Our more primitive ancestors quickly became accustomed to using what they had around them in order to survive. Whether it was smashing dinner with a club made of mammoth bone, or huddling in a cave to stay out of the storm, they improvised with what was currently available and stayed alive, some of them anyway.

As mountainboarders, we can learn from our ancient cave brothers and embrace this same instinctive behavior. Instead of smashing dinner however, we use it to ride. We use it to turn our line of descent into a beautiful piece of mountainboarding art, sometimes even a masterpiece.

As we ride, we not only look to throw down style points, but we look to survive the ride and avoid injury. Can we do both at once? You bet we can, and that’s what it’s all about. As beginners we might have bailed off every five meters, or powerslide in the middle of what would have been an awesome ride if we could only handle the speed. Regardless of skill level, speed needs to be controlled, though it doesn’t require us to bail or powerslide every five meters.

This is where we harness our inner instincts and we use what we have around us to control our speed and to create our mountainboarding masterpiece. Use of terrain is key to this. A soft patch of dirt or sand, some tall grass, even a rocky, gravely section will slow you down to some extent. Incorporate your own personal style into this and slowing down can even become part of your art work.

Say you’re picking up some tear-streaking speed and you don’t know what’s around the next corner. You want to slow your rate of descent without messing up what has been an epic ride so far. Instead of coming to a stop or bailing out, you see a patch of loose dirt on the bank to your left. You carve toward it and as you reach it you carve hard back to the right throwing dust into the air. Now, ahead of you is a steep embankment that marks the edge of the trail, you slash it like a curling wave and continue downward. Then, just as you reach your mystery corner you throw down what appears to be a powerslide, but you force it into a 180 ground speed and take the corner riding fakie (rear foot forward).

Any onlooker would be stoked by the scene despite the many times you slowed your speed. Your methods of slowing down were so saturated with style that few would even realize that you were trying to gain control of your mountainboard. The loose dirt you threw into the air absorbed a portion of your speed. The embankment, due to the upward angle as well as the slash, took another chunk of your speed. Then, when you reached your corner of uncertainty and wanted to kill even more speed, your 180 ground spin consumed enough of your momentum to make you feel comfortable facing the unknown. Best of all, it all looked and felt awesome.

Use your terrain. Use what you got. Create your masterpiece.

No matter how hard you are about to slam into the ground, or how much pain awaits you on impact, there always seems to be a split second where we are granted a moment to ourselves. A moment to reflect. It’s as if time freezes. Nothing else exists. Nothing else matters.

Of course there are times when the only thing in our mind is fear, regret, and maybe scattered images of our childhood as we lose all hope of avoiding a bone shattering disaster. But in those times when we truly embrace the ride, no matter how it flows, we find something much different. It’s in accepting the moment, the split second of the moment, that we experience the clarity, the peace, and the true rush of life.

As time slows almost to a stop, it’s as if a book is opened up that holds all the secrets of life. We see things as they are. The busy, crowded world we live in suddenly seems quiet, simple, and beautiful as we, for a moment, are able to look past the flaws and imperfections that cause us so much stress and frustration. Having accepted the chaos of the moment and the possible injury that may follow, a door is opened and we are able to see past the hate, and the anger, and the tears that we hold deep inside.

Then the moment ends. Time violently returns to its proper speed as pain jolts through your body until you slide, roll, or tumble to a stop. The dirt clouds up around you and slowly drifts back down. You breath, and realize you haven’t for a while. You hear, and realize how silent it seemed just moments before. You smile, and realize you loved every second of it, especially that split second.

Why are we willing to accept the bumps and the bruises, the broken ribs and the internal bleeding, the concussions and the dirt eating? How is it they we manage to get up each time and step back onto our board? What is it that we truly crave?

There are many answers to these questions. Every rider has his or her reasons for their commitment to what may appear as insanity, but I believe there is one that sums them all up. One way or another we are all in it for the ride.

So now we ask ourselves what defines the ride? Again, there are many definitions, each one very personal to the individual rider. But today as I climbed the winding dirt road of the canyon, I had a specific element of the ride in mind. It’s what I call “forced commitment to ride.”

My usual MBS F3 Ratchet Bindings and Baseplates were not to accompany me today. I dug an old pair of Universal snowboard bindings out of a box and attached them to my board. The added strap and the highback support would keep me secure to my board no matter what. No matter how hard the wreck or how intense the carve, these bindings would prevent any accidental or intentional detaching from the board. Today I was to experience the forced commitment to ride.

The straps knocked against my board as I continued up the trail, and soon I was pulling on my dusty pads and strapping on my wrist guards and helmet. A twitch of nervousness sent a quick rush of adrenaline through my body as the thought of being trapped to my board came into my mind. I took a big breath. Then I let it out slow, calming myself the best I could. I tried to remind myself of the purpose of the experiment. By forcing myself to be one with the board, I would be able to accomplish what hesitation and fear might otherwise rob.

Finally I traded in my anticipation for excitement as I was strapped in tight and ready to go. My first hill was gentle with a nice run off leading to the next drop. I planned use it to get the feel of the new bindings.

Soon that familiar rumble of the dirt and rocks was vibrating up my legs as I gained speed. I noticed the added stability I had against the vibration that normally would have threatened my footing under a single strap. Carving felt almost effortless and I soon was able to shake my fears and embrace the ride.

Except for a slight discomfort that came from wearing snowboard bindings with shoes, the ride was everything I had hoped for. Many of the sharp curves of the canyon I was able to take at a greater speed that I had previously been able to. Hopping over the occasional rut in the path was no problem as the board simply followed me as I follow it. Twice I came close to catching an edge and going down but somehow managed to keep the flow. It’s amazing what the human body can do when you gently threaten it’s existence.

As I reached the end of my ride I couldn’t help but smile. I detached myself from my board and made the final walk to my car. I don’t know if I’ll make these bindings a permanent addition to my board or not. That doesn’t really matter to me I guess. The important thing is that I was able to enjoy the ride and learn a little more about why I ride. I believe that those lessons are the key to improving ourselves as mountainboarders.