Building Again
Shifting from recovery to living—and participating again
If you’re just joining the ride, I recommend starting from the beginning. Each post builds the trail that led me here.
Nearly a year before my surgery, I started working on a proposal to extend the trails at Locust Shade Park in Prince William County, Virginia.
Locust Shade is a small county park that I helped transform into a regional mountain biking destination. My proposal included adding a bypass to one popular trail (the Col Du shade), extending loop opportunities, and building a new 1.5-mile extension to a trail that has become a marquee route in the region: 95th St.
The ideas—and the potential for extending the trails at Locust Shade—had been there long before. But during my last extended flare, I stepped away from trail building and maintenance almost entirely. I simply didn’t have the energy required to lead teams and spend hours in the woods doing physical work.
I finally submitted the proposal to Prince William County Parks and Recreation staff in December 2025, about seven months after surgery, while I was still very much in recovery mode. I figured that by the time the County reviewed the documents, visited the proposed corridors, and followed up with questions, I’d hopefully be recovered enough to move forward.
Still, as I drafted and submitted the proposal, I wasn’t nearly as active as I wanted to be. Winter was setting in just as I was beginning to find my footing again. In some ways, the colder weather helped—it created a natural slowdown that allowed me to stay focused on recovery.
Beyond riding my bike, one of the things I enjoy most is planning, designing, and building trails. When I submitted the proposal to Prince William County Parks, I was cautiously optimistic it would be approved. Based on past experience, I assumed it would take four to six months for the County to review the documents, ask questions, and revisit the corridors I had flagged back in 2024.
Then, on May 4th—on the eve of my one-year anniversary—I got the green light to move forward with one of the projects: the bypass to the Col Du Shade trail.
The outlook for the 95th St. extension is positive, and I hope to hear more in the coming weeks. That build will be considerably more difficult and require bringing in a contractor to do the bulk of the work.
The Col bypass is relatively short and will be entirely hand-built. Most of the work involves clearing the corridor, doing basic hand-tool work, and then letting riders gradually “burn in” the line over time.
Still, even that kind of work can be, usually is, physically demanding.
As I started spending more time back in the woods, it became obvious there were things I simply can’t do the way I used to.
Before surgery—and during remission—I was hauling a chainsaw with a 20-inch bar on my back and bucking trees like there was no tomorrow.
Now? Not so much.
I’m still out there, but the heavier grunt work—the carrying, lifting, and bigger cuts—is increasingly left to others. I spend more time supervising, planning, and directing work than I once did.
Even my role as a “swamper,” the person clearing logs and debris off the trail as trees are cut, has changed. I can’t manhandle large logs the way I used to, and I’m much more aware now of what my body can—and shouldn’t—do.
The hernia changed that.
The hidden reality is that I can still be incredibly active—but my limits are different now.
The good thing is that I’m surrounded by an incredible group of people, many of whom watched me go through this entire ordeal. They help when needed and, just as importantly, remind me not to overdo it.
That reminder matters.
As the weather has gotten warmer and my activity level has increased, I’ve also noticed another shift: more frequent bag changes.
For the first time, I’ve started mentally preparing myself for emergency bag changes in the woods. Given how much time I expect to spend building trails this summer, it feels inevitable that at some point the Mid-Atlantic heat and humidity will take their toll and I’ll have to deal with one.
Oddly enough, I’m not overly worried about it anymore.
That alone says a lot about how far things have come.
Over the last several months, I’ve slowly been learning not to push recklessly, to listen to my body more carefully, and to understand the difference between effort and overdoing it—a lesson I learned the hard way, and likely one of the reasons I’m dealing with a hernia now.
That mindset is what allows me to head back into the woods now—not trying to prove anything, but simply ready to begin building again.
When I first asked myself whether I’d ever be able to ride again, trail building was part of that question too, even if I never said it out loud. Riding bikes and building trails have always gone hand in hand for me. One was never completely separate from the other.
Now, despite the limitations and adjustments, I’m grateful to still be part of both.
And eventually, I’ll get to ride those new ribbons of dirt I helped create.
This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.