Former Middlebury Two-Sport Star Lost In Fruita.

It’s the same story that pops up in the papers every Spring: Meat Head Meets Mountain Bike – Mountain Bike Wins.

On the Middlebury campus Devon O’neil was omnipotent, able to control his environment with a strong jaw line, hulking lats, and a steady stream of testosterone. Females were utterly helpless in the presence of his animal sexuality. Other males quickly accepted their role of Omega to Devon’s Alpha. And his 4.4 forty accompanied by his majestic, Griffey-smooth, homerun swing earned him A’s for any course in which he chose to enroll. Yeah, things were good for Devon at Middlebury - and in his four years of dominance over this small Vermont institution, he never once felt out of place, lost, or even slightly confused.

In the Spring of 2006, like so many Division 3 athletes, Devon quickly learned that his mountain bike is no Louisville Slugger and Fruita, Colorado is not a quad serenely nestled among the rolling hills and scattered Oak trees of an East Coast elitist liberal arts campus. In Fruita, an .800% slugging percentage and 22 yards per catch average are about as useful as a five dollar bill in the beer line at Coors Field.

(Joe's Ridge Trail at Fruita, CO)

The Fateful Day:

The trip started out as you would expect, with Devon growling at his bike and giving his riding partners dead legs. One of Devon’s riding partners, Sam Mishkin (the ingenious and selfless Operations Director here at Randall Scott Cycle Company), has known him since childhood and remembers the pre-ride events, “Devon has physically and psychologically owned me since I can remember. But there was something sweet in the tears that ran down my face when he dead-legged me that day, for I knew he would shortly, for once, share in my anguish.”

Sam’s premonition came to fruition about 10 miles into the ride when a cavalier Devon took the road less traveled by – and that made all the difference. Devon’s divergence left him on the 30 mile Edge Ridge Loop. His Camelbak and water bottle were empty within twenty minutes (Little did Devon know that before his ride a Camelbak with a much larger reservoir was only a click away, at rscycle.com). The cloudless sky let the desert sun operate with impunity, and it sucked any moisture from Devon’s body at an exponential rate. Lactic acid seeped into every muscle fiber from his waste down (easily assuaged with the consumption of Cliff Shots), and cramping of the calves, quads and hamstrings slowly became perpetual and synchronized. Devon’s eyes frantically scoured the landscape for shade or water. Mud puddles appeared as mountain springs and diabolical visions of lush Maples teased his now fragile psyche.

Fruita had asserted its authority, and now Devon was left with only his resolve. Devon struggled to fight the daydreams and hallucinations of a 2002 homecoming (where he was unanimously crowned king) that threatened to completely rip him from the situations ominous reality.

And just when he was ready to succumb to nefarious Fruita……..he hit the down slope.

(Devon, Lost and tired)

No permanent mental or physical damage had been inflicted, but his riding partners remember a decidedly humble Devon when he finally emerged from the loop. Instead of dead legs and growls, Devon handed out hugs and soft kisses to his friends. Looking at Sam, Devon tucked Sam’s tumbling locks behind his ear and began to speak. Before he could breathe a word, Sam put a finger to Devon’s lips and said, “I know D, I know.” Silence reigned supreme for the remainder of the ride.

Fruita wins again.