I started mountain biking with my dad when I was around ten years old. It wasn’t a consistent endeavor back then. For the most part I would ride my rigid Giant 24 speed around my house, and the hundred or so acres of farmland we lived on. My dad would sometimes take my sister and me on rides in the mountains near home, or on our yearly trip to St. George, Utah. The trail that got me hooked is a rocky descent down a steep canyon, often populated by grazing herds of cows. The trail has multiple stream crossings, large boulders, and some very steep declines. I loved it. My dad was patient with us as we slowly worked our way down on rigid frames and weak rim brakes, and put up with our complaints of fatigue on the long climbs or hike-a-bikes. When I was 14 I substituted pedal power for dirt bikes, and did not return to mountain biking until I was 20, even then it took me a few years to find my passion for it. Now, as my wife will attest, I’m completely obsessed. She hates to go to the bike shops with me because I like to browse all of the inventory, dream of collecting all of the varieties of bikes, and talk bikes with anyone around. I read Singletracks first thing every morning to get my wake up fix. Whenever we drive somewhere I point out all of the locations that would make a good spot for a trail. She tolerates it alright, or she just ignores me. She started to ride with me on an old bike I had, she didn’t like they bike, but enjoyed the riding enough. We eventually bought her a lightly used specialized rumor 29er, and it really improved the experience for her. We have quite a ways yet to go though, she doesn’t strive to ride everything imaginable yet, the mark of a true mountain biker.