"Now we've built you a trail, you don't have to drive down here!" a forestry worker reproaches me. "I don't like these highways," I try to make him understand and am aware that it must sound like a lame excuse to his ears. He lets me pass after all, he hasn't seen anything, he tells the good cop (although I'm not driving illegally).

The path is winding, tricky, blocked and somehow a little adventurous. As I'm zigzagging down the key sections, I realize what I think trails like this have over most built bike trails: I like the subtle ride when I have to find the line at walking pace, when simply sending over it isn't an option because there's a hairpin bend just after it.

Flow on the slow trail

On all the officially sanctioned trails I know, I ride twice to three times as fast as on my favorite trails. They are excellently developed, you have to take the jumps at speed otherwise they won't open up and there is always enough space behind them. I'd like to be better on this type of route, I'd like to dare to jump the big gaps.

However, I prefer to ride slowly, feeling my way along, solving the riddle of the rideable line, like a climber, only in the opposite direction. Some call this type of riding "stumble biking". Vert riding would be overstating it, but my preferred routes are always steep enough to go over the handlebars. I often have to climb back several times before I can ride a place. I return to certain places for months until I can do it, but I never manage other passages.

Accepting my technical riding limits is also part of the process for me. If I can't ride one part of a trail and just about ride another, then I know that I'm at my maximum performance level. And that's a good feeling.