Sadly, a nicely inflated meetup ended with a flat tire.
My worst flat tire happened on a fire road in West Virginia. A year ealier the road was just plain dirt and I could attain a terminal velocity around 50 mph in a tucked position for the high speed downhill on a titanium mountain bike. (currently I own three titanium bikes)
The following year Mike and I returned with two other friends, and on the very same downhill things rapidly got squirelly and outa control because now the road that once was just dirt the year before was now covered with railroad gravel.
Vinney and I were side by side starting our descent when I heard the wizzing sound of a tire making the phase shifting sound like a Leslie speaker with a rotating horn.
I pointed to Vinney and then to his rear wheel, but Vinney shook his head and then pointed his chin at me. It was then that things started to become unglued because my rear tire was collapsing quickly and I could hear the sound of rocks crushing and grinding my rim while I was doing 35 mph.
One of the things I love about mountain biking is that it really is the study of physics in real time. It is all about momentium, acceleration and your wheels and tires are gyros that you are trying to control. The thing I like about racing is that if you are not almost out of control you are not really racing, and I was kinda famous for my crashes. I kinda knew that rolling or sliding on railroad gravel at speed would make me resemble a bloody piece of gauze found at a hospital emergency room.
I knew to not jam on the brakes. It was one of those moments when time seems to slow down in a surreal manner, and reality becomes heighten by a rush of adrenalin. When I applied the brakes my rear wheel became like a skate as I by then was riding on the metal sides of the rim; I started fishtailing in wide oscilation back and forth almost like I was sking. Meanwhile I was hearing this terrifying sound of rocks hammering and destoying my rim.
It took a long-long time to come to a stop, and "HAPPILY" somehow I did not become a rather large orange sponge. Road rash is one thing: railroad rash is another. I walked my trashed bike up the hill and put on a spare rear wheel and did several runs before we went home later that day. The railroad gravel damaged the tire on the wheel I had borrowed by tearing off knobs to the bare casing, and I bought a new one to replace it when we got home.
BTW the keyloid scar on my left shoulder was from a crash the day before on a single track trail called "Tea Creek."
Cal