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Sunday bikers can
still squeeze into
their neon Lycra,
hop onto their
overpriced,
underutilized bikes,
and careen around
the fire roads all
they want
(under 15 mph,
of course).

I 'm a bitter old man, and I'm only 25.

If you were me, you'd be bitter too, because I have to break the law to enjoy some of the best single-track in the world, even though it's right outside my front door.

I didn't get into mountain biking as a way to "get into shape." You'd know that if you saw me. I grew up in Mill Valley, north of San Francisco, at the base of Mount Tamalpais. It's the place "where it all began, man" - as a guy from Kansas City once told me.

In those early days of mountain biking, my buddies and I rode because we were kids, and it was fun. I used to push my BMX up fire roads, then turn around and fly down, stacking all the way. I quickly grew out of my BMX, and into a Schwinn Cruiser - the kind with huge handlebars and a big, cozy seat. By then, Gary Fisher and friends had already began selling their homemade bikes, and establishing Mount Tam as the off-road Mecca.

I graduated from my big clunker to my first mountain bike when I was in high school. It was a Specialized Rockhopper Comp, and I loved it. My mom knew that that beauty was gonna take me to new heights and speeds, and she gave me a helmet to protect my melon. I developed a real love for bombing down single-tracks. My buddies and I would hitchhike to the top, and explore the trails on the way down. It was the best.

After high school, I left Tam behind. I went to college in Eugene, Oregon, partly because of the excellent riding I'd heard about. My buddies and I rode before class, after class, and often instead of class. We'd "fat man it," leaving one car at the bottom of the trail, and taking the bikes in another car to the top. The trails were in secluded hills, close to campus, and we hardly ever saw any other bikers or hikers.

I graduated recently, and came back home to find my beloved mountain tainted by its own popularity. Mountain biking's success has been its downfall on Tam, as the mountain has become the hub of a huge industry. Riding up the mountain is no longer the nirvana I remember, and Tam has been closed off to any real single-track biking. It's like Yosemite Valley - there's no way to avoid the crowds - and you've got to listen to business people brokering deals, taking up trail space with their $3,000 bikes.

Sure, Sunday bikers can still squeeze into their neon Lycra, hop onto their overpriced, underutilized bikes, and careen around the fire roads all they want (under 15 mph, of course), but I'll never be able return to the Tam that made me fall in love with the sport, riding with my pals.



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