If the climbs don’t get you, a cougar will

Last week a lone rider was chased by a cougar as he rode the big descent from the top forest,” announces the mountain bike guide with a smile.

It turns out the lucky mountain biker outran the predatory big cat – which silently stalks its prey before striking from behind – by hammering flat-out down a long, tricky, rocky descent.

Sorry – cougar? Chased? I knew that riding this epic, handmade trail in deepest, darkest Whistler in British Columbia, Canada, was going to be a tough mountain-bike mission, but dodging cougars wasn’t part of the deal.

As full-suspension bikes – those with suspension at the front and rear, capable of handling the toughest terrain – become the norm, extreme cross-country (XC) mountain biking that pushes bike and rider further than ever has never been more popular.

In Britain a new generation of man-made trails, built by enthusiasts to provide more challenging routes, has sprung up in the mountains of Scotland and Wales, while the Witch’s Trails in Fort William, near Ben Nevis, are about the toughest you will find. However, even these pale into insignificance when seen against the trail I am about to plummet down.

Known as Comfortably Numb, this is one of the toughest slices of man-made XC track in the world. Unlike straight downhill mountain biking, XC requires the rider to go up as well as down, and is far more technically challenging.

Comfortably Numb starts at 2,067ft then rises to 3,323ft at the highest point before dropping back to 2,346ft at the finish. The whole ride covers 15 miles and along the way riders must negotiate near-vertical rocky drops, cross mountain streams and weave between giant trees through the forest section.

It has been rated by the Canadians as a “black diamond” XC trail (the toughest grade there is) and is super-technical from start to finish. Section after section requires 90-100% of effort to haul your way over huge roots and up steep rocky trails as you try to wind your way up and clatter back down the mountain.

You need to allow between four to eight hours to complete it – four hours for ultra-fit pro XC racers, six to eight hours for strong and experienced endurance mountain bikers.

The trail was hewn out of the mountain by Chris Markle, a local legend who set about building it with spades, axes and a chainsaw. Because there’s no access for JCB diggers every part had to be crafted by hand, cutting trees that have fallen naturally to make wooden pathways to negotiate boggy patches or water crossings.

“It was my real labour of love,” Markle says. “It took me six years to design and construct. I was totally on my own for five years, with a little aid and funding from the municipality during the last year. I tried camping out along the trail for a week at a time to save myself the daily commute until one of our too-friendly local black bears appeared.”

First cougars, and now bears? This trail was turning into an extreme sports safari.

With enough water for the day and three rounds of sandwiches (carefully wrapped so bears can’t get a whiff of them) I begin my descent.

From the start I’m faced with a super-steep trail littered with the massive roots of giant, densely packed pine trees, and rocky steps on top of a soft, loamy single track. It goes on and up, and on and up.

However hard I pedal I can’t maintain any momentum. Even the smoothish bridleway section is brutally steep. Just when I thought we could have a breather at the top of the first big climb, I’m faced with a narrow wooden bridge over a river that’s raging like a horizontal waterfall. This is the trail’s largest structure, the 70ft long, 70ft high El Presidente bridge over Wedge Creek.

My two guides, Jonny Lloyd and Mark Knight, are race fit but I’m struggling, puffing and sweating. Then I fall off. A near-vertical descent appears from nowhere, and seeing only big rocks and painful landings, I foolishly dab the brakes and my bike spits me over the front wheel, fortunately injuring only my pride.

I have a quiet word with myself. I relax. Slowly but surely I start to get a feel for the trail. The trick is to put effort in where necessary; muscling up the steep bits, “pumping” my full-suspension bike through the easier undulations, taking a breather on descents, all the while enjoying the silence and fresh smell of the green Canadian forest. And ignoring any thoughts of cougars.

We delve deeper into the forest and out of mobile phone reception for the next six miles. “Not that there are any roads in or out or anywhere for helicopters to land even if we did get a call through,” says Knight cheerfully. Now we really are alone. I remind myself to ride smart.

Two, three, four hours pass as the miles tick by slowly. If we aren’t going up steep technical sections, we’re coming down them. There are no flat, easy sections. We stop for sandwiches and sup on water, watching each other’s backs for hungry wildlife.

I now know where “nowhere” is, because I’m in the middle of it, deep in the centre of an ancient, green, mossy forest surrounded by trees reaching up to block out the sky.

We saddle up and plod onwards. I churn my way up, down and around the wiggly trail. I sense danger and feel like I’m being watched. Whenever I hear a twig crack, I look over my shoulder, half expecting to see a furry feline, fangs out, about to attack.

After five hours we reach the halfway sign. “It gets easier and faster from here. We’re halfway distance-wise, but two-thirds time-wise,” says Knight grinning. Then he points out some cougar waste on the side of the trail, with bones in it. I munch on another energy bar, grit my teeth and carry on.

It does get easier, but then this mother of all mountain-bike missions couldn’t get any tougher. My pace quickens and I even start smiling. After six sweaty hours we eventually reach the “highest point” sign and I know the final downhill fun has arrived.

I excitedly chase the two guides down the mountain as they leave a trail of dust in their wake. We’re all shouting and whooping as we ride down the descent to where the cougar tried to attack a rider – to scare rather than surprise them.

I enjoy the feeling of gravity pulling me over the big rocks that line the way. It’s steep, scary and fast, but it beats pedalling, so I lay off the brakes, hang off the back of my bike and attempt to avoid near death. Speed is my friend now as I try to stay loose to let it guide me safely over the top of the jagged terrain.

We reach the bottom and the end of the trail near Whistler village with throbbing, aching limbs. After nearly seven hours of full-on riding, Lloyd is distant and quiet, and Knight is nursing a sore wrist and bruised chest after crashing on the final descent.

I’m so broken I don’t know how or what I feel. I’m exhausted but I don’t feel in pain nor about to collapse. I feel empty. I guess I really have become Comfortably Numb.

The following week a cougar was shot dead on the trail.