I’m a mountain biker.
A cross-county cyclist whose need for rides borders on compulsive. A sucker for grunty climbs and any trail that winds through an aspen grove. I love the pale brown undulation of ribbony singletrack, the sticky traction of Slickrock, and the way the forest folds me into its quiet rustle.
So when I first swing my leg over this insubstantial little machine, this road bike, and reach for the bars, it feels all wrong.
Nuh-uh, I think, leaning over awkwardly as I pedal it away from the Durango Cyclery for my first test spin, proceeding to push the shifter inward with my right hand because it is the only … More