The last time I hopped on a mountain bike was quite memorable.

It was the summer of 1997 and I was in Warrensburg, MO attending summer school and preparing for my senior season of football at Central Missouri. I was without a vehicle, or as my boy Nose always called it, a whip.

I was without a whip, but managed to score a used mountain bike for a little of nothing at a local garage sale. I rode that sucker daily. To class, to summer workouts and weight lifting sessions and to my homies Sean Mac and Fat Joe's respective dwellings.

Honestly, the riding, coupled with weight training and wind sprints, had me in the best shape of my young life. I violently smashed against many running backs, qbs, tight ends and wide receivers as a result.

One day, I was a little too aggressive as I came upon a construction site near campus and MO Hwy 13, the main north-south artery through the town. Exiting campus headed toward Hwy 13 northbound I hit a patch of gravel, lost control and literally wiped out.

I picked myself up off the pavement, took one look at the palm of both hands, which were badly scraped after I tried to brace my fall, peeked at my mangled bike, and tossed the heap to the side of the road and walked with disgust a half mile home.

I hadn't been on a mountain bike since that day...until this morning, which although liberating, was not as eventful.