This article was first published in April of this year and has since been gathering dust in the MountainBoard.net archives. We decided to dig it out and repost it as Thursday’s featured story. Enjoy.

The howling of the coyotes in the distance broke the long silence that had accompanied me on my hike. I stopped to listen for a moment and looked out over the canyon in their direction. The moon was hidden in the clouds and only a few stars gave light to the winding firebreak road under my feet.

The weight of my pack with my board strapped to it reminded me that I still had a ways to go. As I turned to continue up the dirt road, a drop of adrenaline tingled through me disturbing the calm I had felt just seconds before. My purpose this night was a simple one, born of the quiet insanity that many mountainboarders share in common. Tonight I would challenge my senses on a solo mission I called, “Operation Night Ride.”

Each time I stumbled over a rut or a loose rock, the haunting feeling of hesitation would claw its way into my thoughts. The rules I had set for myself beforehand were seeming more impossible with every step. I had set just two simple rules. Rule number one was that no light would be allowed, not even a flashlight. The second rule was that no walking downhill would be allowed, every inch of the winding path that stretched for just under a mile had to be ridden. My pace slowed as I fought my doubts.

Soon I was at the top. A light breeze passed through the canyon. I listened to the tall grass as it swayed somewhere in the shadows nearby. I slowly strapped on my gear, still waiting for some kind of motivation to push away my fears.

My board squeaked as I stepped into my bindings. Then it was silent. No coyotes howling, no wind through the grass, not even a single cricket made a sound during that moment. It was in that silence that I found my motivation. Not a motivation that pushed away the fear; but a motivation that embraced the fear. Energy surged through me and all I wanted to do was ride.

Hesitation was swallowed up with the silence as the loud rumble of my wheels over the dirt and rocks tore through the night air. The air rushed by me as my speed increased. Straining to see the terrain was a hopeless cause and I soon found myself watching only for the faint glow of the path as it snaked it’s way downhill. I found that I had to adjust instantly to each bump and dip as I felt it. I couldn’t see ahead to plan. I had to ride the moment.

Each time I tried to use my eyes to see ahead, I was deceived by the shadows and would overcorrect and find myself slamming into the almost invisible ground below. The extreme confusion of it all and the overload of the senses seemed to drive me to get back up and follow my second rule, to ride it all.

At one section I felt several scattered rocks hitting my trucks. The thought of falling on the rocks distracted me from my focus and I hit the ground. I tumbled to a stop after rolling over several of the rocks. My whole body hurt. I had already wrecked so many times in such a small amount of time and this one seemed to remind me of them all.

After catching my breath, I crawled to my board that lay upside-down some 20 feet away. I turned it upright and collapsed over it. Then I started to laugh. All alone, bruised and bleeding in places I didn’t even know yet, I laughed. The insanity of the whole situation made me laugh even more. I got back up and finished the ride.

As I drove home, I took a moment to ponder what the ride had taught me. I learned first of instinct and how “letting go” can improve your ride, even when you can’t see. I learned that fear shouldn’t be pushed away, that it should be embraced in its positive form. Finally, I learned to ride the moment, whether you can see or not, the thrill is in the moment.

In conclusion, despite the throbbing pain that covered me for days to come, Operation Night Ride was a complete success.