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KAHULUI, HAWAII
Words by TJ Gumz
Photos by Todd Barber
“You’re guaranteed to crash,” Scott says to a nearby customer who wants to rent a mountain bike for the Skyline trail down the spine of the Haleakala volcano. Scott is a bike mechanic who days later shattered his wrist to powder on a dirt bike. Pins, plates, screws and wire hold what is left together; he still has no feeling in his fingertips a week later. When he talks about crashing, you have to wonder whether you share his pain threshold or not.
Scott’s words echoing in my head, we drive up the active, but currently not erupting volcano. Switchback after painfully steep switchback on the road, his was the only voice I hear. Crash, crash, crash….
Paul Parrish, who owns Crater Cycles Hawaii—Maui’s only downhill-dedicated bike shop—lured me into this situation. His dark hair resembles a marine who’s been letting it grow out—kind of shaggy but with a military heritage. It’s a perplexing contrast to his neighborly laugh, which carries over miles and it is heard often on the smattering of other bike trails on the island. Paul outfitted me with all the pads for the ride and the helmet too, because apparently he agreed with Scott: I was gonna crash. He even brought a moto-cross chest plate for himself, which should have been my second clue about what I was getting myself into.
Haleakala (“House of the Sun”) tops out at just over ten thousand feet, and the atmosphere is noticeably thin when we pull up and turn off the car. As we unload the bikes, I notice there is cinder everywhere; sharp, spiky, loose and unstable stones ranging in size from pebbles on up to basketballs. Mostly, they are a little bigger than a fist, with just enough mass to cause both of your tires to suddenly slide out from under you. It’s like trying to keep course on a sand dune covered with chocolate cake mix topped off with softball-sized spheres of spiky devastation. If you’ve ever mountain biked on Mars, you know what I mean.
From the top, we are treated to a 360-degree view worthy of the gods. Smaller peaks jutted out below, cascading into a skirt of trees, forests, and coffee farms hugging the rugged coastline. I take one last peaceful breath before diving in. The beginning of the ride is loose lava rock over dust and ball bearings. Once we pass the first gate, our pack of heavy guys on weighty downhill bikes takes off at a full sprint. We are about to drop three thousand feet to the beginning of the Mamane trail in Poli Poli State Park in no time flat.
I try to keep up, thankful for my loaner pads as I careen along at 25 mph in fast pursuit of my friends. We’d come screaming into hard corners, brakes squealing, dust and rocks flying sideways. Even as I am losing my grip on the guys up front, I’m foolishly thinking I have things under control, doing my best to stay loose and enjoy the chaos. Yeah, I got this, I think. Scott was going to eat his words! And then I just flat out lose it on a straightaway. Full superman, complete bike-body separation, and next thing I know I am balled up in the dusty detritus of my friends. I limp back onto the bike and catch up to the group waiting down the trail. At least I got my crash out of the way early in the ride.
Soon after that, I go down again. Hard, on the other side—you know, for a little variety this time. I crashed all right, Scott; I crashed over and over. Every time I’d catch up to the group waiting for me at the next intersection, they’d bust out laughing at whatever piece of local flora I had sticking out of my helmet or bike, knowing I’d gone down again.
It seems like about every mile or so, Paul is reassuring me we are almost towards the end. “Watch out for the drop at the bottom,” he yells at one point before disappearing into the woods. The bottom of what—the volcano, this insane trail, or my confidence level? I look for a sign that reads, “Hey, you’re almost at the bottom; beware the bone crunching lava flow into a pit of steaming doom…”
Screw the bottom; I could hardly remember the top by this point. “Oh, this must be the bottom,” I think as I go over the bars again, followed by “Wow, what a beautiful view.” The Mars landscape is now behind me, dropping down into forest, with Maui’s verdant hills spilling out on all sides towards the blue green ocean. I hear one of the guys say, “I’ve never seen that before,” because the terrain and climate here are so dynamic, always in flux, just like each new throbbing pain I discover every time I dismount my bike.
After we drop out of the lava and head into some single track, I feel much better about being on the bike. The whole time I try to let up on the brakes and burn through the track like I am on rails, but it is really more like a third-time felon running from the police in a shopping cart on cobblestones.
I struggle to unclench my hands at the end of each section, Paul shaking his head as he watches me wince and forcibly unlock my fingers. He tells me that I needed some disc brakes to alleviate the problem. I look around at the other bikes all equipped with hydraulic disc brakes; my old rig is a starved pony cowering in a pen full of stallions.
The fire road we are on leads to a single lane, paved road that accesses Poli-Poli State Park. We ride Waipoli Road for a little while before dropping into some hairball trails that bisect the switchbacks. My rear tire is locked up most of the time in the loamy black soil. When I let go of the brakes to clear some minor drops, I hook three successive stumps.
Near the end of the 18-mile ride, Paul leads a balls-out charge through a cattle field. No road, no trail and no clue, he just picks a line and plows straight down. “Animals,” one of my buddies mutters—more to himself than to me—before he re-enacts Paul’s crazed onslaught, dodging cow patties and barely staying upright.
As the trail of dust disappears, we reconnect with Waipoli Road and cruise into Rice Park just as the sun starts setting. It is another amazing bi-coastal view, this time from three thousand feet and tinged with vibrant orange and purple. We load the bikes into the truck that Sue [WHO IS SUE? PAUL’S WIFE?] graciously brought over and everyone goes their separate ways. I get into my car gingerly and make a side-trip on the way home for supplies: a few bandages and tape, plus plenty of beer.
And now here I am at home, trying not to lie on my left side or my right side, wincing every time I bend my right elbow. I tense up at the first signs of a charley horse in my calf—just breathe deep and relax. It hurts to lift my beer, but I can’t stop smiling!
