KOMs, Comments, and Catty Threads: Surviving Your Local MTB Facebook Group

A Survival Guide for the Modern Mountain Biker

Ah yes, mountain biking — that pure, dirt-splattered thrill that was supposed to be our escape from the chaos of modern life. A way to unplug, hit the trails, and maybe rip down a line fast enough to forget that emails, deadlines, and HOA newsletters even exist. That is, until you joined your local MTB Facebook group.

Now, instead of quietly celebrating a new trail feature or sharing a post-ride beer, you're caught in the comment crossfire of a 74-reply thread about whether 2.5" tires are "too wide for real riders" or if someone "ruined" the flow trail by moving a rock. You just wanted to find someone to ride with. Now you're debating the ethics of e-bikes with a guy named Randy who hasn't updated his profile picture since the Bush administration.

Fast forward six months, and you're refreshing your phone every five minutes, checking if Brad_ShredsMTB_24/7 has finally acknowledged your comment about tire pressure. Welcome to the digital rabbit hole of modern mountain biking, where the trails are virtual and the drama is very, very real.

The Facebook Trailhead: Where Good Intentions Go to Die

It all starts innocently enough. You join the group hoping to meet some fellow dirt nerds. Maybe get tips on where the trails are riding best, or catch wind of a weekend shuttle. But before long, you've learned the harsh truth: the most technical terrain isn't on the mountain — it's navigating group dynamics online.

Local mountain bike Facebook groups start with the best intentions. Someone creates a space to share trail conditions, organize rides, and build community. It's beautiful in theory—like communism or planning to wake up early for dawn patrol rides. In practice? Well, let's just say if you wanted to witness the complete breakdown of civil discourse, you could either watch cable news or ask your local MTB group about e-bikes. The response will be roughly the same level of measured, rational discussion.

Want to ask an honest question about gear? Prepare for a deluge of unsolicited opinions, half of which contradict each other. Dare to suggest that Trail X might be getting a bit blown out? Oh, you're that guy now. And heaven forbid you post a ride photo that includes a backpack. (Apparently, packs are for "noobs" now? Who knew hydration was such a crime.)

Somewhere between the gear flexes and digital turf wars over who "built that trail first" (even though it was obviously there before they were born), you start to realize maybe this isn't the chill, ride-loving community you hoped for.

The Cast of Characters You'll Meet

The Trail Oracle: This person has been riding local trails since before suspension existed and will remind you of this fact approximately every third post. They know every rock, every root, and every land management decision dating back to the Carter administration. Their trail beta is usually solid, but it comes with a 45-minute lecture about "how things used to be."

The Strava Warrior: Everything is about segments. They don't ride trails; they "hunt KOMs." They know every segment name, every previous record holder, and can tell you exactly why their FTP is more impressive than yours. They treat Strava like a full-time job and seem genuinely confused when you mention riding for "fun."

The Gear Guru: Owns $12,000 worth of equipment and still can't clean the easiest features at the local trails. Will spend forty-seven paragraphs explaining why their new derailleur hanger is revolutionary while avoiding any mention of actually riding their bike.

The Drama Llama: Lives for controversy. Will turn a simple "anyone want to ride Sunday?" post into a heated debate about trail access, land use ethics, and why everyone else is ruining mountain biking. Somehow always has time to argue online but is mysteriously absent from actual group rides.

The Local Trailhead Influencer™: You know the type. They roll up to the parking lot with more decals than a NASCAR driver, a GoPro on their helmet, and a side-eye reserved for anyone not running the exact gear they recommend on Facebook. They somehow know everyone — or claim to — and speak with the kind of authority usually reserved for forest rangers or minor deities. They might not be faster than you, but they know the land manager personally and once had lunch with someone from IMBA, so... obviously, they're the boss of the woods. Ignore the fact they spend more time moderating posts and correcting trail names online than actually riding.

Strava: The Social Media App Disguised as Fitness

Then there's Strava. What began as a handy GPS tool has morphed into a dopamine-soaked leaderboard of local legends, PRs, and KOM drama. The app that transformed exercise from personal satisfaction into public performance art. It's brilliant, really—take something as simple as going for a bike ride and turn it into a complex social hierarchy based on imaginary internet points.

Forget keeping up with the Joneses — now you're chasing a KOM set by a guy who probably strapped his phone to a mountain lion to beat your descent time.

The Strava Spiral

It starts innocently enough. You download the app to track your rides. "I just want to see my mileage," you tell yourself. Three weeks later, you're planning routes based on segment placement and checking your phone mid-ride because Janet from accounting just stole your QOM on "Moderate Climb to Nowhere Special."

Every ride becomes a performance. You don't ride trails anymore, you upload them. You don't look at sunsets, you look at segments. And when your ride doesn't sync to Strava? Might as well not have ridden at all, right?

Soon you're riding with your phone out, checking splits in real-time like you're in the Tour de France instead of grinding up the fire road you've climbed a hundred times. You start timing your bathroom breaks because stopping your Garmin might mess up your average speed. Somewhere along the way, the app designed to help you track progress turned into a weird game of Strava Hunger Games, with people bombing descents on bald tires just to shave three seconds off a climb called "Rooty McRootersen."

The KOM Curse

King of the Mountain segments are Strava's masterstroke of psychological manipulation. Take a random section of trail, slap an arbitrary start and finish line on it, and suddenly grown adults are treating it like an Olympic event.

The problem isn't wanting to go fast—that's part of the fun. The problem is when your entire ride experience becomes defined by a leaderboard that probably includes several people using e-bikes, cars, or creative GPS editing. You're not racing against other riders; you're racing against an algorithm and the honor system. Meanwhile, the actual mountain is sitting right there, offering genuine adventure that can't be quantified in watts per kilogram.

When Digital Drama Becomes Your Full-Time Job

Here's where things get weird. Somewhere between arguing about tire pressure in the Facebook group and obsessing over your Strava segments, mountain biking stops being something you do and starts being something you are—at least online. You develop strong opinions about people you've never met based on their posting frequency. You know more about Random_Rider_Gary's training schedule than your own family's calendar. You're emotionally invested in internet arguments about whether that one rock garden counts as a black diamond or just a really aggressive blue.

The local trailhead becomes less about riding and more about establishing your position in the social hierarchy. Who gets the nod? Who's part of the cool kids' group ride? Who posted the controversial opinion about trail maintenance that everyone's talking about? Suddenly, you're spending more time managing your mountain bike persona than actually mountain biking.

The Real Ride Is Out There: Where Community Actually Happens

But here's the good news: none of that nonsense matters when you're actually out riding.

While you're busy curating your digital trail presence, something magical is happening in the analog world. Real mountain bike community—the kind that actually matters—is thriving in bike shops, on group rides, and around post-ride beer conversations.

The best conversations happen while pushing bikes up a punchy climb, not while defending your stance on tire pressure in a 17-person thread. Real friendships form at trailheads and tailgates, not under an endless scroll of ride screenshots. And you know where that kind of community still thrives? Your local bike shop — like The Shad Co.

The Shad Co. isn't just a place to pick up brake pads and eye up that titanium hardtail you definitely don't need. It's where you hear about group rides, get honest opinions on gear (without the snark), and bump into the same people who'll high-five you after a good ride — whether or not you uploaded it to Strava.

Places like The Shad Co. understand something that Facebook groups and Strava segments can't replicate: authentic connection happens when you put down the phone and pick up a conversation. It's where you learn about trails from people who've actually ridden them recently, where you get honest gear advice from folks who aren't trying to build their influencer brand, and where someone will actually help you fix your bike instead of just posting a link to a YouTube video.

Real community is the shop mechanic who stays late to get your bike ready for the weekend. It's the person who stops their ride to help you fix a flat. It's the group that welcomes new riders without requiring them to prove their Strava credentials first. It's also showing up for trail work days, supporting local advocacy efforts, and treating other trail users with respect—none of which generates likes or kudos, but all of which builds the foundation for sustainable mountain biking.

The Antidote: Radical Offline Living

So, if you're feeling a little burned out on the digital side of your hobby, maybe it's time to log off for a bit. Ditch the drama. Mute the notifications. Let someone else argue about 27.5 vs 29. You've got dirt to shred, friends to meet, and a few good lines left to session before sundown.

Here's a revolutionary idea: what if you rode your bike... just to ride your bike? Try this experiment. Leave your phone in the car. Don't start your Garmin. Don't plan to post about it later. Just ride. Notice how different it feels when your only audience is yourself and maybe a few curious squirrels.

Ride the "wrong" direction on your favorite loop. Stop at that viewpoint you usually blast past. Take the mellow trail instead of the one with seventeen Strava segments. Talk to other riders you meet instead of immediately checking if they follow you on Instagram. Join group rides where the only requirement is showing up with a working bike and a good attitude. Participate in trail maintenance where the reward is knowing you made something better, not documenting it for social media. Spend time at your local bike shop talking about bikes instead of scrolling through your feed. Support the businesses that support your riding community. Build relationships with the people who keep your trails open and your bike running.

The Real Trail Ahead

Mountain biking is supposed to be an escape, not another source of social pressure and digital anxiety. The best rides aren't the ones that generate the most online engagement—they're the ones that leave you grinning like an idiot, covered in dust, and planning the next adventure.

Your local Facebook group will survive without your constant participation. Your Strava segments will be there when you get back. The internet drama will continue whether you're refreshing the comments or not.

But the trail is calling right now. The weather is perfect. Your bike is ready. And somewhere out there is a section of singletrack that doesn't care about your online persona, your digital stats, or your social media following. It just wants you to ride it. Because at the end of the day, nobody ever looked back on their favorite ride and said, "Man, I'm just glad I got those sweet kudos."

So maybe, just maybe, it's time to log off and roll out. The likes can wait. The trails can't.

Now go ride your damn bike. We'll see you at The Shad Co. — where the Wi-Fi is weak, but the stoke is strong.

Remember: The Shad Co. is where riders become friends, not followers. Stop by for real talk about real trails with real people who understand that the best mountain biking happens when you're too busy having fun to document it.