I remember my first mountain bike ride like it was yesterday. I was 11 years old, and my uncle—thinking I might have a knack for it— lent me a 20-inch Mongoose full suspension bike that had to have been from Walmart or something.

He shuttled me and a crew of other neighborhood kids up for a rip down a trail in Trabuco Canyon outside Lake Elsinore, California. I had never ridden anything other than a BMX bike, so “gravity” riding was a completely new experience for me. There were switchbacks, baby head-sized rocks, and bone-dry soil. Until that day, I’d encountered none of those things on my usual neighborhood cruises. Amid a cacophony of squealing rim brakes, I remember really connecting to the feeling of not knowing how to stop. My skinned knees from that afternoon healed and faded quickly, but the thrill has stuck with me. Everything from that afternoon is burned into my mind—crashing multiple times, the colorway of my bike, the speed. As mountain bikers, our first rides are visceral experiences.

Four years later, my dad finally gave in and bought me a 4-inch travel cross-country bike that I rocked through high school. After high school, I moved to Utah and quickly realized that my bike wasn’t suited for the steeper terrain there. As a result, I unknowingly quit riding altogether. Snowboarding had some other plans for me back then, anyway.