It started with a group text: “Sub-12 overnighter? Pisgah? Tomorrow?”

By 6:15 p.m. Wednesday, five of us were soft-pedaling out onto the greenway just outside Brevard, NC. Our bags were packed and legs a little worn from a day on job sites and in the bike shop. We weren’t chasing stats. We just needed a quick hit of dirt, a fire, and a few quiet hours under the stars before clocking back in.

Pisgah doesn't waste time. Within minutes, we were climbing into a tunnel of green—dense, humid woods, humming with life. The air was thick but cooling, and the dirt was about perfect, still holding moisture from yesterday's rain. Golden light filtered through the trees, then faded fast. By the time we reached the ridgeline, it was headlamp time. The darkness of the forest swallowed us whole.

Camp came just before dark, a flat spot by a creek we all knew. Not marked. Not official. Just good ground. We moved quietly, without needing to say much. Hammocks slung, bivies unrolled, stove flicked on. Someone coaxed a fire from wet sticks, and dinner was shared by habit: tortillas, trail mix, instant ramen, a splash of bourbon passed around a well used titanium mug.

The fire popped softly as we leaned back into the moment. Out here, there’s nothing to fix. No brakes to bleed. No concrete to bust up or hammer to swing. No customers needing tubeless refreshes before lunch. Just the woods doing their thing cicadas humming, water rushing, someone’s lo-fi playlist playing low from a Bluetooth speaker hanging off a tree branch.

At 5:45 a.m., alarms buzzed from half-zipped frame bags. The sky was barely light, but the forest was already coming alive. We moved quick—packing, filtering, chewing down crushed bars with cold water. By 6:10, we were rolling again. No chatter. Just the sound of tires cutting through dew-heavy trail.

The singletrack came fast and raw. Narrow bench cuts. Slick roots. Switchbacks you have to muscle through, then reward yourself with a silent glide down loamy corners. Our legs weren’t fresh, but the stoke was enough to carry us. We pushed each other, laughed through the near-crashes, soaked in every stretch of dirt we could get before the real world pulled us back in.

By 7:15, we were in town, dirty and buzzing. Pisgah Bakehouse was already humming, and the scent of fresh bread and hot coffee was an immediate reward. We filled a corner table with our sweaty selves, muddy bikes leaning outside, helmets hung on chairs.

Coffee. Ham and cheese croissants. Maybe the best we’ve ever had—not because of the buttery crust or melted cheddar, but because of what it followed: roots, firelight, friends, and a dawn ride through one of the best patches of forest anywhere.

By 7:45, we were brushing crumbs off our knees and swapping jerseys for shop aprons and work shirts. One of us had to open the shop. Two had job sites across town. Life doesn’t stop—but for twelve hours, we’d stepped out of it.

Dirt, fire, friendship. No cell service. No customer calls.

And still—back in time for the best damn ham and cheese croissant in Pisgah.