I used to think electric mountain bikes were for people who couldn’t hack it.
And then I became one of those people.
Eight months ago, I made the switch to an EMTB. Not because I wanted to coast or cut corners, but because my body gave me no other choice. After years of hard riding, heavy lifting, and leading through stress that buried itself deep in my spine, my body finally said enough.
A tear in my shoulder.
Two tears in each hip.
Bulging discs in both my lumbar and cervical spine.
I was in pain every day. Still am, some days.
Last summer, I had injections in my vertebrae just to get through. Then in October, I tried stem cells in both hips, hoping to give myself a fighting chance. I didn’t want to quit riding. I couldn’t. Riding is how I pray. How I reset. How I remember who I am when everything else feels too heavy.
But something had to change.
So I got a Specialized EMTB.
And it changed everything.
Let me be clear: this isn’t a cop-out.
This is what allowed me to keep showing up to the trail when my body was ready to quit.
This is what turned pain into play again.
I can still push. I still sweat. I still climb and bomb and take lines that make no sense to anyone but me. But now, I have help. I have momentum. I have freedom.
The EMTB isn’t easier. It’s smarter.
It doesn’t ride for me. It rides with me.
It gives me the confidence to cross busy intersections quicker—something that matters more than most people think, especially in a town where cars don’t expect to see guys like me flying through side streets with a mission. It helps me stay ahead of traffic, of danger, of distraction. I can respond faster, ride harder, and most importantly—ride longer.
This bike gave me my ride back.
And with it, came joy.
Not the pride-filled kind of joy that comes from muscling through. But the free kind—the kind that says, “I’m still here. I’m still doing what I love. And I don’t have to suffer to prove anything.”
That was the hardest part to let go of, by the way. The need to prove.
To prove that I could keep up.
To prove that I wasn’t broken.
To prove that even with the injuries and the job loss and the weight of everything—I was still strong.
But the EMTB reminded me that strength doesn’t always mean going the hard way.
Sometimes it means adapting.
Sometimes it means choosing grace.
Sometimes it means riding with the current, not against it.
When I’m out there now, I feel like a kid again.
The trails are fun again.
The risk feels manageable again.
The reward is still there—just without the same cost to my body.
And the best part? I’ve started riding more.
Morning. Night. Midday resets when the world gets loud and my mind gets tangled.
It’s like I found a new gear in life—one I didn’t know existed.
For the ones who are wondering if EMTBs are cheating, let me ask you something:
Is it cheating to keep going when everything in your body tells you to stop?
Is it cheating to find a way forward when the old path isn’t possible anymore?
Is it cheating to fall in love with the ride again?
Because if it is, I’ll take the L.
Because this ride has brought me more healing than any medicine ever has.
I know not everyone will get it.
But maybe someone reading this needs to.
Maybe your ride has changed.
Maybe your life has shifted.
Maybe you’re trying to white-knuckle your way through a season that needs more grace and less grit.
This bike didn’t make me weak.
It made me free.
And freedom is always worth the switch.
—Jason
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