I hate group rides. Just the thought of them fills me with anxiety and nervous energy. I don’t want to spend my ride chasing someone faster than me and, conversely, I’d rather not wait on people either. Selfishly, I want to go where I want to go at my own speed, whatever speed that may be on that particular day.

The thought of a swarm of strangers in a conga line on some random trail fills me with dread, and the inevitable parking lot posturing and competitiveness just isn’t my scene. It’s the antithesis of why I ride bikes. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it’s just not my thing.

Now, I’m not some crusty, old loner, and I wouldn’t call myself shy, either. But I’ve had an irrational fear of group rides since I was a teenager. No matter how much I’ve aged or progressed as a rider, I’ve never grown out of it. Despite my anxieties, there are few things I enjoy more than a long ride with a couple close friends. Nothing beats a day filled with laughter, shit-talking, a few falls here and there, and occasionally stopping for the good conversation that comes with a group outing. I always find—well, almost always find—something refreshing about sharing time on my bike in nature with a select few people.

Some of the best trails I’ve ridden and the best friends I’ve made have come from group rides. Between my career and persistent wanderlust, I have been fortunate enough to travel and ride trails in every state in the U.S. and in many countries across the world. Good people exist everywhere, I’ve come to learn.

One standout memory came far away from my desert home—riding the wet roots and mud like a fish out of water—when I survived a backcountry group ride death march. After the ride we pedaled down to the river for a swim. With a towel draped around my neck like a kid at a pool party, I clipped a pedal on a rock and went down hard. It was a comical crash but when I stood up, I had a giant gash on my forearm that immediately needed medical attention.

“You don’t want to go to a hospital around here,” the ride leader bluntly said to me. “I’ve got a guy.” I had no reason to doubt him.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in a leather recliner in some nondescript office getting a couple dozen stitches from a stranger. We all started that day as acquaintances at best. After that ride, I officially had friends in West Virginia. I can’t help but smile when I catch a glimpse of that scar in the mirror.

On another occasion, I wanted to show a few friends some trails I stumbled upon just across the border in Sonora, Mexico. So, I sent a message to the one person I knew in Sonora to invite him on a ride. When the day came, we were greeted at the port of entry by about 40 locals ready to ride and show off their trails. That familiar anxiety came over me, but I kept it in check and did my best to smile and keep up with the group. Our hosts took us on a tour of their secret stash of trails. Before we knew it, we had pedaled nearly 35 miles and were on our way to dinner with the entire crew. Hours of margaritas and carne asada-fueled conversation ensued. We all laughed as we fumbled with each other’s languages, shared photos of our families, and built bonds that still last to this day.

Other experiences with camaraderie have been more somber affairs. One came on a memorial ride for a friend who had passed away. The pre-ride dread was at an all-time high, but I owed it to my buddy to be there. The trailhead was a gloomy scene, and the ride up the hill was silent. There was a regrouping point at the top of a particularly steep pitch, where someone finally broke the ice and started chatting. A collective sigh of relief came over the group as we all permitted ourselves to speak. The topic of writing surfaced, and I had the chance to speak with one guy there whose work I was a fan of, and he told me he had read my stuff, too. His encouraging words are probably why you are reading my words on this page right now. A sad day turned into a decade of inspiration and motivation because I went on a bike ride I had initially feared.

I could carry on about stories of how group rides have changed my life. From falling off a cliff in Slovenia, riding a secret trail system in rural Nebraska, to meeting a famous movie producer on a night ride in Colorado. No matter how much I dread the forced social interaction of a group ride, I have rarely regretted it. Maybe exercise kills the ego for a little while. Perhaps people chill out when they’re immersed in nature with a small herd of fellow mammals. Whatever the reason, the mountain bike family always shows up for me.