I’ve lived in Asheville for six months (one, two, three, four, five, six, yes, six months as I doublecheck by finger count)—and I have not ridden my mountain bike.
Somewhere, with an IPA in hand, my twenty-five-year-old self is screaming, “Wake up Ryan! Get on the bike!”
Last night, I woke up.
Before medical school started, the last place I visited was Asheville. After leaving medicine, the first place I moved was Asheville. Until this morning, while thinking about mountain biking, this bookend of a coincidence had never crossed my mind.
In late July of 2014, mere weeks before my eight-year submersion into medicine, I was with a friend, heading to Emerald Isle to see more friends, and Asheville was the most convenient I-40 stop for gas and food. As we ate and drank beers in a place I’d never heard of before seeing its name next to the miles away on the highway, I observed a city situated perfectly for outdoor recreation: bisected by two rivers, trail systems everywhere, and on the Appalachian Trail. It was a cool city with cool vibes. Then, we were back on the road, and I never thought about Asheville again.
But traveling has a way of changing how you see yourself, whether you know it or not.
On my way back from Emerald Isle, where my friend decided to stay an extra day or two, I drove back alone and stopped in Winston-Salem to hang with my aunt and uncle. Never before this had I considered riding a mountain bike. In all the times previous I had ridden a mountain bike—once in Colorado and Oklahoma—I was in great peril. I’d smashed into trees and flipped over the handlebars. Any exposed piece of my skin was always shredded. Mountain biking was to exercise inside a cheese grater. No thanks.
But my uncle, one helluva mountain biker, is also one helluva convincing guy. On an idyllic summer night, we took off on an eight-mile loop through their neighborhood’s bermed and flowing course, where I felt it. Something about riding a mountain bike was different. When I was on my road bike, I rode past nature. When I was on the mountain bike, I was nature. After experiencing it, maybe after having seen the lifestyle firsthand in Asheville, I wanted to ride mountain bikes.
Still, mountain biking was a non-starter. I had no money. I had no time. Med school was coming. So, I stashed away the feeling for a future where investing thousands of dollars into a hobby was practical.
My car was packed in my aunt and uncle’s driveway, ready to hit I-40 West for Oklahoma City, when I felt the long shadow of medicine overcome me. Despite my doubts, in the face of years of tribulation and conversation, I hadn’t figured a way out of it. The walls had closed in. When I got back to Oklahoma, it was starting.
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After hugging my aunt and uncle goodbye, I reached for my cardoor as my uncle asked, “You want that bike you rode yesterday?” I spun toward him as he continued. “I don’t ride it much. I bought it for the downhill stuff up around Asheville, but honestly, we don’t go up there as much now. It’s yours if you want it.”
It was incredibly generous, I told him, but I wasn’t sure I could accept it. Fifteen minutes later, after he would hear nothing of that, the bike was in my hatchback, handlebars pressed against my rear window without a centimeter of space to spare.
When I got back to Oklahoma, I rode the bike the first morning. And hit two trees. And felt I might impale myself at any second. But damn, I was hooked. Over the next four years of medical school, I rode that bike over two hundred times. In my class’s commencement speech, which I gave and felt quite conflicted about given everything I’ve written about on this website, I thanked my family and my mountain bike. His gift, that bike, carried the torch of my soul through the darkest stretches of my life, until it couldn’t bear the weight anymore, until I had to bear that responsibility.
During the pandemic and second year of residency, I drove back to Oklahoma to see my family and took the bike where it always felt more natural to ride, and I said goodbye. For some reason, it didn’t feel right to ride anymore, almost sac-religious, like I was hanging onto something that was preventing me from progressing somewhere else more paramount. So, I followed the age-old, romantic-comedy proverb and trusted if we were meant to be together, love would guide us back to each other.
And four years went by without a letter in the mail. Alright, I’m done with the sob story. Sorry for the dramatics; it was a tough season.
Anyways, last night I purchased a bedroom dresser and nightstand set from a couple on Facebook Marketplace. The man met me on his driveway, showed me where to park so that we could load the furniture efficiently from his shed into the bed of my truck. Once parked, I walked up his driveway as he opened the doors to the shed.
Timeless 1950s, mid-century-modern furniture lined the left side of the shed, yes, and the man was maneuvering items for us to access the pieces, sure, but I couldn’t steal my eyes away from what lined the right wall: mountain bikes.
“You mountain bike, huh?” I asked casually, trying to corral my curiosity.
“Yeah man, I do. No better place to ride than Asheville. Do you?”
“Well, I did, but I haven’t since I moved here.” I said shamefully. Once a lifer, now a poser, I humbly asked for advice, “Any thoughts on which trail I should start with?”
We talked best trails, best bike shops, and best bike shop and brewery combination shops. He gave me the full rundown. He loved mountain biking like I used to before I had to lose mountain biking. I could literally feel him getting more and more stoked as the conversation went along. Ultimately, after forty minutes of bike talk, his wife came outside and asked if all was good, so we swapped numbers and aimed to hit the trail soon. As my head hit the pillow, I thought about my uncle’s bike in our basement, just one new tire and quick tune-up away from being back on the trail.
People ask my wife and I why we moved to Asheville. Often, we haven’t had an explanation other than it felt right. Often, I’ve thought we’re kinda crazy. But last night, I felt a little less crazy and a little more alive, knowing that there in a shed while picking up furniture I couldn’t wait to get to work on, my mountain biking stoke had survived to the other side, alive and well in Asheville.
(Photo Caption: one very needed, very meaningful ride through the middle of medical school, circa 2016)
