Growing up in western North Carolina, in the Qualla Boundary—often referred to as the Cherokee Indian Reservation— was much like growing up in any small, rural mountain town. We learned to love something about every season. We harvested ramps in spring, caught lightning bugs in summer, ate chestnut bread at the Annual Cherokee Indian Fair each fall, and begged our parents to take us sledding off the Blue Ridge Parkway in winter. Much of my summer breaks from school were spent digging for crawdads under creek rocks and tubing lazily down the Oconaluftee River.
This area—about an hour west of Asheville, in the Great Smoky Mountains—is also a haven for mountain biking. Even though I have lived here all my life, I never considered strapping on a visored helmet until eight years ago, when I was well into my thirties. I had two kids, and was 60 pounds overweight, miserable at my job, and struggling to publish my first novel. I had also been diagnosed with anemia. At the urging of friends, I became motivated to try a new sport (I’d been a longtime basketball player, but my knees couldn’t take it anymore). So, around the same time I started getting regular iron infusions, I took up mountain biking.
At one point, I told a nurse not to worry if my pulse was elevated—I had just gotten off my bike. “Mountain biking? That looks so scary,” she said. I scanned the waiting room; most of the patients were hooked up to IV lines and oxygen tubes. Practically every other person was fighting cancer, just as my mother had years ago—before it took her. I couldn’t help thinking: No. This is what’s scary.
Many people think of mountain biking as an extreme—and male-dominated—sport, and it certainly can be. But I came to love it for what it gave me: freedom. I got into a routine, belting out glam-metal songs like Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” Out there on my bike, alone, there was no one to care if I sang off-key or let out an occasional whoop of pure elation.
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On the trail, I was no longer defined by my relationship to others, as mother, teacher, daughter, or wife. I was defined instead by how sweaty I got climbing uphill, and how fast the wind blew across my body on the way down. My favorite place to ride was, and remains, Fire Mountain Trails, an 11-mile network in the town of Cherokee. The packed-clay paths wind through a forest of tangled mountain laurel and rhododendrons that come alive with pastel colors in the spring. Equipped with handlebar lights and a headlamp, I came to love night rides, which often featured sightings of owls swooping for prey.
I was fortunate to have many local bike and gear shops, like Industry Nine, Cane Creek, and Motion Makers, to help with repairs. Many shops, including BCOutdoors, in Cherokee, also offer rentals, so visitors are able to hit the trails as well. When it’s time to hop off, I like to head to Innovation Brewing, in Sylva, for a beer and food-truck burger, or BCOutdoors, which also has a taproom.
Two women, colleagues from school, taught me to ride. Each week, we would meet on the trails, far away from the stresses of work. Eventually, I made more friends and learned the value of a riding community. The realities of modern life and conflicting schedules often mean grabbing a solo ride whenever I can. A beautiful thing about these trails is that they are safe enough to ride alone, and social enough that you will often run into friends along the way.
While I cherish my adventures with fellow cyclists or by myself, the kind of ride I treasure most is with my two sons: 12-year-old Charlie and 16-year-old Ross. I watch nervously whenever they navigate a rocky edge. But when they scream with delight as they catch a little air, I am reminded of the freedom I first felt on a mountain bike. To hear my son shout, “This is awesome, Mom!” may be the greatest gift these trails have to offer.
Mountain biking isn’t scary, like I used to think. But it is extreme. Extreme joy. Extreme living. It is extreme enough that I can hurl myself headlong down a slope, lose a little control, dust myself off, and keep on going.
A version of this story first appeared in the June 2025 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline “Ride Like the Wind.”
Read the original article on Travel & Leisure
