Deadly when wet. That’s what should be posted on TN trailheads.
I’ve posted three rides up on the Cumberland Plateau—Sewanee to be exact. One such train was an18 miler on Franklin Forest State Park’s sinewy, twisty, and oh so fun bluff edge trail. Time prevented me from doing the full loop, but the 9 mile segment I did hammer out was a fabulous mix of twists, swooping turns, quick climbs and speedy long descents. The trip back was a fine and complementary bookend to the ride out with easy climbs and a trail that seemed to go downhill both ways! Nature abhors a vacuum of course, so the greenbrier’s that edged the trail occasionally exacted its revenge with sharp punctures to exposed shins, forearms and hands.
The Sewanee Perimeter trail, however, dolled out a heaping portion of humility. I discovered that short climbs, twisty turns, and generally kind elevation changes that the map promised delivered the pop and sizzle that any mountain biker relishes. Tennessee’s forested country also assured me that like most of it’s trails, it would be filled with tight turns negotiated with encroaching saplings and mature hardwoods. And, of course that means roots and the stretches of battlefields where they tangle and fight limestone rock and boulder for trail dominance.
Sewanee added in a new wrinkle. It’s heavily forested canopy, frequent rains, and sun-sheltered coves produced the toughest challenge I’ve faced yet: green ice. This insidious natural villain turns exposed roots and rock faces along with wooden bridges into murderous inanimate objects. They seduce the rider to believe they can pass uncontested and then to instantly betray what appears to be an easy cut or track line . One minute you’re on a great tear, and then, you’re on your ass. Or elbow. Or, off the trail and wrapped up in the surrounding brush.
I have yet to figure out the right speed, positioning, or loading to get through these things. And, I fear them. I know those bastards will drop me on my ass. They appear innocuous, simple roots. These nearly symmetric rocks that in dry countries, such as Moab, would surely attract riders, here spell misery. Water, humidity, the ever present moisture, the angle of the sun, the cover of trees, all of these invites green and black algae to thinly glaze these objects and imbue them with a disguised malevolence. Those roots, those rocks, they want you to think that your line is tight, your angle perfect, your loading exact. Then they throw you on your mortgage-paying butt and lay innocently while you gather up your baggage, your wits, and scraps of flesh.
I hate green ice. It reduces me to a pedestrian pushing my bike across sections that were they dry would be workable if not fun. But, they reveal me to be just a hack; a poser who can’t manage a root or rock garden because of their deadly skin.
But, as Charlton Heston said in Planet of the Apes, “I swear to you , I will not be bowed!” Of course, he also said, as he came across the remains of NYC, “My God what have they done?!”
