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Dirt Rag Articles
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It all started on the ski slopes of Southern California, but we weren't mountain biking. It was 1981, before mass acceptance of such mainstays as mountain bikes and snowboards, in the heyday of heavy metal and big hair. We were typical college students—post-high school, pre-career, looking for fun. So we took up skiing.
The hurdle we encountered was that we were poor. Lack of cash can be a substantial stumbling block in a money-intensive pastime like skiing. Even in 1981, the equipment was expensive, and skiing was becoming less a sport and more a yuppie-fashion show statement.
Enter Mike Boschma, friend since grade school. People who don't know Mike often call him a cheap bastard. People who know him well agree, but openly only refer to him as "thrifty." He showed us how to break into the big scene with minimal investment: we cruised the thrift shops and, for a total outlay of less than $15, hacked together a crappy conglomerate of discarded and ex-rental skis, bindings and boots.
Our equipment looked like shit compared to the then-state-of-the-art dream gear strapped to the feet of the yuppies on the slopes, but it worked. And to distract everyone from the junk strapped to our feet, we yuffies (self described "Young Urban Failures") made a bold, grassroots fashion statement by only skiing in T-shirts and blue jeans.
Sure, we were laughed at by the yuppies and ridiculed by the ultra-hip, but we took the ultimate high road by being anti-hip and beyond cool, adopting a posture that is almost timeless in a world increasingly defined by fleeting fads and fashion.
In a few short years, our motley group of dirtbag skiers began to fall apart as we graduated from college, got good jobs, and gradually upgraded to "real" skis and garb. But skiing was never again as fun as the glory years of dirtbag skiing, and the expensive skis now sit in our garages, collecting dust and cobwebs.
My first exposure to mountain bikes came in 1985. Darell Palmer and I were hiking the dirt road up to Mt. Baldy ski resort, and a dude edged past us on a strange machine that looked like a hybrid between a beach cruiser and a 10-speed. He explained it was called a "mountain bike," and I instantly wanted to try one.
This was back when mass-market "bikes" were cheap knock-offs of 10-speed road bikes; a "true" mountain bike was out of my price range. I set about taking the components off my old 10-speed, and mixing them with the frame and wheels on an old junked beach cruiser.
Countless hours and $0 later, I had a huge pile of junk in the middle of the garage, and lots of pent-up frustrations. And still no mountain bike.
Enter the Murray. The concept of finding a cheap, under $200 mountain bike was revolutionary. It was 1987, and I finally experienced the thrill of mountain biking. Sure, it was only 10 speeds for pushing the 50-plus pound solid steel monster up the steep So Cal fire roads. But it was a mountain bike, and it was mine.
Years and many bikes later, some of my best mountain biking memories are associated with that old Murray. Once a dirtbag, always a dirtbag. A lifestyle born out of youthful necessity instilled some deep ethics. If you were creative and left your ego at the door, you didn't need a ton of money to play the game.
The Six Commandments of the Dirtbag
- Never let your lack of cash get in the way of fun. Find a way.
- Fun is the fiber of our lives. The more fun you get in life, the easier the shit will pass with regularity.
- Hair is good. Leave the body shaving to women and porn stars.
- Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's expensive gear. It starts a vicious cycle that ends with a loss of touch with the roots of your passion.
- Buck the latest fashion trends in a big way. As rock climber Ron Kauk once said, "John Wayne never wore lycra."
- Be happy with what you have. Humility is the path to true enlightenment.
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