Kulani Forest is both friend and foe to any who would rider her trails. Offering as many conditions and opportunities days in the year, no ride is the same. I intend to offer a reflexive analysis of the unique, kindred and often amusing collection of people who gather each week to pay homage to the wonderful experience that the trails offer. The riders themselves are as diverse as their two-wheeled steeds, each sharing in their love for the ride. My intent is to show that while the riders are diverse in their nature and consequently, their beliefs, their weekly gathering allows them to share a coherent lore, waiting to be understood.
Infiltration of the Long Hairs From the outset, the riders struck me an amorphous group, with little as far as structured beliefs and ideas. Each person had their own unknown history, and was waiting to be uncovered and interpreted. Without much knowledge of the history of the riders as a whole unit, it really was hard to see the fine lines that separate them out into smaller units, each unit with different ideas about the world. At their core, all of them enjoy the ride, the race and the brew afterward (one exception on the brew). My informant allowed a closer glimpse of the history of the ride, the close ties between some, and the newer, more fragile relationships between the original riders and the “long hairs.” I asked my informant to explain the factions within the group. The “long hairs” had “infiltrated” the Friday ride six years prior to my arrival. They remained nameless, though with a little observation it was easy to distinguish them from the rest of the riders. The “long hairs” as my informant described them, were not all long of hair. It was a jest about their more liberal stances of political debate. This is a relative observation because no one would rightly call them “hippies,” though that was clearly what my informant was insinuating. While discussion in the liberal circle around a grill of charring steaks generally evolved toward environmental concerns, evoking routine discussion of high oil prices, Mesopotamian wars and food shortages around the world, every last one of these riders drives a large truck or SUV to the weekly ride. One would reasonably expect that this group would often differ in ideals.
A clash of titanic idealism came forth from within both parties as they discussed the relationship between food shortages and overpopulation in a post-ride, alcohol-fueled debate. Our longhaired friends were determined that the food shortage stemmed from our government’s recent subsidies for corn ethanol fuel, while the, I guess you could call them short hairs, to be fair, pondered how a food shortage could allow the world’s population to continue its growth. One of the women, originally from Canada, chimed in that poorer populations, where there is less food, tend procreate more often, as their children have higher rates of mortality. The belligerent questioning continued more loudly as they ignored her response. How can the worlds population grow if there is a food shortage?! No one seems offended by this display, nor does anyone attempt to stop it. Each has probably learned in their own way through the years that evidence matters little to a man in a drunken stupor. Long before, just after the ride, those who would have cared for rationality had already left.
A professor of Horticulture at the University of Hawaii, Hilo, Dr. Tanabe has been with this group from the early 1990’s and has secured a position of respect from the riders. As mentioned previously, he cares deeply for his training and physical needs and therefore does not drink alcohol at the end of each ride with the rest of the group. Not only does he abstain from drinking, but he is often the first to leave the quarry, mere minutes after finishing the ride. I can see how a man with a great deal of education could allow himself to slip free from this group before they get started each Friday night. I can imagine that it possibly serves to preserve his respect for his fellow riders.
Moral Disparagement Another moral issue and later discussion arose one evening after the discovery of a vehicle stashed in the woods. It was just after clearing the newest addition to the trail before the ride that Chris and I happened upon a man waiting next to a Jeep and a Dodge, the Dodge, parked in the woods with all the doors open and nothing inside. My first reaction was that it was stolen and subsequently stashed, not expecting twenty odd riders to happen upon it. Really, there is no way to know if the man next to it had done the deed, but each person had different reactions when faced with the man’s response and intentions. The man’s story was that he was hunting pig and happened upon the truck, maybe true, maybe not, at this point it did not matter. His next statement was that he was claiming it for his own, he had found it and we had no claim to it, so he was going to haul it home. At this point, I left, skeptical of his claims and in my mind, he clearly lacked my same ethical values. One of the riders I was with as we happened upon the man stayed with him to talk some more, and perhaps he received a more convincing argument than I, but subsequent discussion revealed that he believed the man and that the man had every right to his finder’s keepers moral. The ride started and discussion ensued en route as those who had not seen the trucks were quickly updated. After the finish, discussion of the trucks and man resumed to reveal three distinct ideas about the situation. One group believed the man’s story that he found the truck and that he was justified in taking it, another group believed the man, but did not feel that he should take it, and a third group including myself believed that the man was outright lying and intended to steal the truck and had knowledge of its location before. In the end, a Friday rider notified the police who arrested the man immediately, later revealing that both vehicles were stolen. The debate over the truck exposed one thing very clearly, that political stances do not delineate moral values within this group. Each group had its own detractor of others within that usually fall upon the same side. The interworking of the moral debate is far more complex than can be analyzed by this paper to be sure.
Meta Ethnography I tended to be either unresponsive or evasive when questioned about my political stances. In reflection, this was probably a good idea as some, particularly my main informant, would have realized they have less in common with me than previously thought and may not have as straightforward and forthcoming in the future. With a group of twenty plus riders too, it would have been difficult to interview each one to gain such information, as one on one contact may too have been a little uncomfortable, especially when faced with the notion that their words may have impact beyond their group. Consequently, I was content to stand back from it all and take in the group from a general sense, until a specific conversation would pique my interest, at which point I would wander over to listen more closely to the debate.
Even in the beginning, because I was previously involved in the biking community and knew many of the riders, I let them know that my prime interest in joining their ride was to complete a study of their group for an ethnography class. Many in the group were interested in my paper and expressed the desire to read my work after I was finished. I found this surprising but also interesting as they queried the issues that I have covered, the title and main points that I had discussed thus far. Admittedly, I had done little more than a very broad, but long description of the rituals that take place each Friday. I found their questioning helpful too as they helped me realized new topics for discussion that I had missed in my surface observations. Their curiosity and interest as to how they were being portrayed showed more enthusiasm for my project than I had originally thought. At the beginning, I believed them to have thought that I was joking about my project as I had chosen a topic that seemed far from academia. Admittedly, it had seemed a bit of a joke, as I continued each week to ride a pace that allowed me no less than a fourth place finish, all the while claiming to do so in the name of anthropology.
Unsafe at Any Speed While in the political realm the riders seem quite divided in their respective views, they all share in common rules for engaging in the Friday ride. New riders are always welcome provided they maintain safe bicycles that are designed for such rigorous terrain and wear appropriate physical protection. The helmet is an obvious concern, as brain injuries are no joking matter, but the bicycle itself needs a little more explaining. An unsafe bicycle, usually purchased very cheap, and several brands are, constitutes a health risk equal to that of a helmetless head. The riders are expected to maintain a proper trail bike designed for use in the trail. Spotting a bicycle that is not designed for use in the forest is easy and would constitute an immediate lecture of the associated health risks by any of the riders. Safety is taken very seriously and there are not exceptions with this group.
She’s a Fickle Bitch The forest itself, while it is almost revered by its weekly entourage, is also a fickle bitch. The Kulani trail system has worked its way into the rider folk lore as one of the nastiest and most technical singletrack trail that bikes can ride. And for that it is to be both feared and respected. While most of the riders would claim not to be superstitious, they believe, and as I have seen, the moment you think you are on top of your game, have the trail figured out, vanquished your devils and have a sure line to victory for the day, the trail is sure to even the odds, whether through and ill placed stick or a bone jarring fall. Most of the sticks, however, are not blamed upon the trail in her grand scheme to even the score, but on Chris, owner of the bike shop, fixer of their parts. They joke, as does he, that he has a financial incentive to toss out these spoke killers and derailleur destroyers onto the trail as he rides, to be unleashed upon the unfortunate riders behind. When asked who places the sticks on the trail, it is indubitable that the response would be immediate and precise – “Chris.”
Care for a Smoke? The fun ride sentiment stems from the early years of riding when it was more common to come to the ride at four, pick a trail and destination ride as a group to get there and finally, smoke a joint before heading back to the start. When Chris created the Rooty Connector and Hilo Bike Hub way to close in the loop in 2002, the fun ride quickly became more competitive than before. Many of the riders wish to return to the glory days of casual riding with friends, though there are as many that are satisfied with the current state of affairs. “Fun Ride” is a name thrown around quite loosely as a joke, because most of the riders are there to compete on a weekly basis. This is why many of the riders do want younger, faster riders to join the group, and are disappointed when they leave. The competitive edge is softened by the post ride drinks offered by any other casual affair. The food, drink and atmosphere could as easily be mistaken for a weekend party, as the talk quickly leaves the subject of cycling soon after the stories of falls, broken bits and near misses are divulged among the group. Newcomers are offered a beer from a six-pack, a cup of Mehana Porter from the mini keg or a joint as readily as any other longtime racer that forgot his.
The Menehunes did it There is a running joke about the trail maintenance, which ties this group with a little Hawaiian folklore. The riders will outright deny working on the trails to improve or maintain them, as technically they are county property. To anyone not already knowledgeable of their work, the Menehunes did it. The Menehunes of Hawai’i are known for their building of stone walls at night; the Menehunes of the Kulani forest, having fewer stones to work with, have set about to build and maintain trails. The riders are only so lucky that the Menehunes have chainsaws at their disposal to clean up after windstorms. While the riders have an ongoing understanding with the county for their weekly use of the trail, they do enjoy pulling the wool over the eyes of anyone who would ask.
Reflexivity Of the group that assembles each Friday, I am the only rider that uses my bike out of necessity. For the rest of them, cycling, while it may hold reasonable significance for them, is merely a tool for pleasure, which they enjoy each week, for some as a form of exercise, others stress relief, and still others, to enjoy friends. The utilitarian use of the bicycle gets lost as inconvenient truths nagging at the back of their minds. Perhaps it is because they are getting older. Many of them in the past ridden have routinely to the Friday ride on their trusty steed and home again. It is easy for me to neglect myself and pass judgment on them as I hear their complaints about the price of gasoline, while they ride for leisure the very tool by which they could alleviate some of their concerns. Chris has recently begun riding his bike again to class to help offset some of the costs of driving into town each day. Passing judgment, as I have done before, is neglecting the unique positions that every one of these people finds themselves in each day. Living within close proximity to everything one needs, without being financially able to afford gasoline, let alone cars causes one to forget the reasons why an ethnographer does ethnography. Still, I admittedly found the complaints about oil prices disgusting when paired with this notion.
Towering Inferno Towering fires decorate the walls behind Chris’ desk. Several of the riders enjoy construction occupations which allow them both the freedom of a 4:00 ride and free scrap wood and palates. The riders do enjoy a good fire. The stacks of lumber come by the truckload when a fire is to be had. Precariously arranged pyres looming high into the blackened sky ignite only as a well fueled gasoline fire should. I wonder if this is safe. The circled faces slowly back away from the intensity of the flame. Even the sleeping dog has stirred to avoid the unstable flaming platform. The faces all continue to stare. Something so beautiful cannot be ignored. With an unsettling groan, the pyre shifts on its depleted pedestal, and with a final, stubborn snarl the tower crumbles to the ground sending of a final wave of scalding heat as the coals burn from an angry orange to a dull red.
My place among the riders has come to an end. My friendship with them was genuine, which I believe has allowed me construct a reasonable portrayal of both their love of cycling and their memorable antics. Of fired pyres and chainsaw wielding Menehunes I will one day dream. I will treasure the memories gained from this unique opportunity for years to come, and one day, perhaps, join them again in the Kulani Forest.
