By Lyle Riedy

I leave the parking area, winding and slithering through the woods. I climb steadily to the tops of hills, breaking through rock ledges along the way. I descend down rooted rocky slopes and hop over small creeks. I dodge fallen trees, dive under low limbs, and tumble over small boulders. I skirt the shoreline of the lake and blast across a sandy beach. To some I am a dirty, rough, sadistic fool. To others I am a thoughtful, caring, entertaining friend always looking for adventure and release. I am an adrenaline rush and a calming elixir. I am anxious and enchanting. I breed deep thought or remove all thoughts. I give to some, and from others I take. I exist only from hard work. But I'm here simply for play. I need time to play, to wander, and to explore. Sooner or later though I get tired and hurt. I need to rest and to heal. But sometimes it's hard to rest when you are a trail.

Sometimes I get so tired and weak. There are times when I get down right sick. I can be damaged, broken and in need of repair. I need the rain to wash dust and gravel from my face. Then I need the warm, drying wind to burn off excess water that soaks into my flesh making it soft and susceptible to invasion from that terrible virus, erosion. Erosion is like a cancer that spreads throughout me--threatening to destroy me. I can't stop it by myself. I need help.

As winter approaches, a heave freeze settles over the land and I rest. While I rest, I heal. The deep scars left from the heavy fall rains cut deep into the cracks of my skin leaving ugly wrinkles that only get bigger and uglier if not cared for. But my keepers love me and care for me. I feel them tend to my wounds. They pick away protruding stones from the high side of off-camber areas. This gives room for riders to maneuver gently without scratching and skidding on the same narrow path, creating a wound with their biting tires. They patch me where the waters have dug in. To me the fast-moving water is like the sharp edge of a pendulum that cuts a little deeper with each pass. I hear the buzz of chain saws as they remove the fallen trees that blocked trail users from visiting me. You must understand. I like--no; I need treading upon. That's what keeps me alive. Without the usage I will become unkempt and eventually die. It's a good thing to have many users on me. But please respect me when I need to be left alone. When I am wet, I am weak and can be easily bruised or broken. Treat me with respect and I will always be here. I am here to lead you through a flowing meandering journey away from the hectic, crowded, paved world where you spend too much time. I will be your escape. But now I rest. And with rest comes growth.

As I rest under frozen land, I feel pressure building inside. It is a pressure telling me to stretch, to adjust, and to grow. I feel the tingling of many footprints zigzagging across the land above me. Back and forth, over here, over there and back again. Now on the ridge, now in the drainage they are. I come out of my winter sleep with excitement--many bike tires massage my awakening body. As the snow gives way to warm spring rain, my new figure is exposed. Will the users like it? Will they appreciate what I have become? Will they abuse the tender new flesh that is the extension of my soul? Will they come to enjoy and praise me for my beauty, my talent, my ability to entertain and my ability to challenge?

I hope and pray they respect me as a living, caring being. Most people up there think of me as dirt and stone, but I know I am so much more. I am the cumulative result of dirt, soil, elevation, trees, roots, water, mud, sweat, thought, more sweat, more thought, and most of all, I am the result of caring hands that mold me and keep me alive. I am a trail, not a piece of dirt.