Hitting the steady, gentle climb tired, but not exhausted, my mind flashed back to a set of downhill switchbacks we carefully navigated just a few minutes earlier.
It seems I’m getting much better at judging myself. When I hit the second switchback a bit too quickly, I dropped my foot, stopped and told myself out loud — talking to myself as I often do on the trail — OK, Raz, know your limits.
Surveying the climbing trail ahead, I could see the towering Hemlocks and their massive roots crossing the trail at intervals of about 20-30 yards, creating the perfect rollercoaster rise.
You know the drill, hammer, pop over, regain some speed with a quick short descent, and repeat.
I popped my front wheel over six-inch high root system almost immediately realizing this wasn’t a perfect perpendicular intersection.
Oh-oh! My rear wheel is about to get kicked out my left. That’s when I was far enough over the hump to see that secondary root about to thrust my front wheel to the right.

I don’t know about you, but since I’m never riding very fast, these moments play out in super slow motion. Raz, we’re going down!
I did just that, slowly tumbling over the front of my handlebars as we soared 10 feet down the limb-and-brush scattered embankment, the thick understory breaking my fall just enough to keep major pressure off my arm and collarbone cushioning my landing.
I lay with my legs and bike twisted around like a deformed pretzel, my backpack slinging over my head, pushing my helmet down over my eyes.
When I tip my helmet back I’m met with a wild tongue-lashing from my Golden Lab, who leaps like a superhero to save the day. I spit out the words I’m OK in between the lightening licks.
My bike is three feet up the embankment from where my head sits at our low point. My front wheel is completely jammed around, the handlebars pinning my twisted legs like some bizarre wrestling move.
I taken inventory and realize I haven’t really hurt myself at all. Just another super slo-mo tumble.
Before I even begin to untangle myself, I’m transported back to my first ride on Larison Creek Trail, out near Hills Creek Reservoir just east of Oakridge.
It was the first rainy day ride of autumn. I wore a light raincoat over my T-shirt, realizing I hadn’t thought this through with the temps in the mid 50s.
What at first appeared to be a missing minuscule detail slowly built into a major blunder as the ride wore on. I forgot riding gloves.
At the start, I didn’t flinch. I just hit the trail, and what a wonderful ride.
The first few miles of the 6-mile path that leads from Hills Creek Reservoir up along Larison Cove, and ultimately along Larison Creek could easily be classified as my dream track.
It rolls up and down, but never at a demanding grade. Just when I began to think I had enough climbing, an ensuing rollie-pollie downhill playfully popped up.
Even with an incredibly low water level, the cove looked stunning, its emerald green water still as glass up to the rocky red shores.
The massive old-growth Douglas Firs in the forest offer silent inspiration. The trail twists and turns, never exposing more than 50 yards or so of the magic that lies ahead.
About an hour into the ride, knowing the ride back would be primarily downhill, I nearly proclaimed this my new favorite ride, rain not withstanding.
Once I christened it as a true epic experience, the tide turned.
The trail began it’s serious rise. It climbs 1,500 feet to road 101. The switchbacks as the trail leaves the side of Larison Creek are steep, and beyond my riding ability in either direction.
But, in the interest of adventure, we had to go for the full monte.
The rain made everything slick, particularly the frequent roots. In a few weeks, that won’t be such a big issue as my riding style adapts. But the first time out makes for challenging adjustments.
When I reached the top, the glove issue became paramount. I didn’t realize through that toasty summer how worn my handlebar grips are. Now, with hands resembling massive prunes attempting to hang on to two bars as slippery as soap, I found little, if any grip.
Suffice to say, that’s not the way you want to be cruising down a rocky, rooted, slick trail. It didn’t take long for me to plant my front wheel into a big root and begin to laugh as my bike ever so slowly and intently rose above my ass, gently plopping me into a pile of brush.
Only slightly bruised, I decided to throttle it back big time, least I find myself attempting the final five miles seriously bruised and battered.
That was the first time I engaged the dialogue to remind me to back off and know my limits. I can’t count the slo-mo episodes since. Somehow, knock on that Hemlock before remounting, I’ve managed to survive intact with no major injuries.
Nothing but soggy smiles as the final miles to my truck remind me how much I loved these trails — always there to push you as far as you want to go, then reap the rewards on the return without a trip to the ER to follow.
Time to ride