Peak Experiences

Mexican Time Now. 90 minutes from departure. 5 days into it. A tequila haze, light headache, tourist noises and airport smells.

Flashback.

During the Viet Nam war, it was frequent to use different and creative methods of psychological torture to try and turn the tide, convert, affect and affect the VC. One of these methods was to position large speakers on the outside perimeter of a secured base, and blare various, repetitive music out in to the jungle. The idea was that the repetition, volume, and quality of the music would make the guerrillas less effective, basically throwing them off. The technique was used throughout the war, so one would assume it was deemed effective. Although making any assumptions about that particular conflict – and war in general might be a really bad idea.

I am considering these thoughts of auditory harassment only 10 hours and two surf sessions off the plane as the Saturday night Rave – well – Raves – go off in a small coastal town in Mexico. It is Mexican techno – now I am not talking about something like the chemical brothers at Woodstock, women bearing their breasts, 2am frenzy of youthful energy and verve. I am talking 5am, tropical Guaro deluded, really bad Mexican techno that has been pounding for almost 7 hours eradicating any hopes of sleep. Finally, the speakers die off and the silence is palpable. Just as I am nodding into a deep much needed sleep, the snare drum begins, followed by the blare of Mariachi music performed by musicians who have clearly been up way too long. Sleep is futile – I give in and wander down to the beach to see if I can escape the noise out in the surf.

Flashback.

Waterloo, Wisconsin, 1998. I am holed up in a Bed and breakfast about to take my morning meal before calling on Trek in my role as Associate Publisher of Bike Magazine. Armed with a box full of shwag for the marketing and advertising teams at Trek, Bontrager, Fisher, the whole crew, I hope to sell them more space in our magazine. In comes a lanky, blonde character who sits down across the table from me and starts in on his juice and quiche. The proprietor addresses him by his first name: "Good morning Gary". It is none other than Gary Fisher, The Father of mountain biking having his juice right across the table from me. I owned a ‘Hoo-Koo-E-Koo’ as my second off road bike, right after my Jamis Lightfoot was stolen after riding it across the country back in 1985. In another situation I would be all over this guy – "Thanks so much for all you’ve done for this sport that has brought me so much joy" – seeing life from the seat of a bike, all this stuff. I say none of these things as I have become what my wife predicted: A bike industry cynic. After her work at Raleigh, and K2 she warned me about the bitter and burned out folks who took jobs in the bike industry. Believing their passion would take them through the tough times, only to learn a few years and twenty five pounds later that the only salvation in the two wheeled soul lay elsewhere. Hah. I’ll take bitter product managers for thirty six thousand, Bob. Ixnay on the atisfactionsay. I’ll take the burned out, overwight, high school mentality of lost 35 year olds for thirty four thousand, Jim.

I came to Bike through a bizarre set of circumstances that resulted from the subsequent purchase of the Surfer Group by Petersen Publishing( can you say Guns & Ammo; Car & Driver. I’ll take tasteless posters of voluptuous chicks in thongs with the latest offerings from Smith and Wesson casually laid between their legs for 22 cents, Ed). I feel compelled to relate some of the circumstances surrounding some of this big business by men with small penises, mostly so I won’t have to pay for all that regression therapy later on in life.

So, Petersen buys our company, and a few months later, The Surfer Group. Now, call me a geek, and a romantic, but all of these titles held a very emotional place in my heart. I grew up on Skateboarder, loved Surfer since I was about ten, and grabbed the first issue of Bike with the Zeal of a 12 year old. I nailed the first issue of the wall of my garage which is as close to putting something on the altar as I get. I got a short letter in the post section and I proudly shared it with my friends. I was worthy, they had accepted me. I think the first issue came out in something like 1994. As for Surfer, I still have a collage up in the bedroom of my parent’s summer house with Shaun Tomson in the barrel at Jeffrey’s Bay. I cut together the words: "Time is definitely extended when you are in the tube". I looked at that every night, hoping the swell would come up and I could will myself to have that kind of style and grace in the barrel, someday. Anyway, Petersen was buying this group and moving them to Boulder. Life – could not be better.

So, there I sat across the butter tray from Mr. Mountain Bike and what did I say? Not a damn thing. I was convinced he was part of this scene, the crew, one of the ones who had drank the Koolaid and was too cool for school. He was just another kook in a circus of kooks. The tricks they had played on me had worked. My cynicism had outstripped my enthusiasm and general love for all things two – wheeled. I had jumped into the shit barrel head first, and there were no breaks at lunch.

So, they are moving the mags to boulder. What could make more sense that Powder, Bike and Snowboarder living large in the mountains instead of some random exit on the 405? There was a big meeting at Interbike – the big industry trade show. We would all meet for the first time – all the respective staff’s. The Petersen folks would say some things about how they wouldn’t mess with the content or quality of Bike, we would all go to the tradeshow and pass on to all our clients what a great marriage this is, etc.’ Um, I’ll take small bitter turf wars for 30 points, Jimmy.

The breakfast is uncomfortable as hell for all involved. I am introduced as someone from Petersen. I want to scream – "NO" – look at my scars and shaved legs. Look how AUTHENTIC I am – please like me Mike and Rob everyone else from the Bike group. I don’t get the chance, as Rob Story almost takes me to the mat within the first round of introductions. Seems a little parody of a subscription letter I wrote a few years back made it into his hands. Seems he remembers it (see exhibits A and B). Seems he has been waiting to meet me to either kill me or just completely vent the effect it had on his life.

So as we stand in a small circle introducing ourselves, Rob, brown locks flowing, grabs my hand firmly. I say: "My friend Matt speaks highly of you". Rob stares right through the back of my skull and says "Apparently you don’t". All conversation stops, eyes focus on us wondering what conflict could have reared its head in just a few brief moments into our first encounter. "Rob, that was a really long time ago – I am flattered that you remembered". Rob firmly grasps on: "That was the most abrasive letter I have ever gotten in my entire career". I am assuming that any potential bonding with my literary heroes is completely out the door for life. As the room grows even quieter, I am wondering if I am going to have to fight my way out of this. (I’ll take welcome back to junior high for 44 points Bob). This is going to be a challenge. Clearly, between my love letter to Rob, and my moving over onto the Bike staff from Petersen, all bets are off. Begin descent into cynical bitterness now. Begin focus on petty political historical data rather than the JOY of working in sporting goods. We have begun our final approach, seatback and tray tables in full upright position, we are landing.

So, fast forward about 30 days. After the debacle of that meeting, signing a 6 year lease on something like 7,000 square feet, having staff in California quit their jobs, sell cars, sell houses, and BEGIN their trip to Colorado – they call the whole thing off. So, I sat alone in the 7,000 square feet that was to be the epicenter of this world of action sports, ride my bike to the fax machine, board about 105 days that year (Thanks guys!) and go on business trips to advertisers to end up having breakfast with aforementioned mountain bike hall of famers.

Now, finally, relevance and connection. Present Day. February 2002. Sitting on the outside peak in the bay in Sayulta. Nice three footers coming in, 80 degree water, air in the 80’s. Not bad at all, especially when the snow sucks at home. It is a gorgeous night. I surf past dark with a cast of characters that includes none other than my breakfast buddy – Gary Fisher. I don’t really connect that it’s him until the next morning when I am doing a surf check and he and his wife are sitting on the beach deciding whether or not to paddle out. At 6am, when in Mexico and checking the surf and there are only two people on the beach, tradition dictates that you walk over and ask them if any decent sized sets are coming through. I park in the sand next to them and strike up a conversation. He notices my shaved legs and asks if I ride, I say yes. He says he used to road ride a bunch. We talk about Nederland, Marin, the parallels, the growth issues, the political issues around keeping trails open. The closest we got to "Oh my God you’re Gary Fisher" is when he talked about really enjoying Colorado when he used to ride the Coors Classic. It felt very cool to meet him again in this context – as a surfer and fellow adventurer in Mexico – rather than in the politically charged context of bikes and Bike. We traded emails, I turned him onto this site and mentioned I thought he would enjoy some of our viewpoints from the seat of a bike. It felt like some kind of closing chapter on my adventures in the world of Bike and publishing. It felt like those judgmental days were far behind, as evidenced that I actually can buy the magazine and enjoy it again. It made me realize that I was very small minded back then (many would argue I have gotten worse) and made me wanted to clear the slate with Gary, and Rob. So, Rob – my bashing of you was probably more out jealousy and the desire to be taken at least semi-seriously as a writer than it was out of anything relevant. Thanks for stoking me over the early years of Bike and writing things that GOT the experience. And Gary, keep surfing man, and thanks for everything you did for my world when you ‘invented the Mountain bike. It has literally shaped my life.

Rock on.