Culinary ShreddingThere are few who can combine the skills of riding the Poto and mushrooming simultaneously. I tried it, only momentarily, during Sunday's ride and nearly t-boned a tree. I have a hard enough time staying upright with the sole focus of attempting to stay upright, so I find the multi-skills approach admirable but out of reach.
(Speaking of T-Bone, he was with us as well. He, though an excellent mtb'er, is a single-focused rider as well, whose aim is wisely keeping the bike treadside down.)
Rodger, on the other hand, rides with his chef helmet on. He is a foodie. As a recently implicated partner in the Deli of a nationally renowned local food establishment beginning with the letter Z, his thoughts seldom stray from comestible delicacies. Somehow he has a third culinary eye that can, at nearly shredding mtb pace, still spot a Grifola Frondosa, also known as Maitake or Hen of the Woods, tucked into the gnarled base of a large oak tree. This is not a bright orange or phosphorescent yellow neon mushroom that screams out from the humus of the forest floor differentiating itself from all around it. This fungus basically camouflages itself, phantom-like, into the grayish root system.
A special and rare Poto moment. That elusive rodgerus walkus slowus. I found I could keep up.I found that most mushrooms have to poke their capped fannies into the trail's margin in order for me to see their fleeting forms as I zip past. Yet this particular polypore was on the opposite side of the tree from the direction in which we were flying (Rodger only flies, there is no moderation in his trail riding approach).
All I saw was the spray of dirt from locked tires ahead on the new Tomac he was inaugurating. I looked for some grizzly in the trail, or a moose. This was a seriously clenched brake stop, sashaying bike and all. As is often the case when riding with Rodger, any relief is a gift from the heavens. I was willing, if it was a grizzly, to hug the fuzzy beast myself for the moment's respite from pain.
Rodger pointed back up the trail to a tree. A sizable oak. There are a lot of oaks on the Poto. I'd use the number zillion, give or take. This one was big, but of that zillion, many are big. He dismounted and ran up to the oak. I worried that perhaps he'd been bewitched and would soon declare his love for this particular barked wonder. T-bone and I glanced at each other and raised our eyebrows in unison in that "it's a Rodger thing," look. Rodger knelt down. A Druidic moment of worship in the offing, I feared.
There it is, polypore of the gourmet table.Then, up came a fungus cupped in his hands. "Hen of the Woods," he joyously declared. "These taste great!" After showing it off, he hid it farther behind the tree as if fearing a flock of biker pirates descending on this very spot to steal his treasure. "We'll come back and pick it up after the ride."
This was the first loop of a Double Poto day. It meant that after the quad ripping ride was over we'd drive to a location as close as possible to this spot and hike a few miles into the forest. By the look on Rodger's face it was apparent that this little white hen was worth the effort, so I agreed.
Rodger and T-Bone reveling post-ride.After the ride was over, we sang joyous songs of conquest in the Silver Lake parking lot, sustained ourselves with energy replenishing fluids and snacks, and finally drove to an undisclosed location where we hoofed it (limped it, really) back into the Poto and claimed our prize.
Grifola Frondosa. It's what's for dinner.
