I shifted my Dodge into drive and rolled down the window. I hit the gas just hard enough to break the dual rear wheels loose and toss up a little dirt; a thing both appreciated and celebrated in this crowd. Before I rolled out of sight I waved and shouted at the top of my lungs “Ho Ho Ho Motherfuckers!”
This gained me a hail of raucous cheers and uplifted beer cans.
“That”, I thought, “is a proper exit!”
Wanna’ hear the rest of the story? Here goes:
It had been a great day. The air was (for once) clean and healthy. (Persistent forest fire smoke has kicked my ass all summer.) A shift in the wind had brought clear air for the weekend. I’d savored every moment.
I’d been hard at it… enjoying the hell out of life. I had that post-fun grin we all love. It had been blistering hot and I was soaked in sweat. I was covered with dust. I was tired. My knee was sore. Perfect!
Sunset was approaching as I gingerly pushed Honey Badger (my new-ish but well broken in Yamaha TW200 dirt bike) onto its trailer. I basked in that special and happy moment. It included all the things a small time adventurer does after their particular activity is done. Whatever part of the spectrum you choose, anything from a birdwatcher sauntering along a paved trail to a hard core mountaineer on the ragged edge, if you do instead of talk, you’re familiar with the happy glow of completion.
There’s a ritual to wrapping things up. It’s a time to reflect and (hopefully) bask in actual, non-bullshit personal accomplishment. I was pleased; everything went well when it could have gone badly, risks had been successfully managed, natural beauty had been written to the memory banks of the soul, stories had been lived so they can be retold in the future. The ritual is how you demobilize and return to the life of mundane hollow chested modernity; stow your equipment, brush the dust off your face, settle in a comfortable cab for the long drive home, and scheme perhaps to find a cold beer on the way. I secured tie-down straps, tossed my helmet in the truck’s back seat, peeled off protective motorcycle gear, checked for the fifteenth time that my truck keys were at hand, and sat on the tailgate to rest.
I was spent. I’d had just about all the fun I could handle. Excellent!
All this was observed by three men sharing this corner of the trail head. They were half my age and comfortable in their natural habitat; probably more at home there than in their living room. One was barefoot; all were wearing cutoffs and tattered t-shirts. Do I need to mention they were drinking cheap beer? They were sitting in lawn chairs around an unnecessary fire. They had tents setup on the gravel. A few coolers. Two trucks and a van between them. Their three motorcycles were parked in the shade nearby. They’d been watching me in the hopes of entertainment. Nothing generates a quality faceplant like a noob loading a motorcycle.
I’d loaded the bike efficiently and smoothly. Even if I was tired, I looked like I knew my shit.
“Thought I was gonna’ drop it, didja?” I taunted.
“We’d have helped you… after laughing of course.” One smiled.
“What the fuck is that thing?” Another asked.
“Look at that tire!” The third puzzled.
I’ll interrupt the boring detailed technical talk of hobbyists chattering about their chosen obsession to explain what was going on here. They were what I’ve taken to calling “real dirt bikers”. I am not. However, I am real, I’m a biker, and I ride on the dirt… it’s just that I do my thing solo and slowly. Off road motorcycles are a minority in the ATV/UTV world. A lone off road biker who rides slowly? Virtually unknown! We were opposites in demeanor brought together by shared terrain.
Honey Badger is an archaic 200cc four stroke mule. It is and always has been “farm equipment”. I am happy to operate in the performance envelope of farm equipment. I get where I want to go, but it’s not pretty.
Across the dirt of the trail head, the three bikes parked in the shade were different. Built not just with different goals but for a different dimension of existence. They’re impressive! Modern miracles of engineering and suspension, they have no less than twice the displacement and easily triple the horsepower of my unimposing mount. They cost at least double my purchase price (new in 2020) too.
My motorcycle uses fat tires (huge traction) and torque to get where it wants to go… eventually. It’s engine is perfect for the torque band I need; but it sounds like a lawnmower and looks like a toy. Their engines rev sooooo much higher! They scream challenges at the universe itself. They tear at rocks, and bound over logs. They’re like dragons out to disembowel anything that slows them down. They race each other, and themselves, and time itself.
Nature is the arena in which we both play, but it’s part of my being and a mere game field for them. It’s their well appreciated, ever changing, racetrack which allows greater challenges than man-made environs. We both avoid pavement. What is pavement but the absence of uncertainty? But I wander about like a vagabond or stalk like a hunter while they charge en mass. A wheeled steeple chase compared to a mechanized backpacker.
They’ll vault whatever obstacle is in their way. As soon as they’ve surmounted one obstacle they’re on the lookout for the next. I don’t vault obstacles. If I can, I’ll go around. If I can’t go around, I’ll gear down and tractor over. I’m in no hurry. I don’t look graceful or heroic. Compared to their bravado, I ride with the excitement of a tax return.
This suits me. I keep thinking of places I could go and things I could carry for when I get there. I’ve carried a cooler. I’ve experimented (unsuccessfully) with fishing poles. Could I haul out a deer? My three new acquaintances are about rocketing through scenery in which I’ll gladly dither. Neither is superior, we’re just different. Nature doesn’t give a shit, she doesn’t take sides.
My bike also spends time deep in the forest with the engine off. If I find a nice view or feel like looking for raspberries the bears might have missed I’ll shut down, hop off, ditch the helmet, and wander about. Sometimes I sit on a log and listen to the breeze. I’ve been known to take a nap; sprawled on the forest floor. I probably look like a gunshot victim (!) just lying there.
They eyed my equipment with suspicion. My bike is loaded with a bunch of stuff; water, food, matches, my SpotX, toilet paper, etc… Taken as a whole, it’s the basic “survive anything” kit. They carry nothing at all. They travel in packs and count on numbers for protection.
Ironically, on their person it’s the opposite. They wear enough armor to bounce off a tree and laugh. Juxtapose this with the rolling mishmash of gear I wear. I’m still procrastinating on buying proper boots! (I have some protective gear but it was intended for and used to ride a cruiser through Death Valley on paved roads.) We both wear helmets.
We exchanged friendly greetings across a gulf of goals and experiences. The trio of tall, lean, young men equipped with tall, lean, fast dirt bikes amiably bantered with the old, solo, forest dweller and his obscure farm machine.
That’s the thing you won’t get if you ingest social media. This “hopelessly divided nation” is not utterly divided at all. To the contrary, much of the “division” is the damned projecting their inner turmoil on the society around them. The soul of the media addict is torn asunder; but from within. The majority of the hinterland is just plain happy folks. We who hang out with trees and rocks, have none of the problems of internally inconsistent philosophies. Propaganda drives spikes into the mind, but much deeper into those who would make Utopia on earth. The cure to mental poison is a sunny day spent under the pines.
We got along fabulously. Instead of bickering about trail rights, we happily agreed that it’s better to be there… on that trail head at that hot late afternoon hour… than almost anywhere else on earth.
They’d been camping there three days. They’d ridden most of that time but had decided the afternoon sun was too hot and they’d rather drink beer. So that’s what they’d done. I’d ridden in the heat. I was caked in sweat. They’d shown more wisdom than I.
More to follow…
