body couldn’t do. Where most riders flexed their ankles to pump
the bike through rollers or on jumps, Paul learned to use his upper
body. Because he couldn’t feel his feet, he’d look down at his pedals
to make sure he was still on them. And he couldn’t ride anything
with much elevation gain, so he mostly stuck to flat trails.
Then, in December 2017, Scott sent him an e-mountain bike.
When he first saw the e-Spark, it actually made him mad. What
was this, some kind of adaptive bike? He had competed in Rampage.
He didn’t need a bike with a motor.
Then he rode it up the small climb to his house and realized this
bike was going to change things.
His first opportunity, Paul headed straight to the world-famous
Flume Trail above Lake Tahoe. He climbed the steep fire road, then
f lowed along the scraggy singletrack cut into the granite moun-
tainside. He marveled at the views of the deep blue lake to his left
and at the miracle of the technology underneath him. Climbing was
still work, and Paul was no faster than the average amateur rider.
But he felt like he had his life back.
Suddenly, so many trails were a possibility. He could ride with
his friends and not worry about making them wait. Paul had already
been doing small jumps and wheelies, but on the e-bike, he did his
first nose bonk—springing off a small wooden ramp, landing on
his front wheel, and riding it out for a second—after his crash. He
celebrated by taking Nichole out to a fancy dinner that night. “I
literally didn’t sleep for two nights after that,” he laughs.
He started riding more often with his buddies who were airline
pilots. It was fun, more his speed. And even when Paul did ride
with Cam and their pro friends, the dynamic was less serious, more
about just getting into nature. Off the bike, Cam saw other changes
in his friend, too: a new openness, a sense of contentment. Paul
seemed like a happier person.
Something else happened as Paul approached the two-year mark.
He had been thinking that he still had one piece of unfinished busi-
ness from his Rampage days to attend to. For months, he prepared
for it in secret. First, he practiced standing by a wall without his
cane. When he could do that without falling or having to grab the
wall, he tried taking shaky steps. Finally, when he could walk four
or five steps consistently, he felt ready.
In October 2017, almost exactly two years after his injury, Paul
Bas stood up from his chair at a house in Malibu, California. With
the ocean in the background, and the setting sun bathing the skies
pink and gold, Paul dropped his cane and took his first unassisted
steps in public. He walked to Nichole, got down on one knee, and
asked her to marry him.
- – –
PAUL HAS BEEN looking forward to this cool, cloudy April
morning in 2019. It’s been a long, snowy winter, and this is the first
week since January that the trails have been dry enough to ride.
As he and his buddies pedal up a wide fire road through towering
sequoia stands in the Tahoe National Forest, the scent of pine
needles and spring thaw permeates the air. The motor on Paul’s
bike whirs softly.
Paul just got back from Austin, Texas, where Any One of Us
debuted at the SXSW Film Festival. People
in the audience came up to him afterward
and shared their own struggles—with SCI,
with depression. The summer will be filled
with travel to film festivals: Telluride, Colo-
rado; Newport, California.
But for now, he’s just excited to ride.
There are still many things Paul may never
do again, like wakeboard, which he loved,
or snowboard, which he and Nichole used
to do together. He still walks with a cane,
and his back fatigues after just a few blocks.
He still can’t get through an airport without
a wheelchair. But Paul really doesn’t dwell
long on what he can’t do. He’s too quick to
appreciate what he can do: take a shower
on his own, get out of bed at all, drive.
Looking back, he can’t believe he used to
take all those little things for granted. He
tells people now, it almost takes something
really bad to happen to you, to make you
appreciate what you have.
Sometimes people ask him, If you ever
recovered 100 percent, would you go compete
again, do Rampage?
The answer is a hard no. “Those days are
long gone,” says Paul. “I don’t ever care to do
a backf lip again. I would never put anybody
close to me in that situation ever again. I’m
just so glad to be able to pedal on the trail
with friends.”
The group arrives at the top of a f low trail
called the Hoot, that swoops left and right
down the mountain like the lazy tail of a
lasso. In a past life, Paul would have said
the jumps on this trail were too small, not
even fun. Today, he can’t wait to drop in.
The dirt is soft and spongy from last
night’s rain, and squishy pools lie in wait,
threatening to wash out a carelessly weighted
front tire. As Paul starts down the descent, he
takes it easy. His buddies pull away, leaving
him and his friend Matt behind. But Paul
doesn’t push to catch up. Instead, he plays.
The rider who once f lew off cliffs and roof-
tops enjoys flicking his bike over four-foot
tabletops and popping wheelies over puddles.
He stops to eye up a little hip jump, then goes
back up the trail to hit it. Matt crouches to
take a video, and Paul throws a quick, cheeky
whip for the camera. It’s nothing like what
he used to do. It’s something he was never
supposed to do again. As he coasts off, he
bounces on the pedals, as if his body cannot
contain this joy.ISSUE 5 • BICYCLING.COM 79FAR LEFT:
BECAUSE
OF HIS LIMITED
FEELING BELOW
THE KNEE, AN
ANKLE BRACE
PROTECTS
PAUL AGAINST
SPRAINS.TOP: POSTRIDE
RAINIERS.LEFT: PAUL
LEADS FRIENDS
ON THE JACKASS
TRAIL OUTSIDE
TRUCKEE,
CALIFORNIA.