I live pretty close to the Jordan River Parkway, so I use it to get around a lot. Depending on the trip, that can mean anything from a two-block shortcut to the grocery store or the scenic route home from Top Golf.
At least once every couple of months, I like to ride FrontRunner down to Draper—and occasionally Lehi—and use the Jordan River Parkway to bike back to Salt Lake City. You can do a similar ride home from Ogden via a combination of rails and trails. And because everything drains into the Great Salt Lake, it's mostly downhill from either direction.
There was recently a tragic death on that northern stretch of trail—between SLC and Ogden—in which a cyclist was killed by storm debris, a quintessential act of God. It's tough to hear of any cyclist's death, but this particular tragedy was made worse by a local media outlet cluelessly shaming a second cyclist for circumventing "trail closed" signage the next day, after the storm had passed.
People hear "biker on trail" and they might picture the loop at Liberty Park or even the S-Line through Sugar House. "Bike somewhere else," they might say, confused why someone would "brazenly" enter a closed space that's proven to pose a hazard to others.
This particular trail—the Denver and Rio Grande Western Trail—is a former freight rail line. It's a straight-shot pedal masher that, for miles at a time, is cut off from other access points and parallel routes. To ask a cyclist to go around is likely to ask them to go miles in the wrong direction, on their own power, along unsafe roads and with unsafe infrastructure ... or they can try to step over a downed tree.
If it were me, the day after a death and with a "trail closed" sign in my face, I wouldn't have even hesitated. I would have gone over the top with my bike to see the blockage for myself and, if it were massive, I'd have turned around. But if it were a minor-to-moderate blockage, I would have kept going, in brazen defiance of "the rules." What's more, I would have told my son, my wife and anyone else to do the same.
I've done exactly that on the Jordan River Parkway—like after an inland hurricane buried large segments of the trail in the fall of 2020, or the various times when a sudden construction gap leaves me stranded in the urban equivalent of the middle of nowhere. I do it because it's a choice between cycling in a space that feels like the loop at Liberty Park or a space that feels like Redwood Road ... because the alternative very well could be miles of Redwood Road, or State Street, or State Route 193 in Clearfield, a five-lane surface highway with no bike lanes—the next-best option if the Rio Grande Trail is closed.
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