Of Ticks and Cliffs: Mountain Biking in the Sibley Volcanic Preserve

I’ve had a fear of ticks with lyme disease ever since mountain-bike goddess Julie Furtado’s dreams of an Olympic gold medal were crushed by a lyme-tick. It was later determined that Furtado actually had lupus, not lyme disease, but this fact does nothing to allay my fear of the crab-like parasitic monsters that thrive here in the Berkeley Hills. 

My ride into Sibley the other day began with another disease-carrying tick warning sign at the trail head. I’ve gotten used to seeing this little sign, and in spite of my fears, I’d soon forgotten the little buggers within a half mile of spiriting down the dirt track.

Ticktrack

The only single-track in Sibley are the little goat trails that skirt the cliffs and peter out into nowhere, and it was on one of these goat trails that I picked up my first tick. Since I had been obsessively checking my legs every thirty seconds, I saw the thing right away, and flicked him off. I had a chance to look at the insect, and I noted that it did not have the little red horse-shoe shape that apparently indicates the disease carrier. I looked around and realized that the trail I was on was a tick hot-zone; tall grass everywhere, with scrubby oak trees over the trail. Trying to remain calm, I carefully turned my bike around and tried to get back to the main trail and out of the tall grass. Within seconds, I noticed another tick on my lower leg. As I reached to flick it off, the beast seemed to realize what was happening, and started madly scrambling through my leg hair, looking for a place to bite and set up camp. I looked more closely at him, and thought I saw the infamous red horse-shoe on his tiny, repulsive body. It was a disease carrier, and it wanted my blood.

The adrenaline hit me like a shot of cocaine to the testicles. I began swatting at the tick with both hands as though I were trying to put out a fire, shouting and swearing. Riding as fast as I could back to the main trail, I started to imagine how many millions of blood-starved ticks were teeming in the grass just out of sight. It was like a nightmare.

As I reached the top of a grassy hillside, out of breath and still panic-stricken, I nearly ran over a young couple on a blanket. They were lying in the grass, completely ignorant of the hordes of ticks who were no doubt coming for them. I thought it was only appropriate to warn them of the danger. Trying to settle myself down, I screamed:

“THE TICKS- THEY ARE EVERYWHERE-THOUSANDS-I’VE JUST BEEN ATTACKED TWICE-GET OUT-GET AWAY FROM HERE.”

“oh, really? thaaanks,” said the girl, barely moving. Her boyfriend said nothing. I couldn’t believe it, and turned to ride away. Before I was out of earshot I heard the boyfriend making some grotesque sort of insect noises, and turned to see him pounce on the girl on the blanket. He was pinching her everywhere while making his tick-sounds, and the girl was giggling hysterically. Apparently a fun-loving tick-attack was a hilarious joke to these people.

cliffs vs. ticks

Wonderful, I thought. I’m like the out-of-towner, afraid of bears in Central Park. Laugh while you can, you crazy, care-free East Bay day hikers. I seriously doubt that Julie Furtado would think it was funny.