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By Kurt Gensheimer

At the confluence of the sparkling clear Downie and Yuba Rivers lies the storied town of Downieville. Located in the Sierra Nevada Range about 90 miles northeast of Sacramento, Downieville was a creation of the gold rush fever which swept the state of California at the start of the 1850s, and most of the town still exists in its original form. Gold on the banks of the Yuba Rivers and its tributaries were so abundant, that within two years of its establishment, the town had 5,000 residents and was the fifth largest city in California. It was so popular that Downieville lost by less than a handful of votes to Sacramento as the first state capital. 150 years later, recreational panners still search for gold flakes, but the riches have long dried up and the town has dramatically shrunk to less than 500 residents.

However dead the dream of gold may be, Downieville survives with a wealth of beautiful old buildings, one lane bridges, wooden sidewalks, and an American frontier culture which is virtually nonexistent in today’s Wal-Martized society. Many other California gold rush towns have either been abandoned or are tourist destinations, but Downieville is different. The pioneers of this Sierra Nevada community left behind a gift which has been the lifeblood of Downieville’s newfound popularity – trails. Hundreds upon hundreds of miles of trails originally cut by gold prospectors over a century ago now serve as a network of some of the greatest singletrack known in the United States.

Every weekend during the late spring, summer, and early fall, throngs of knobby tire nuts arrive in Downieville and climb aboard diesel-powered vans from Yuba Expeditions and Downieville Outfitters which shuttle riders up from 3,000 feet to 7,000 feet near the base of the towering Sierra Buttes. From there, it is more than 15 miles of pure, sweet downhill madness on some of the most challenging high speed singletrack you’ll ever ride. And of course, what would a legendary mountain bike town be without a legendary mountain bike race? The Downieville Classic has been going on for over a decade and has become known as the premier California classic mountain bike race, overshadowing some very worthy classics like Lemurian and Whiskeytown.

I had been to Downieville a few times to ride, but in the six years of living in Northern California, I inexplicably had never done the race. It was 2006, and I was riding for the Buy-cell.com team, a cell phone shop in Los Gatos owned by the infamous Timmy C, and had a few teammates, Mike Matthews and Brock Dickie, who showed up to race with me. Brock had done the race a couple times before and finished top five in the Masters Expert, but in more than 15 years of Nor Cal mountain bike racing, Mike had never done Downieville. I was happy to at least have a couple teammates in the race in case one of us needed help or an extra inner tube, as the descent was notorious for multiple pinch flats.

Because the downhill race had filled up months in advance, we resorted to doing just the cross-country race. The XC course is a point to point which starts at 4,000 feet in Sierra City, a one horse town which stands almost directly beneath the dizzying heights of the 9,000 foot Sierra Buttes. Of course, in order to be rewarded with more than 15 miles of downhill, one must first pay the suffer gods with a leg and lung busting eight mile climb that rises over 3,000 vertical feet. I had done the climb once before, but did it at a casual pace. That beast of a climb takes on a whole new meaning at race pace when there is a single file line of masochists charging towards the sky.

Downieville also has the distinction of doing mass starts, so that all pro and expert riders are sent off together. From the word “go” riders were pounding the pedals as if they didn’t realize or care the climb would take nearly an hour to overcome. I settled into a comfortable pace behind Mike and Brock, as my 185 pounds of pure muscle ass and thighs has a harder time climbing than a svelte Brock at a buck 35 or the megafit Mike at 165 pounds. After a mile on pavement, the trail turned to dirt and the vista opened up to reveal the buttes looking down on us like a human would look down on an ant. It was a long way up, and I was already starting to feel the hurt.

One by one, riders started passing me. Mark Weir, the local WTB hero and downhill course record holder who is no slouch on the climbs, lumbered past me on his weighty Santa Cruz Nomad. A gear mashing single speeder slowly ticked over the cranks and made his way past. I started getting worried when I looked around the switchbacks and saw Mike gradually pulling away. Pretty soon, a few pro women started spinning by. Then a tall and lanky 17 year old kid, Menso, who looks more like a basketball player than a mountain biker, rolled past me. I was loosing hunks of time on this never-ending death march up to Packer Saddle. I was on my own now. If something went wrong, there would be no teammates to offer assistance.

“Relax,” I told myself. “You’ll get it all back on the downhill.” I was very confident in my ability to descend, as I had done the downhill several times before. After nearly an hour of crotch-numbing uphill, it was now time for me to shift into the 44-11 and start motoring on the flat and downhill fireroads to the first technical trail called Pauley Creek, or better known as “baby heads”. One by one, I picked off all the more adept climbers with my ability to power the flats. Unfortunately, I powered the flats so much that my front tire powered itself flat. Not having flatted in a mountain bike race for several years, I calmly pulled over and accepted the fact that it was about time I got in my long overdue race flat.

As one after another pair of knobbies buzzed past me, I changed out the tube in less than two minutes, and got back on the bike. Now I not only had to make up the time I lost on the climb, but also had to make up the two minutes from flatting. I got over the top of Packer Saddle and blazed down to Pauley Creek trail taking all kinds of risks. As we began Pauley Creek, a couple guys squeezed past me to get the holeshot into the tricky downhill.  As they tenderfooted down the left line, I laughed out loud, let the brakes go, and bombed my S-works Epic down the more treacherous right hand line leaving them eating Pauley Creek dust. Finally, I was on the downhill, got my obligatory flat out of the way, and was stoked to have the remainder of the race to start catching those who dropped me on the climb.

One after another, I passed by riders like they were standing still. I took a middle line through a baby boulder strewn section and suddenly heard the dreaded high pressure “pssssssssssssssssst” sound of a pinch flat. Still going 25 miles an hour over huge rocks without the ability to stop, KABOOM! my Mavic Crossmax wheel collided violently with a huge rock. “Oh shiiiiiiii…” My trusty black Specialized careened back and forth on the verge of disaster, but thankfully it came to an upright halt.

I threw my bike and belted out a few powerfully ferocious expletives. Now I was pissed off – two flats in less than three miles. Thankfully I packed a second inner tube that morning telling myself “you never know what might happen.”

I pulled out the tattered inner tube and noticed that my Crossmax hit the rock so hard that it bent an inch of the sidewall 90 degrees. I looked at it, then looked at all the passing riders who I had just blazed by, and decided to take the risk and run it. I put in my second inner tube, this time using two CO₂ cartridges to make sure I didn’t pinch flat again, and resumed my perilous descent.

I got to the most technical section of Pauley Creek Trail where three photographers were taking pictures on the left hand side of the fireroad descent. There were three slow-moving riders taking the less treacherous right hand line, so I let the brakes go, shot left and nearly collided with the camera wielders as I blazed downhill.

“Oh yeah, dude! Gnarly line! WOO HOO!” shouted the photographers. I was in the zone. Redemption was mine now.

“Look out Downieville,” I told myself. “There’s a derailed Fahrrad fanatic freefalling into town.” The unintended use of alliteration made me cringe as I floated over the rocks and forgot about my tweaked rim – until about a quarter mile later.

“Psssssssssssssssssst” came the familiar sound from my front tire for a third time. In bike racing, there is an arc of human behavior which occurs with flat tires. The first flat tire is discouraging, but in the interest of saving time, most riders might let out a benign curse and fix the tire quickly. The second flat brings outright rage and injurious cussing, usually resulting in hurled bikes stuck up in a tree. However, the third flat is like a calm that overwhelms the ill-fated competitor. It is acceptance of the fact that today just isn’t your day, buddy.

Now what? I was 13 miles from Downieville and about five miles from the top of Packer Saddle. I remembered the photographers and started hiking back uphill to see if they could give me a ride home.

Walking my battered S-works up the treacherous trail was far more difficult than skittering down it, especially when I had to keep dodging riders who seemed way in over their heads. I stopped to let a few riders pass and looked down to see a brand new inner tube laying on the ground still in its rubber band. I couldn’t believe it. What luck! If I could just bend the rim back, we’d be in business.

I pulled out my trusty Dirt Rag titanium bottle opener which I’ve had since high school, and began straightening out the hopelessly bent rim. As many are aware, aluminum is not malleable like steel, and I was also fully aware of it but needed to get home, and the rim was fuxored anyway, so who cares?

“Nggggggggggghhhhhhh….SNAP!” an inch of rim sidewall broke off the wheel. I roared an F-bomb which made the ground rumble. Now I was completely hosed. With my Kenda tire and inner tube wrapped around my shoulders like a Tour de France racer back in the early days, I hiked up to the photographers. At least they could give me a ride back to my campsite in Sierra City.

“What happened dude?” asked one of them as I approached.
“Done. I’m done,” pointing to my wheel.
“Oh man, that suuuuucks.”
“Did you guys drive in here?”
“Nah man, we hiked in. We’re waiting for Bobby, the blind rider.”
“That’s a long hike,” I said with a dishearted sigh.
“No kidding. Weir told us it was a short hike. Shoulda known better.”

I knew whom the photographers were talking about, as I had recently read the amazing story of Bobby McMullen, a blind rider for WTB/Santa Cruz who lost his vision 15 years ago. Normally, Mark Weir was his riding guide, but because Downieville is Weir’s favorite race, another teammate was guiding Bobby down the treacherous hill.

“How long you gonna be here?” I asked.
“Until Bobby shows up.”

After my dishearted sigh, I let out an impatient sigh, and sat to watch one rider after another come down the perilous section of trail as the photographers snapped pictures, cheered some and heckled others. After a few minutes, I noticed that nobody was taking the left line which I had opted for.

“Has anyone gone left today?”
“Yeah, like one. Crazy dude almost hit us too.”
“That was me!” I said with a smile, celebrating the only highlight of my day.       

Nearly an hour of waiting made me restless. I had a working inner tube, and had spare air cartridges. If I could somehow figure out a way to fix my busted rim, I could at least ride up to Packer Saddle and down the highway to camp. I picked up a small rock and started filing down the sharp edges of my busted rim. After getting the aluminum smooth, I found a small twig and filled the gaping hole in my sidewall. I put the tire and tube in, filled it with air, and viola! I had a wheel that could get me home.

After showing off my MacGyver trail fix to the photographers, I thanked them for the company and began my journey back up the racecourse to Packer Saddle. I had now been on the trail for three and a half hours with hardly any food, and was beginning to feel the bonk. As my front wheel hopped with every revolution, I passed by one abandoned water bottle after another. I still had some water in my Camelback, but needed calories if I was going to make it home in one piece. I stopped at each bottle, and like a person stranded in the desert with an empty canteen, I shook every last drop of energy drink into my mouth.

I rode along in the blazing sun without one passing car to offer assistance when a completely uneaten Clif Bar laying in the dirt out of its wrapper caught my eye. Even if it was covered in ants and maggots, I was going to eat it. I didn’t care. Although it was my least favorite flavor, peanut butter, it didn’t matter. At that point, fuel was fuel, and thankfully the Clif Bar got me to the top of Packer Saddle. After that, I descended 3,000 feet down the pavement back to Sierra City and made it safely to camp. I never did see Bobby and his guide during my backtrack. I hope he made it home okay.

After guzzling down a few beers at the campsite and reflecting on one of the most frustrating days in my years as a mountain biker, a few hours later Mike and Brock returned to camp. Brock finished in the top 10, and Mike’s bike somehow got a rear hydraulic line leak, and had no rear brake the entire downhill. I told Mike and Brock about my perilous journey, and when I got to the part about finding a spare inner tube on the trail, Mike’s eyes lit up.

“Dude, that was my inner tube! It fell out of my jersey pocket somewhere past those photographer guys.”

Sometimes teammates can help you out in the most unexpected of ways.