The Origin of the Grind
In 2017, I traded the suffocating congestion of the 405 for the heat of Phoenix. It was a calculated move—escaping the chaos of California for a shot at peace. Back then, the kids were young enough to be dragged onto the trail. My wife was a regular on the weekend excursions. We were a unit.
Then time did what it always does: it moved on.
The kids aged out. My wife retreated from the 115-degree summers. Working from home turned into a cage of isolation. My support system didn’t just break; it eroded. I was about to hit 50, alone in a home office, and starting to feel the heavy weight of a world that didn’t seem to have a place for me.
I had a choice: fade out or build something.
I took a dead Facebook group of 27 people and started burning money on ads. I showed up to trailheads at 5:00 AM, waiting for strangers. Most Saturdays, I was standing there alone or with one other guy. But I kept showing up. By the summer of 2023, I had a tribe. Five guys. A regular rotation. I remembered what it felt like to belong to something that didn’t require a paycheck or a chore list.
Then came March 2024.
I led a group ride at Apache Wash. Somewhere between the trailhead and the finish, my heart decided it had enough. St. Patrick’s Day was spent in the ER. Five days later, they cut my ribs open for a triple bypass.
Recovery is a fucking masterclass in patience. At 12 weeks, I was on the gravel bike. At 16 weeks, I was back on the dirt. But the ego took the biggest hit. I went from leading the pack to bringing up the rear, watching my friends disappear over the ridgeline.
I had to kill the version of myself that chased PRs. I learned to love the simple mechanics of the pedal stroke. I realized I didn’t miss the races—I missed the camaraderie. I stopped focusing on what I lost and started obsessing over the fact that I get to ride.
Talking to the riders in my group, I realized I wasn’t the only one “riding heavy.” Every person on that trail is carrying some kind of shit—divorce, health scares, career burnout, loneliness, or just the quiet desperation of getting older. We aren’t just mountain biking, we’re practicing a form of aggressive meditation. The trail is the only place the world goes quiet.
Ride The Heavy was born from that dirt. It’s a place to unload the weight, find the grit to keep pedaling, and remind yourself that the trail doesn’t care about your bypass scars. It only cares that you showed up.
January 2026. We’re just getting started.
The Manifesto
1. Longevity Over Ego.
The days of chasing Strava segments are dead. We ride for the next decade, not the next hill climb. If you blow your engine today, you can’t ride tomorrow. Play the long game.
2. Respect the Machine.
Whether it’s a triple-bypass heart or a carbon frame, if you don’t maintain the equipment, it fails. We track the data, we watch the fuel, and we don’t ignore the warning lights.
3. Isolation is a Slow Death.
Working from home is a cage. The couch is a coffin. We find the tribe. We show up at the trailhead at 5:00 AM when the air is still cool enough to breathe. Community isn’t a luxury; it’s a survival strategy.
4. Aggressive Stillness.
The world is loud—mortgages, health scares, and the constant hum of the screen. We find our peace in the technical descent. When the trail gets narrow and the rocks get sharp, the noise finally stops.
5. I Get To Ride.
Every pedal stroke is a privilege earned through surgery, sweat, and grit. We don’t complain about the climb. we don’t bitch about the heat. We remember the hospital bed and we keep moving.
