Tales from the
Trail & Beyond.

There is one place I have ridden more than anywhere else. My friends and I just call it Luiseño. It is a bike park on Luiseño land, and for a lot of us it is the closest thing we have to a home trail.

I learned to actually ride there. Not just pedal around, but ride. My first real drop. The first jump I cleared after being scared of it for a month. The first corner I ever truly understood. Half the riders I know best, I met in that parking lot or at the top of a run. When I think about why I love this sport, I am mostly thinking about days at Luiseño.

Right now it is closed. We have been told it is temporary. But no one has been able to say when it reopens, or promise that it will, and the longer it stays shut the more that quiet starts to feel like an answer. I hope I am wrong about that. I really do.

Here is the part I want to be careful about. Luiseño is tribal land. It belongs to the Luiseño people, and whatever happens to the park is their decision to make, not mine and not any rider's. I am grateful we were ever allowed to ride there at all. This is not a demand. It is a thank you, and a request to be heard.

One of the people who works at the park, Nelson, is a member of the tribe, and he is trying to carry our voices into the conversation. He put together a short form where riders can share what this place has meant to them, and he is going to bring those responses to a tribal meeting so the people deciding its future can hear directly from the kids and families who ride there.

If Luiseño ever meant anything to you, please take a few minutes and fill it out. Be honest, be specific, and above all be respectful. Tell them what you learned there, who you ride with, and what it would mean to lose it. That is the whole ask.

Share what Luiseño means →

I do not know how this ends. Maybe it opens back up and this was nothing. Maybe it does not. But if there is a chance that the kids coming up behind us could learn to ride the way I did, on the same dirt, I want to have done more than just hope.

Speak up for the places that made you. Pedal on.

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Last weekend was the Fox US Open at Deer Valley, a National Championship Series race. I was signed up for Cat 2, 15 to 16.

The track was hard. Honestly almost too hard for me. It was rocky top to bottom and off camber in a way that never let you settle, the kind of track where one wrong line puts you on the ground. I was riding it, but I was right at the edge of what I could handle.

Then in practice, before the race even started, I went down. Hard. I hit my head pretty good.

And I made the call not to race.

Nobody wants to pull out of a race, especially an NCS national on a track you were finally starting to figure out. Every part of me wanted to line up. But hitting your head is not something you gamble with, and no result on any weekend is worth it. So I watched instead of raced.

It stings. The track got the better of me this time and I did not get to show what I could do. But making the smart call when it is the last thing you want to do is its own kind of win.

Healthy first. The track will still be there.

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Dad and I decided to make it a road trip. Nine days on the road, August 9 to 17, just the two of us and a truck full of bikes and gear. First stop was Bend for the Northwest Cup at Mt. Bachelor.

I raced 15-18 Junior Men and finished 4th out of 10. Not a podium, but a solid ride, and a completely different feeling from China Peak in June. This time the hand was not calling the shots. I was.

Then we kept driving. All the way up to Whistler.

I lapped the Canadian Open track over and over, just trying to get a little better every run. That is exactly the kind of riding I was scared I had lost back when I was sitting on the couch with a cast on. It came back. Faster than I expected.

And Crabapple Hits. I hit that line all week, sending the 65 footers and loving every second of it. Five weeks ago the biggest question in my life was whether I would hesitate at the top of a trail. This week I was in the air over a 65 foot gap with a healthy wrist and a giant grin.

Back in June I wrote that the road back was tough and bumpy. It was. Some days it still is. But this trip was the payoff. Bend, Whistler, my dad, my bike, and a wrist that finally feels like mine again.

Whistler. One hundred percent. Worth every bit of the wait.

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This one is about brakes, and it is not a happy story until the end.

First, the good part: the riding was incredible and the wrist felt perfect. I wrote about that already. This is about the other side of that trip, the part that had nothing to do with the trail and everything to do with my brakes.

Before my second Whistler trip, my TRP brakes developed a leaky lever seal. I tried to warranty it. TRP was willing, but they could not get a replacement to me in time for the trip. So I did the thing you never want to do right before a big week of riding. I bought a brand new brake just to have something I could trust on the mountain.

Then I got to Whistler, and the trouble was only getting started.

A brake that bypasses fluid is a brake you cannot count on, and on Whistler terrain that is not a small thing. And then, like it was trying to make a point, a screw holding the lever together on my other brake sheared clean off. So there I was in the bike park with one brake bypassing fluid and one brake missing a lever screw. Not exactly the setup you dream about.

Here is the saving grace. I rode the whole week. I did not miss a day and I did not sit anything out. But riding a bike park while babysitting two failing brakes is its own kind of frustrating. Every run I was thinking about the brakes instead of the trail, and that is not what you drive all the way to Whistler for.

Here is the fair part. When I got back home, TRP made it right and warrantied both brakes. Credit where it is due. But two failures on a single trip, on top of a seal I could not get warrantied in time, told me everything I needed to know.

I switched to SRAM Mavens.

Mavens on. Fresh start. Onward.

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My wrist felt about ninety percent, and my head felt strong. Saturday practice was great. I was fast, I was comfortable, I felt ready. Then race day came and something was just off.

Looking back, I set myself up for it. I pushed too hard in training leading in, then slept terribly the night before. On top of that I flatted in practice, hit a rock too hard with my back wheel and it shook me up a little. Having to stop and fix it in a pinch threw off my rhythm, and when I got back out I rode too hard to make up the lost time. None of it was one big mistake. It was a stack of small ones.

I crashed in my race run. Slid out. The second it happened, I knew my result was gone.

I rode it out. We have Whistler coming up in August, and a full slate of races before that, and going all-in on a run I had already lost was not worth it. So I placed poorly. I am okay with that. It was the smart call, even if it stings.

The other big thing today: my dad got back on the bike for the first time since the concussion. I was heads down prepping for my race so we did not get to ride together, which I hated. And honestly, part of my head was with him all day. Watching him clip back in after Big Bear, after everything, I could not fully let it go. I was proud of him and worried about him at the same time.

So I am pedaling on. The result was rough, but the season is long. Coming up I have Northwest Downhill at Mt. Bachelor, then Southwest Downhill at Snow Valley, which is the exact trail I broke my wrist on, so that one is going to be a mental test. Then the US Open, and Round 5 of the series at Deer Valley.

And then Whistler in August, just for fun. No numbers, no pressure, just riding. After a day like today, that is exactly what I need. A reset, and a reminder of why I do this in the first place.

Rough day. Long game. Pedal on.

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I made it to Whistler. After everything, the broken wrist, the weeks off the bike, sitting out Snow Summit, squeezing that old grip in the car until my forearm burned, I finally made it. Just a few days, squeezed in around summer school, but this was the trip all of that was for.

The first morning I was nervous, and not about the jumps. About my wrist. I did not know until I dropped in whether it would hold, or whether it would fold on me halfway down the way it did at China Peak. So I rolled in easy, tested it, and waited for the ache.

It never came. My hand held. It just worked, the way it used to.

So I let it go. I hit Crabapple Hits. I rode D1, then Dwayne Johnson. And I sessioned the Dirt Merchant pro lines. These are the big lines, the ones I would have talked myself out of six months ago even with two good hands. This time I just pointed it and went.

I am not going to be modest about it. I rode well. I felt strong, I felt confident, and I trusted my body again, which is the exact thing I was most scared I had lost. Whistler is everything people say it is, and getting to ride it feeling like myself was the best few days I have ever had on a bike.

But I have to be honest about the other half of it. My dad did not ride.

This was supposed to be our trip. Whistler, the two of us, the thing we had been talking about for months. Because of the concussion he took at Big Bear, he could not get on a bike. He still came. He watched from the bottom, filmed my runs, cheered every lap. But he did not ride a single one.

I kept thinking about how backwards it was. I spent all summer terrified my wrist would keep me off this mountain, and in the end I was the one who got to ride it. He was the one standing in the dirt. I would have traded some of those runs to have him up there with me. I think he knows that.

So it is a strange thing to carry home. The best I have ever felt on a bike, and the person I most wanted beside me stuck watching from the ground. Both of those are true at once. I am grateful for the trip, and I already want to go back, with my dad on the bike this time.

One hundred percent. Next time, both of us.

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I have been on both sides of a trail emergency now. Last summer at Whistler, I watched my dad dislocate his shoulder and I froze. I had no idea what to do. Whether to move him, whether to call for help, whether to just stand there. I felt completely useless, and I hated it.

A few days ago at Big Bear, it happened again. My dad went down and came up with a concussion. But this time was different. This time I knew what to do, and I did it.

I have thought a lot about what changed between those two moments. It was not that I got braver. It was that the second time, I had something to follow. A few questions to ask. A list in my head. When you see someone you love hurt on the ground, your brain can go completely blank. Panic takes over. The only thing that pulled me through was having steps, and not having to invent them on the spot.

So I built one. It is a simple tool on this site. You tap what you are seeing, they hit their head, they are not moving, road rash, a possible break, and it walks you through what to do, one calm step at a time. It also tells you the warning signs that mean stop and call 911.

I built it to work offline, because the trailheads where you actually need it almost never have signal. Open it once at home, add it to your phone, and it is there in the dead zones.

I want to be clear about what it is and what it is not. It is not medical advice, and it is not a replacement for real first-aid training or for calling 911. If you ride, take a Wilderness First Aid course. It is genuinely the best thing you can do. This tool is just for the moment your brain freezes and you need something to hold onto.

I hope you never have to use it. But twice now I have learned that you do not get to choose when the trail asks something of you. You only get to choose whether you are ready.

It's on your phone now. Pedal on.

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After all my going back and forth about this weekend, I landed somewhere in the middle. I skipped the big trip with the crew. No group pace, no sending anything I had no business sending on a wrist that is not back yet. But I could not bring myself to sit at home doing nothing either. Whistler is a few weeks out, and the thought of dropping in there cold, after weeks off the bike, scared me more than a few easy laps did.

So it was just my dad and me. Up at Big Bear for the day, riding light. Mellow runs, nothing gnarly. The kind of day that is supposed to be the safe one.

On the last run, my dad crashed.

I was already at the bottom waiting for him. I did not see it happen. I just saw him coming down the last stretch on foot, walking his bike toward me. From a distance it looked fine. Then he got closer and it did not look fine at all.

He was disoriented. He did not know where the car was. We had parked in the same lot we always park in, and he had no idea where it was.

And then something in me switched on. All the concussion stuff I have read, the protocols, the page I wrote for this site that I never thought I would actually need. It just kicked in.

I said, look at me. I looked at his eyes and his pupils were dilated. So I started asking him questions, the way you are supposed to. He knew his birthday. He did not know how old he was. He could not remember anything from the past month.

He had no recollection of how he had even gotten to the parking lot that morning. That was when I knew. This was bad. Really bad.

I got him to the medics. They assessed him, and within a few minutes they were calling an ambulance.

I texted my mom. "Don't freak out, but dad had a bad crash." I read that back now and I do not know how I typed something so calm. Inside I was coming apart.

I held it together the whole way. Through the medics, the ambulance, all of it. I did not break down until we got to the hospital and they took him back and I was standing in a hallway alone, calling my mom. That is when it all came out. And the first thing out of me was not fear. It was guilt.

If something was really wrong with him, in my head that was on me. I could not let go of it. And this was not the first time I have watched him go down. Last summer at Whistler I saw him dislocate his shoulder. That one he walked away from. Standing in that hospital hallway, I was not sure this one would be the same.

Several hours and multiple scans later, they released him. No brain bleed. No cracked skull. I have never been so relieved about anything in my life. Thank god we both wear full face helmets. I cannot say that strongly enough, and I will keep saying it on this site until everyone who reads it does the same.

He was not allowed to drive, so my mom found us a hotel room for the night. I think I slept less than ten minutes. I just lay there listening to make sure he was okay, getting up to check on him, running the whole day back in my head on a loop.

By morning, most of his memory had come back. He is still missing the few minutes right after the crash, but the doctors said that part is normal and may never return. The rest of him is here. That is what matters.

I wrote the Be Safe page for this site months ago. Concussion signs, what to ask, when to get help. I never once imagined I would be using it on my own dad. Read the Be Safe guide →

I do not know what the future holds for either of us on a bike right now. I am not going to pretend I have that figured out today. But I am grateful he is okay, and I am grateful I knew what to do when it counted.

Not sure what comes next. Hoping we can both pedal on.

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I am supposed to be at Snow Summit this weekend. The plan has been on the calendar for a while. Bike loaded, friends going, a full weekend of laps. And I am sitting here seriously thinking about not going.

I raced China Peak last weekend because it counted. It was the first of the five races I need to upgrade to Cat 2, and you do not skip those. Snow Summit is different. It is a fun trip with friends, which I love, but it does not move me toward anything except the chance to hurt myself again.

Here is the math. My wrist is better, but it is not back. The bone is still healing and my grip gives out before the rest of me does. Snow Summit is not a place you ride at eighty percent. And in a few weeks I am going to Whistler with my dad. That trip matters more to me than anything else on my calendar this year.

So I keep landing in the same place. If I push it this weekend and tweak the wrist again, I put Whistler at risk. If I sit out, I lose a weekend but I protect the thing I actually care about.

It is killing me. I want to be honest about that. Watching the group load up without me, knowing exactly what those laps feel like, choosing to stay home anyway. That is harder than any crash. A crash takes the decision away from you. This one I have to make myself, over and over, every time someone texts.

So I am doing the work in the meantime. I gave up on the stress ball. I have been carrying around an old handlebar grip instead, squeezing it whenever my hand is free. It works better. A stress ball is round and soft and nothing like a bike. The grip is the exact shape and feel of what my hand has to do on the trail, so it trains the real motion, not just the strength. If I am teaching the wrist to hold on again, I want to teach it on the real thing.

I am bummed. I am not going to pretend I am not. But I am trying to look at the big picture. Whistler with my dad, as close to a hundred percent as I can get. That is the goal. Everything between now and then is just protecting it.

Sitting one out. Eyes on Whistler.

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My hand was sore on my practice rides. Not the sharp pain from right after the break, just a deep ache that got worse the more I rode. So I made a call I did not want to make. I rested for half the day, took some ibuprofen to bring the inflammation down, and tried to save whatever I had left for the run that counted.

Then I rode. And I did not ride well.

The pain and the stiffness were there the whole way down. My grip was not what it used to be. I was slower than I know I can be and more careful than I wanted to be, and I felt every bit of it.

Here is the part I did not expect. There was no fear at the top. After five weeks of wondering what would happen in my head when I lined up at the start of that trail, the answer was nothing. No hesitation. I dropped in clean.

But the hand decided how the run went, not me. I crossed the line knowing it was nowhere near my best, and I was disappointed in myself in a way that is hard to shake.

On the drive home my mom and dad reminded me that all I had to do today was get the first one done. And I did. That was the whole job. Everything else was extra.

It helped. It still stings.

The road back is tough and bumpy. I knew that before today. I know it a little better now.

One of five, done. Four to go. Onward.

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The cast came off yesterday. This weekend I race at China Peak. First weekend back and it is a qualifying race. My timing is impeccable.

This is the first of five races I need to upgrade to Cat 2, which I have been working toward. I want it. I am also aware that my wrist is stiff, my grip strength is not where it was, and the bone will not be fully healed for at least three months. The doctor knows I am racing. Her advice was to fall to the left.

Easier said than done.

I have been riding long enough to know that hesitation is where things go wrong. You commit or you do not. There is no halfway on a trail. But I would be lying if I said I was not thinking about the wrist. I am thinking about it a lot.

Will I be tentative? Will I send it? I genuinely do not know yet. I will find out this weekend.

I am nervous. I am also excited in a way I have not felt in five weeks. No soft re-entry. No easy warmup ride to shake the rust off. Just straight back in at a qualifying race at China Peak. Honestly, probably how it should be.

Race recap coming Sunday.

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Five weeks, two days. That is how long I have been wearing this cast.

Today they cut it off with an electric saw and then scissors. It looked more intense than it felt. And just like that, it was over.

Walking out without it on feels strange. My wrist looks pale and a little foreign, like it belongs to someone else. The doctor says that is normal. A few weeks of being careful, ease back into things. I have a list. I am not waiting long.

There was a moment in the appointment where they pulled up the new X-ray next to the original one and showed me the bone healed clean. I did not expect that to feel like anything. It felt like a lot.

They offered to let me keep the cast. I said no. I chose to leave it in the past and pedal on.

Went straight home. Got the bike out. Race is in two days.

Mobius brace on. ODI grips. Fox 40 Factories. Let's go.

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Two and a half weeks down. Two and a half to go. I have found a rhythm of sorts. Stationary bike when I can, grip balls to keep my hand strength up, planning out the rest of the year so I have something to move toward when this is over.

My friends are still riding. The texts keep coming. New trails. New lines. Someone hit a jump they had been working toward for months. Every update is great news that feels like a small punch. I am genuinely happy for them and genuinely miserable at the same time.

Mostly I spend time in my head. Visualizing rides I know well, trails I want to hit, lines I have been working out. Closing my eyes and riding a trail keeps me connected to something I did not realize I needed this much until it was taken away.

The other thing that happened was quieter. My mom and sister don't come on ride trips. No riding means actually being around. We are getting dinners. Walking the dogs. Watching sunsets. Having conversations that don't happen when you're always heading somewhere.

I did not expect this to be part of it. But here we are.

I do not have the full lesson yet. That comes when the cast comes off. But two and a half weeks in I can already feel something shifting. Patience, mostly. And a clearer sense of what actually matters.

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The group chat has been busy. New trail outside of Laguna. Someone got a new bike. A ride I would have driven two hours for happened last weekend without me.

I am not bitter. I am just aware of every single thing happening that I am not a part of. There is a difference. Barely, but there is one.

Two weeks left. I have been visualizing so much that I feel like I have already ridden half the trails on my list. I have planned the year down to the month. I have watched more MTB footage than I care to admit. I have done everything I can think of to stay close to something I cannot actually touch right now.

Two more weeks.

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One week in. This is harder than I expected.

I do not know who I am if I cannot mountain bike. That sounds dramatic. I do not mean it dramatically. I just mean that riding is the thing that makes everything else make sense, and right now I do not have it, and I am figuring out what that means.

Four more weeks.

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It happened fast. It always does. One second I was riding, the next I was on the ground and my wrist was telling me something was very wrong. GoPro was running the whole time. I will post that footage soon.

Clean break, they said. No surgery. Just a cast for five weeks and come back when it heals. Waterproof cast, which is the one silver lining. At least I could shower.

I reached out to Mobius from the hospital. Their wrist braces are what I will be riding in when I come back. They said yes. Probably the most productive thing I did that day.

If you want to know what to do when someone goes down on a trail, I built a whole page for that. Read the Be Safe guide →

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