a pile-up. At least I'm obeying that rule as I lag behind the pack. My feet flail.

And as the afternoon wears on, my technique grows ever more ragged. I drop so far back that I hear no warning of the oncoming van I pass on the wrong side of the road.

The driver stays cool. In his eyes I'm doubtless just another feckless farang who serves a purpose and, like the mountain, must be conserved. As a sign on a tuk-tuk I saw said, "I love farang. No farang, no job. I die."

I trundle on through lush forest and lychee plantations. The uphill stretches are murder. Sporadically I walk, drenched in sweat, feeling like the typical fat, puffing hack.

My crash finally happens when I'm travelling at about a metre a year, and it leaves me feeling even more deflated, though unhurt.

Far worse comes when the Thai guide bringing up the rear topples over on a dicey trail. On his back, he squirms, tapping his chest like some doomed infantryman in a Vietnam flick.

Adventurers who, until now, have been all smiles and whoops, whisper darkly. You can almost hear the whupping of air-ambulance chopper blades, not that such conveniences are available out here. Anyway, the guide eventually rises to his feet and we continue - a touch more carefully.

What a long sigh of relief I breathe when, after four hours, we finally hit the flat stretches and can coast.

We wind up by an idyllic lake fringed with bamboo huts. Perched in one we eat chicken and egg-fried rice and toy with the idea of taking a dip.

The Thai guide presses an ice cube to his fingers and the Quebecois takes group pictures. Once the banter and war stories peter out, we "mosey back to the Rose of the North", as Ken puts it, and I arrive saddle-sore and shattered.

If you go …

Mountain Biking Chiang Mai (www.mountainbikingchiangmai.com) organizes several mountain bike trips from one to three days, from culture cruise to leg-breaking ride. Call 081-024-7046 or 087-182-3642 Email: info@mountainbikingchiangmai.com.

DAVID WILSON

SPECIAL TO THE NATION