Is Blackstar Really Cursed?

The rumors are that Blackstar Canyon, a very popular mountain biking route here in Southern California, is cursed. As the story goes, there was a massacre involving Native Americans who once inhabited the area referred to as Hidden Valley, about halfway up Blackstar Canyon Road, and that ever since there have been spirits at work in the area. There are also accounts with varying degrees of believability which claim everything from crazed locals setting booby traps for unwary hikers & bikers, to UFO sightings. I'm guessing Elvis also uses the canyon for a little target practice with his pearl-handled revolvers now and then.

For me the curse is different: Fear. Not fear of alien abduction and anal probe (though I don't look forward to that either, thank you very much), but fear of solitary riding in the wilderness. I have no problem doing rides of 10-30 miles in the various county and state parks around Southern California, but I'm a big believer in the buddy system when it comes to more remote locations, and Blackstar just plain spooks me. Every time I ride there my heart rate is a little higher than normal, not because of climbing a couple thousand feet, but because I imagine there's a mountain lion or a gun-totin', banjo-pickin', pig-squealin' hillbilly terrorist waiting around every corner.

In reality, Blackstar is a wide road, an easy though extended climb, and an easy and fast descent. In reality, I should have more fear of a collision with another rider than of a collision with a jug-totin' redneck. In reality, the place is so heavily traveled at peak times that the buddy system goes right out the window. In reality, I'm just being a big pussy about it and I should go ride the place anytime I want.

Today was supposed to be the day. Solo. By myself. Alone with my bike, my thoughts, miles of winding dirt road, and 2,000+ feet to climb. Nobody but me and the 30 or so others who'd be likely to ride it on a Wednesday evening in June. I was over it: Fear aside, I was gonna ride.

So I walked out of work, geared up and ready, only to find raindrops on my windshield, dark clouds surrounding the area, the ridge above Blackstar lost in clouds, and the static of nearby lightning popping on the radio as I start to drive out of the lot.

The curse strikes again.

I've learned from experience not to take riding in the Santa Ana mountains lightly. Even though they are a stone's throw from suburbia, and top out at less than 6,000 feet - with the top of the Blackstar route being much lower - the conditions can change dramatically from bottom to top and back. Hypothermia and heat stroke can be very real concerns, and sometimes it seems like you could get both in one ride! And if there's electricity in the air while you're riding there, you could easily find yourself straddling a rolling lightning rod with little cover in sight.

So I turned around, tail between my legs, telling myself that I would fight my fear another day. Off to humble little Peters Canyon, the stomping grounds of every iPod wearing jogger in SoCal, along with hordes of middle-aged Asian ladies wearing wide hats and even wider sunglasses, and seemingly hundreds of people walking dogs using 20' retractable leashes (who's walking whom?). Peters Canyon, which I've ridden between 50 and a hundred times now. Peters Canyon, where solitude means 15 minutes without having to run slalom between the local cross-country team. Peters Canyon, which is to serious mountain bikers as junk mail is to literary critics.

And you know, I had a great ride.
Curse it all.