THE WIND BLOWS IN MY FACE; I feel the tires crunch below me, the brakes and shifters in my hands like cubes of ice. At this point I know that this bike is an extension of my body, the plastic pedals mixing with my fleshy legs and the finger grips molding to my hands. I know I have complete control over the metal and plastic beast while mountain biking. From the extensive planning — that lasted five minutes — I know that we are going up the North Trail, stopping at County Road 304 and then going down the Whipple ...
