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Return of the Toxic Avenger
by Steven Jurczak

I fall asleep to the sweet sound of trucks rumbling down the street. Incessant cacophony obliterates me unlike the quietude of the wilderness. I have to hear something at night, otherwise the ringing in my ears caused by an acute case of tinnitus will drive me postal. Park a diesel outside my room and you can wake me up next millennium. By then there will be a gaggle of A-frames sprawled on every hump of land above 2,000 feet, and outdoor enthusiasts will litter the streets like debris after a monsoon. Soon enough you'll count the Subaru Outbacks at the trailhead to where that "epic ride" used to be.

From here, I'm looking pretty good. Secluded rides just a few miles from my door, rough climbs leading to scenic overlooks, huge-radius turns, tantalizing scents borne off a waterfront breeze. Naturally, I'm territorial about my home turf. I have nightmares of roof-racked droves bearing east on I-80 with the smoldering remains of the Rockies behind them. And they're all headed for my hometown: Lyndhurst, New Jersey. Agh!

The thought shocks me out of bed. I look out my window to verify that all the cars' license plates are "Garden State." Whew. Safe for now. But I can't be too sure. These magazines have everyone looking out for the next mecca. And mountain bikers are a desperate pack of lemmings. Show them a sunset over a singletrack and in warp speed they'll be packing into it like carbohydrates through an open glycogen window. A symphony of heart rate monitors will scream "anaerobic threshold." Gum wrappers, nasal tape, and bulging private parts will flap in the wind while old Italian ladies skinning rabbits wonder who let the pansies out of the circus.

I brood upon the impending doom as I kick through months of classified sections on the floor. My cover letters and résumés beseech me for attention. But either my conscience or my propensity for irresponsibility summons me to a greater cause. Overpopulation, unstable international markets, intensification of natural disasters, Middle Eastern terrorism, and the Spice Girls' new release threaten the likelihood that I will be able to ride in the near future. I contemplate the situation, and, in the words of L.L. Cool J, "I choose the high route."

I delve into my toolbox, open up the chain lube, and carefully oil each link while I catch up on a cheap buzz from the defense industry's finest aircraft lubricant. Outside, I greet the day with a breath of New Jersey air. Today is a crisp, autumn day, and the smell of dried leaves mixes with the breeze coming off the landfills in south Lyndhurst. I feel like Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now, waking up exalted on the Vietnamese shore, "There's nothing like the smell of napalm in the morning." I mount my steed and advance into the jungle that is northern New Jersey.

I ride past boxy houses that make Georgian homes look ornate, past several dozen pizza places which would be gold mines anywhere west of the Mississippi River. Hair salons and yuppie ghettos, also known as condos, dot the landscape like red and white on a gingham tablecloth. After about five minutes, I reach the top of Chubb Avenue where the New York City skyline dominates the horizon. The area is known by football fans and stadium concert consumers as the Meadowlands, but to environmentalists as the wetlands (not the hippie-rock club in New York City). It was once an immense estuary, one of the most delicate ecosystems on the planet and home to the Hackensack Indians. But anticipating the excruciating boredom of the tourist industry and horror of Lycra shorts, early New Jersey-ans exterminated the Indians and back-filled the wetlands with dirt and garbage.

Today, it is home to the rare and endangered sea gull, also known as the "flying rat." The garbage has burgeoned into a small mountain community with a richly preserved geologic timeline much like the striated, exposed walls of the San Juan Mountains in Colorado, or the multicolored, sedimentary layers of Utah's Canyonlands. Only with a cataclysmic desolation that feels like a postindustrial, Bauhausler wasteland.

Man is a determined beast and nature a slow one. Here the centuries-slow geologic processes have been augmented: truck drivers and machine operators preserve our waste with a thick, rideable layer of sweet dirt. It is mostly a dirt-biker's domain, as it was for me when I set aside my BMX bike to ride with the big boys and bought a Yamaha minibike. Today, though, the place is empty and is my domain.

A large dirt mound strategically placed to keep out 4x4s makes for an introductory obstacle. Dirt crunches under my tires, the distinctive smell of methane gas, sulfur, and oil invades my nose. I'm in about the sixth circle of hell headed to a place called "Burn Out."

Birds and other wildlife abound. I spot a muskrat scurrying into the swamp. Flying rats sunbathe atop floating tires in the middle of the wetlands. I crest a small hill which overlooks Burn Out. Once there, I head directly beneath the overpass to the New Jersey Turnpike. Amateur graffiti, or "throw ups," cover the cement pillars. I've seen some graffiti that I would consider art. Not here where it's mostly pubescent spooge, at times satanic, which is slightly unsettling without the 125cc edge between your legs. Some of it has been here side I rode my Yamaha here in fifth grade.

I was always looking out for cops who could drive right off the Turnpike and grab you. The best course, the "jump track," is literally right off exit 16W on the northbound Turnpike. You could get away if you ducked beneath the overpass and backtracked on the opposite side of the highway. Being here on a legal bike takes some of the fun out of it.

Any turn carved out by a motorcycle naturally has a big radius. If you're near Flagstaff, Arizona, notice the turns on Schultz Creek Trail, or on Mt. Hood in Oregon, check out Knebal Springs. Maneuvering through successive turns like those is the closest you will come to skiing bumps without at 50" powder base. Throwing myself into one, I ride the high side of the berm, skillfully navigate through empty soda bottles and plastic bags, and shoot out of the turn into a set of whoops. At the next turn, I spot a couple of snakes which actually come after me. Back through the whoops and some more turns, and I emerge on some rolling singletrack beside the Turnpike.

From a distance, I see a garbage heap masquerading as a formidable mountain. A rocky singletrack leads right up and so do I. To the right, water trickles down a foxtail-lined gully. I disregard the fact that the pretty colors I see are rainbows caused by oil spills and that an overabundance of foxtails is a good sign of magnesium poisoning of the water, conditions not conducive to good nature writing. In fact, neither is riding on a garbage dump. But, dirt is dirt. A corrugated drainage pipe makes for a fine log hop, and an old refrigerator is a good place to stop, soak in the sun, eat a snack, and contemplate how many dead mobsters are buried beneath you.

Feeling like a "made" man myself, I reach the top of the climb. The trial circles the mountain for a couple of miles and presents a fantastic view of the city, as well as steel bridges, water impounds, more dumps, and more dump trucks. And then a sign of things to come--another set of mountain bike tracks.

When Y2K makes the West unlivable, I may get territorial about my favorite rides. But when the lemmings come, I will take solace in the fact that at least half of them will be wiped out on the highway, where the natives will be out for blood. When the rest arrive, I'll be moaning about the good old days, before they decided to clean up the place. When you could look out at the swamp and see muskrat huts and tires and freshly stolen, sinking cars. But I'll be nice and show them how to say "Jersey." Because in al my years here, I have never heard someone say "Joisey."

On my way back to Chubb Avenue, I stop off at the environmental center. Imagine being an environmentalist in a public landfill. They've constructed nature walks through the marshes where you can observe the remains of this once-beautiful area. Of course, you can't legally ride them. I guess that would damage the environment. On my way home, I race dump trucks out of the Meadowlands. Side by side with screaming diesels, I'm completely oblivious to the ringing in my ears.

Bike, May 1999

Steve is a lost author who's been found

 

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