The chills and thrills of mountain biking in the dark

Mountain biking on swervy-curvy technical trails named for various intestinal ills is tough enough when the sun is out. So why do it at night when it's cold and dark, and you have to rely on artificial lights that cast shards of kooky, imagination-fueling shadows?

Because, as I found out while rolling over roots and rocks, and slaloming 'twixt closely crowded tree trunks on Renton's Tapeworm and Parasite trails — and bouncing off my share which I didn't make it 'twixt — it's incredibly fun. Kinda like snowboarding or playing softball under the lights: the same, only different.

The difference being that, unlike with night 'boarding or night 'ball, you provide the light, on either your helmet or handlebars or both. And, thus, the light, like you, is perpetually on the move.

On the trail

There are nine of us riding tonight, most members of Seattle's Backcountry Bicycle Trails Club. As we string out along the trail, our powerful light beams make this dark, spooky forest spring to life. We cast crazy, perception-altering shadows which scatter into the overgrown brush, scoot up the mostly bare trees and dance across slippery rock faces. My imagination runs wild.

For as I round each of this little area's 180-degree turns and tight, intestinelike twists, I just about swear I see a mountain lion. Or a big black bear. Or Sasquatch, or some other monster-type nasty ducking behind a tree or into the brush with plans to leap out when I pass.

I'm having a blast, but I admit, I'm also just a tad frightened. Especially since I've, (A), never ridden these trails before, (B), never mountain biked at night before, and (C), the gap between me and the other riders is widening by the minute, thus giving whatever critter that wants it a clear shot at me. So I'm happy as heck when I hear voices and realize that we're regrouping before carrying on.

"It's so cool the way you see bunnies shooting out in front of us on the trail," says Seattle rider John Kennedy, who's been pedaling at the front of the group.

Bunnies? Well ... bunnies can be dangerous. I think we all remember the Killer Rabbit scene from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

The nine of us range from 12-year-old Isaac Carlson in full-face downhill helmet and matching BMX bike attire, who's here with his father, Eric, to 49-year-old Daryl Bean. This ride on a hill above Renton is just one of the many night-ride outings offered by the BBTC, the state's largest mountain-bike club and one of the biggest in the country. Check the club's online calendar and you see that most weeks two, and sometimes as many as four, night rides are scheduled to places such as Tolt Pipeline near Carnation, Tokul Creek near Fall City and South SeaTac Park. Anybody can join a ride; you don't have to be a club member.

"You don't want to ride by yourself at night," says Bean. "Not that the boogeyman is going to get you or anything, but if you get hurt you could be in trouble."

Good point. (And I hadn't even considered the boogeyman.)

Night riding is not only fun, but given the sun's wintertime propensity to go night-night about 15 minutes after lunchtime, it's somewhat of a necessity for those who want to ride year-round. And the incredible advances in bike lighting technology have made it more than feasible. In fact, this time of year, hills and trails throughout the Puget Sound area are crawling with riders, their headlights streaking up and down through forests.

All of us use high-powered, rechargeable lighting systems with several opting for top-of-the-food-chain HID (high intensity discharge) bulbs and with nickel metal hydride batteries (NiMHs) that burn for four hours. They're 13 watts but three times as bright as comparable halogen lights.

"Just don't look at anybody when you're talking to them," BBTC executive director Justin Vander Pol told me before the ride when he leant me his new Jet Lite. "You're liable to blind them."

Most riders mount their lights on their helmets as opposed to their handlebars.

"That way they shine where you're looking and where you're going," Seattle's Brent Madison tells me. "Handlebar lights are tough because even though they turn when you turn, you're usually looking ahead for what's coming up next."

From the Parasite Trail, we head out to an open power-line area where all but one take turns trying to ride the slippery length of a downed telephone pole. It's a moonless, million-star night and the lights of downtown Renton twinkle far below us. It's beautiful, if a tad surreal, especially when seemingly out of the city lights, a trio of UFOs makes its way right toward us. The lights grow bigger and bigger and brighter and brighter until ... until ... they reveal themselves to be just three mountain bikers with HID lights pedaling toward us.

We duck back in the woods and onto the aptly named Tapeworm Trail. This area, which starts just behind Philip Arnold Park, and is also known as Towers of Power, is an amazing place and a study in making the most out of the least. Spread over only about 20 acres, there's roughly 8 miles of trail here. How is that possible? Because they fold and double back on themselves the way a fire hose folds up for storage on a fire truck.

We ride one hairpin turn after another, interrupted only by one 180-degree turn after another. Bouncing light beams pierce the dark going every which way and somehow you get the sensation that you're riding several different directions at once.

After pedaling through a few thousand more turns (and maybe 4 more miles) we come upon an octopus. Really, we do. It's a stump at the side of the trail that's been carved into the head of a man — actually a dude-type man, with goatee, scowl and a mohawk. Cut-up bike tires extend from the dude head as tentacles.

We stop to regroup. Astride our bikes, we sip from water bottles and hydration packs. Billowy cloud puffs rise from us and our heavy breathing. We don't want to blind each other so as we talk, we look down as if we're awkward adolescents too shy to make eye contact.

"The first time you ride at night, it's pretty freaky," recalls Aaron Kinsella-Johnson. "It reminded me of the 'Blair Witch Project.' So, if you see dolls hanging from the trees, you know you're in trouble."

Great. Something else to worry about.

Mike McQuaide is a Bellingham freelance writer and author of "Day Hike! Central Cascades" (Sasquatch Books) and "A Falcon Guide to the Mount Baker-Mount Shuksan Area" (Falcon). He can be reached at mikemcquaide@comcast.net.