Adrenaline Rush, Earned or Not, Is Their Reward

Some hold to the Eastern view: The journey is its own reward, the hard climb to the top is as valuable as the celebration at the summit.

Others are not so stoic. They want all the cheap thrills they can get, and prefer not to work for them.

What’s true in life is especially true on the El Prieto Trail, a mountain-biking landmark that draws cyclists from across the country to the steep hillsides above Pasadena. The divergent philosophies have created a schism within the loose-knit brotherhood of mountain bikers.

Purists like Zapata “Zap” Espinoza appreciate the beauty of the trees and creek beds and crave the physical demands of navigating their lightweight bikes up miles of twisting, rock-rutted terrain.

Where they can, Oscar Pizano and his friends prefer to drive a truck to the top, strap on motorcycle helmets and rocket down the mountain as fast as their nerves and their full-suspension bikes will allow.

“I love the danger,” says Pizano, after finishing a downhill run. “I like to overcome that fear.”

On a latticework of fire roads and single-track trails covering the Arroyo Seco, Brown Mountain and the higher slopes north of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, the two factions manage a delicate coexistence, though it is usually easy to tell them apart. The purists arrive in their spandex shorts and light biking helmets, dressed almost like marathoners. Downhillers show up toting heavier bikes and gird themselves in motorcycle helmets, elbow pads and other protective gear.

“Guys come in full armor,” says Ken Cooper, who is not one of them, “and they just go rip-roaring down the trail.”

Although their mind-sets differ, and some members of each group harbor a resentment of the other, the purists and downhillers alike find a measure of gratification on El Prieto, “the crown jewel” of Pasadena’s mountain biking routes, according to Espinoza, who knows them all. As executive editor of Mountain Bike Magazine, Espinoza regularly brings out-of-town visitors to this bit of hillside, well off the main road, to sample both uphill and downhill biking.

El Prieto is sufficiently rugged for thrills, and its location keeps out those Espinoza calls “the drop-offs”-- those who only want to ride downhill--because you cannot truck your bike to the top. To get the adrenaline rush, you have to put in the work to earn it, a long-held ethic in mountain biking.

The trail climbs and dips for two miles under canopies of oak, past rock overhangs and heavy brush, connecting upper and lower sections of Brown Mountain Road. Even finding it requires a good map or insider knowledge gained by word of mouth, magazines, guidebooks or Web sites. Most bikers park their cars in an unmarked lot on Windsor Road and pedal about a mile along the paved fringe of the arroyo, then up a fire road to reach the bottom of El Prieto.

Most riders earn the trip down by taking the easier path to the top. They bike up the wide, unpaved fire road until it hits the top of El Prieto. A few, like the tattooed, whippet-thin Espinoza, prefer pedaling up El Prieto itself, a single-track path wide enough for only one bike at a time.

Part of the trail follows a narrow stream where the steep bank plunges into a thicket below. It is beautiful but treacherous. Ascending the trail, your thighs ache, your lungs strain for oxygen. You feel the presence of the looming hillside on your left, all but nudging you toward the precipitous drop-off on the right.

Going down, the ruts and rocks grab at your wheels. You quickly gain speed, but tapping the brakes can send you skidding on the loose sand. Hitting a rock head-on could catapult you over the handlebars. Leaning at the wrong instant, or skidding out, could throw you into the ravine. The risk is comparable to that of a difficult ski slope, except there is far less room to maneuver.

“Run-ins are inevitable,” says Espinoza, as he starts the climb on a warm morning. “The faster you go around a blind corner, the harder it is for people to get out of the way.”

Advances in bikes have exacerbated the hazards. Sophisticated suspension systems have smoothed out the ruts. Disc brakes have made stopping quicker. The end result is not so much safety as additional speed. “The technology enables you to go faster and farther into the mountains,” Espinoza says. “Now you can just--boom!--go right over everything.”

On the sharp switchbacks at the bottom of the trail, rabid downhillers have worn shortcuts that make the descent even steeper. Purists have blocked these new paths with logs and rocks in an attempt to protect their own sport. The concern is that wild downhillers will injure hikers or equestrians and get the trails closed to biking.

Diana Fairbanks, here for the first time from New York City, says mountain biking has been banned on many of the best trails there because of run-ins with horses. Similar problems have hurt the sport in Colorado and in Marin County, mountain biking’s birthplace.

“Usually the problem is teenagers just out for a good time,” Fairbanks says. “They just want to go downhill. There’s no sense of what they’ve ruined behind them.”

Everyone here has some opinion about speed, safety and what mountain biking is really all about.

Joe Barrera loves the adrenaline rush. Fully armored, he arrives at the end of a run wishing only that he could have avoided pedaling up.

“I think they should have a lift,” he says.

Ross Boelsen and Michael Stamolis like to be dropped off at Red Box, below the top of Mt. Wilson, and take the huge ride down. Boelsen says if you biked up that far, you’d be gone half the day.

“We don’t have that much time,” he says. “We’ve got lives.”

Stamolis, however, points out that they are considerate of hikers and horses. He admits he would be angry “if I were on a horse and somebody whizzed by me on a bike.”

Purist Chris Mach relishes the technical demands of the climb. He can talk at length about even steeper trails throughout the Santa Monica Mountains. One ascent is so severe that riders “have to concentrate on keeping the front wheel down. You can actually flip the bike over.”

Mach admits that he and his ilk “tend to look down our noses” at the “drop-offs.”

And yet many riders like to combine the uphill rigors with the technical challenges of a full-tilt descent. Chad Houck is one of those. He bikes at least twice a week on El Prieto, one of the few places where the sport he loves is free.

“It’s not like golf, where you’ve got to pay $30, or skiing, where you’ve got to buy a lift ticket.”