Adaptive Curmudgeon

My truck’s air conditioned cab was luxurious after getting roasted in the sun all day. Shortly after sunset, I wound up eating dinner at the only place I could find, a bar that was absolutely filled with drunks. Not a mask in sight, because why would there be?

The food was surprisingly good. Slowly accepting that I was physically spent, I decided to drink iced tea(!) rather than beer. One beer might put me to sleep! Still rehydrating. I drank three huge iced teas like I’d just crawled in from the desert. In a way, I had.

Then I was back in the truck for the long drive home. I had the radio on. I’d tuned to a talk show which I was ignoring. Eventually, I stopped to take a piss and left the FM yammering away.

While fumbling about I noticed I’d bruised my leg. I probed carefully, no blood. That made sense. My protective gear is meant for a street bike. It’ll slide along pavement in a crash but it hadn’t absorbed the direct strike when I’d slammed into a tree. It could have been worse. The tear resistant fabric had kept the bark from gouging my leg. Any day you don’t need stitches is a good one.

“How ‘bout that Honey Badger?” I shouted to my motorcycle on it’s trailer while pissing under the full moon… which is quite the image if you think about it. “You got both mirrors knocked loose and I’ve been bruised. Battle scars!”

I’m not completely insane so the bike didn’t talk back. Yet.

Back inside the truck I massaged my leg a bit and started pondering better protective gear. I really need boots and now riding pants had risen in priority. Due to my foolishness, Ibuprofen would be part of my routine for a few days. But that’s not too bad considering the risk I’d taken.

“A risk you take…” The radio was saying.

My curiosity was piqued. What interesting radio topic had matched my inner thoughts?

“They crawl all over you so it’s hard to stop… but it’s still a hazard to be cognizant of…”

What hazard crawls all over you? They had my full attention now.

“Your cat can get Covid from you so…”

What. The. Fuck!

It was NPR. Goddammit! America’s ever-present, continuously preaching, massively woke, propaganda distribution system never sleeps.

Some unaccomplished retread was interviewing a balless wonder. The topic was ‘how to make sure your housecat is safe from Covid’. That’s the ‘hazard’ they were talking about. I listened a bit more just in case it was satire. Does Babylon Bee do radio?

It wasn’t satire. They were serious, or at least as serious as something that unserious can be. Does a cat owner’s vaccine protect the cat during risky behavior, like letting fluffy sit on your lap?

It’s a fucking cat. It shits in a box! It’ll eat a raw mouse. Cats lick their own balls until we cut their balls off to keep them from making more useless damn cats.

Yet, this was a “hazard”. This was “risk”. NPR’s limp, ineffectual, soyboy, losers were evaluating the “physical dangers” of petting a housecat! In a world where desperate people fall off airplanes trying to flee Afghanistan, NPR used its vast network of antenna for a call-in show about how Covid might make a cat sick or the cat might inexplicably give it back to you. These people walk among us.

Can there be anything more pathetic? Some of us crash through the forest in a chaotic symphony of fear and exhilaration. Others, fear to pet a cat.

Anyone who’s so afraid of illness that they worry the cat will die… they’re completely irrelevant. Consulting their opinion is like taking advice from a houseplant. What does it know about being human? What has it done? Where has it gone? What wisdom has its unfulfilled life of photosynthesis taught it that we, the people who actually live, can use?

America is best when we ignore cessile, inert, semi-sentient, weaklings. Without the spark of life that makes the world so wonderful, they crawl up their own ass and weep while clutching cell phones. They may not know it, but they’re dead already. They’re not at the boisterous bar I just left. They’re not on the dusty mountainside where I spent a delightful afternoon. They’re not pissing in the grass under a full moon. They’re just… nothing. Being so deeply deeply deeply risk averse they’ve taken the glorious gift of life and turned it into a mockery. A lifestyle of waiting for the clock to run out.

The biggest tragedy in modern society is when we equate people who do with those that talk. Gutless losers don’t belong at the adult table with the rest of us. Don’t ask their opinion about anything. Give ‘em a juice box and a pat on the head. Then send ‘em back to their padded collegiate playpen where they can live out their days amassing debt and wallowing in fear.

I can’t express enough how much of a relief it was to be among people who aren’t whiny little bitches. If the long slow drag of societal collapse is getting you down, go find people who aren’t wimps. Society is still fucked, but you’ll feel better.

Driving toys though nature is good clean fun. It’s non-political, joyous frivolity. Nature is the final arbiter. If you’re a gutless wimp… or a dipshit… the terrain will sooner or later cut you down. It used to feel like the whole world had this level of vitality.

Just as limp, weak, soyboys can’t play in this sandbox, neither can the indolent. You need to come with your own machine. If you can’t do that you’d better weld one out of junk (which is, frankly a lot more manly than financing at 15% APR). If you can’t buy or build, then get your shit together. Work more hours and save up some bank! This ‘aint rocket surgery.

Think of all the clueless dipshits who go to college and write essays about how society would be better if everything (including college) was free. They clog up the arteries of learning and start undermining the foundations of society. Why? Because they’re too goddamn weak to find meaning elsewhere. The morning dump taken by a 19 year old who slept that night in a tent next to his own well used ATV, has more soul (and ambition!) than a 25 year old journalism major still in school.

Folks were of all ages. The crowd was mostly younger than me but some grandfathers cheerfully drove about; taking tykes on tours in beefy, well crafted UTVs that only a well funded retirement could produce. Their machines make a 1970’s Jeep look like the Flinstones’ car. Sometimes the tyke got to steer! No safety Nazis out here.

Younger people on ATVs (either freed from the tykes or having not yet produced them) frolicked. That’s the word for it. They were frolicking. No Karen at an HOA has ever frolicked like this crowd!

They had found an epic mudpit. Rumor had it the muck went to the center of the earth. They’d set out to test that theory. They’d not so much driven through it as gone swimming. They’d churned finely ground mud into every nook and cranny of human and machine alike.

The gathering wasn’t all men. There were women among the ATV sect; mostly a few sweet grandmotherly types and a handful of mud caked hotties that knew how to rock Daisy Dukes. (I like to think the former were once the latter. Grandpa with his four seat UTV and grandma sitting beside him were once young and stupid too. Good for them.)

Sadly, there were no Daisy Duke clad hotties among the motorcyclists. Whether this is by chance or physics is hard to tell. My theory is that dirt bikes are simply too dangerous and powerful to appeal to the fairer sex. Call me a misogynist if you wish but physics matters. Short light Lucy Lu needs a team of CGI experts to beat up the 250 pound linebacker in the movies. That sort of thinking won’t fly in the real world. When a tall 750cc Suzuki land rocket hurls a pine at you, shit happens at the speed of broken arm and steering involves the body as much as handlebars. This is why there are always more ATVs and UTVs than motorcycles at any trail head.

ATVs, with advanced suspension and (can you imagine it?) power steering, are simply more approachable. They partially, if not completely, eliminate the physicality. UTVs go even further. They have a steering wheel fer crissakes! A steering wheel and automatic transmission are about as simple as life can get. It is said that God created man and Sam Colt made them equal. Maybe the Honda Pioneer opened the forest to the whole of humanity?

If you think I’m barking up the wrong tree, I’ll point out that I’m decades older than the “average” dirt bike rider. I’m new at this but haven’t met one my age yet. At some time, possibly soon, I will probably age out.

After passing the mudpit of discovery (and gandering a few muck soaked Daisy Dukes), I’d gone solo onto singletrack. Singletrack, as you can gather from the name, is a trail with only one track. Everything from a pickup truck to an ATV leaves two tracks… except motorcycles. Thus, singletrack is narrow and cagey. Created of, for, and by motorcycles, they wind through the forest in a way you have to see to believe. This was my first experience with singletrack. Some of these trails had been… difficult. I’d ground, churned, sweated, and bounced through trails I’d have struggled to traverse on foot. It’s amazing these trails are available! Our society has warning signs on a Roomba, yet singletrack is a thing that exists.

ATVs can’t go on singletrack. Sometimes because the terrain was too limiting for them to even try. Other times because they’d nuke the trail. Simply put, once a herd of ATVs traverse anything, the trail is now a good 48” wide… even if they made it that way simply by crushing vegetation and hammering skidplates into the rocks. My machine is legally fine for singletrack, but it’s hard on me. It’s a pretty physical endeavor. I felt out of my league on the toughest sections.

Some bureaucrat labeled my class of machine “OHM” for “off highway motorcycles”. The fact that “dirt bike” was too simple and logical tells you everything you need to know about bureaucracy. “Lets invent a three word phrase and ensuing acronym for a bike that rides on dirt.”

My OHM is also street legal. The core dirt biking crowd eschews street legal requirements as “useless”. Turn signals will inevitably get slicked off when they slip through a 20” gap between trees. (Full disclosure, I tore off one turn signal last year. I’ve since replaced with very small ones… meant to hide under the protective cargo rack.) Other details are equally unnecessary to them; like cargo racks… and comfort. Their seats are narrow and hard as a two by four, because they’ll be standing on the footpegs like a horse jockey anyway. All that matters is minimal weight, maximum power, and all the suspension travel science can muster. Who needs a license plate? Trailer it there. Once you’re on site, stand on the pegs, and bring it! If you fuck up, you’ll die like a man.

I didn’t quite belong on the singletrack. However, I’d made it back in one piece… so maybe I do belong.

Back at the trail head, I took my brand new and thoroughly filthy RotoPax water carrier off my bike. I took a swig. I’d been carrying 1 full gallon of water! An easy 7 pounds of “unnecessary” weight. I took off the equally heavy 1 gallon gas can and topped off the bike’s tank. I figure 20 pounds total for rack, carrier, and fluids. Scandalous!

I was pleased. This was the first test of my new system and it had been more through than I’d planned. They’d held up well.

The water tasted delicious. The hotter and more exhausted you are, the more water tastes like bliss. I drank deeply… including the pine needle and dust that somehow got on the screw cap… which only made it taste better. The fellas nodded and sipped their beer. I braced myself, time for human interaction:

“Today was my first time on singletrack.” I offered.

“You’re shitting me? You started here?”

“Yeah. It’s harder than it looks.”

“Here? Your first run?”

“Uh yeah. Why not?”

“It’s pretty gnarly back there.” This made me feel better. It had indeed been a struggle.

“I didn’t know there were different levels. I just took turns at random.”

“Did you take 384?” The trails are numbered. Half the time I’d been lost but I knew I’d started on 384 (even if I don’t know where I’d ended). The path had split and turned cris-crossed and I gave up looking for navigational clues. I just kept trying to stay upright. About when I was going to say “fuck this” and accept singletrack had beaten me… maybe I’d build a cabin and live there forever… it dumped out on an ATV/OHM shared trail. The shared trail was like a highway after the goat path I’d been on. After that, I turned in accordance with the position of the sun and followed the sky back to my truck.

“Yeah.”

“How did you like the sidehill?”

I shuddered. “I was too scared to shit myself!”

They loved that! There was a chorus of whoops and beer can salutes.

One, who had never really gotten over my bike’s strange appearance, had to ask. “How’d that big tire do?”

“I dunno.” I answered honestly. “I’m here. It did the job. I’ve never ridden a regular dirt bike. I don’t know if it was a problem or not.”

He seemed disappointed. Perhaps he hoped to mock the unfamiliar design. I decided to offer a little something to cheer him up.

“I whacked both mirrors on trees” I offered. “Gotta’ get something that folds up.”

That did cheer him up. And also it was true. After several strikes both mirrors were loose. (Later that weekend I took a 14mm wrench and tightened them back down. I’ve learned my “street legal” mirrors are just as vulnerable as the turn signal I crushed in 2020.)

“And barkbusters,” the other offered sagely. Bark busters are protective reinforcements that wrap around in front of your hands to keep you from either breaking a hand or tearing off a brake/clutch lever when (not if but when!) you fall or smash into a tree. He was right! I’d decided, just about two hours ago, that I needed them urgently! Luckily, I only whacked my hand on a little sapling. Consider it mother nature offering a friendly warning.

“You got up that hill with only 200cc?”

“Yeah, why not? How fat do you think I am?”

They loved that too. I’d guessed their bikes were all in the 750cc range. One launched into a description of torque versus horsepower while his friend nodded in agreement. Folks out here know math and physics better than a Harvard grad.

“You’ll have to forgive Bill,” the third guy waved at the skeptic of small motors, “dude’s a nut. He hasn’t used a brake yet. When he wants to stop he just hits a tree.”

“Just that one time…” Bill defended himself and this set off a ten minute series of stories and jokes that marked Bill as the official madman of the group. I enjoyed every minute of it.

Too soon it was time to go. Bill was determined to find something about me to mock. He settled on my beard. As I climbed in my truck and rolled out, all too aware that three sets of eyes were dying to see me back into a tree, he said “See ya’ in December Santa Claus.”

And that’s how I came to roll out of the trail head with a hearty “Ho ho ho motherfuckers!”

The trail head was an access point for a network of ATV/UTV trails and an overlain mesh of motorcycle-only trails. Miles and miles of trail on our forest. The forests of the American people.

Imagine that! Some tiny vestigial organs of the behemoth that is the current government still serve Americans (even deplorables!). Here, far from DC, the idea that we are subjects to be manipulated rather than citizens to be served hasn’t gained traction. The logic is this: “Americans want to drive through the forest like rabid monkeys. So setup an outhouse and a parking lot; draw a line around an area and let them have at it. It’s their forest.” How quaint!

Not long ago (as recently as 2019?) I’d expect this happy synergy to last generations. Now, I’m not so sure. In 2020, people who normally ride subways ordered campsite outhouses closed in the name of “social distancing”. How unaware they must be! Cowering in their condominiums, ordering Uber eats and streaming Netflix, all so they can boss around farmers and ranchers who live in the real world. Our word for “socially distanced” is Tuesday.

How long until Kremlin on the Potomac wrecks this too? A declaration that National Forests are meant only for Karens who vote correctly. “You want to ride a snowmobile trail? If so, listen to your mandatory allotment of NPR and show us your medical paperwork.” Gluten free, leased, monitored, electric iScooters governed to walking speed? Is it impossible? Not at all. Watch National Parks fellate e-bikes while they sneer at a gas scooter.

All I can say is it hasn’t happened yet.

Some trails were for ATVs/UTVs, some for motorcycles, many for both. A few “roads” were suitable (barely) for jeeps and trucks. Sadly, nothing here was meant for horses. This is probably for the best; the ATVs and motorcycles and support trucks and RVs and trailers and so forth would send a skittish horse into hysterics. They’d do the same to the average “journalism major”.

I was happy to interact with folks at the trail head. These are my people. Actual living breathing Americans. They aren’t lame. They’re not damaged. They’re not angry. They’re not demanding anyone join them or be like them. They don’t give a shit about your opinion on Covid. They don’t care about your opinion in general. What you do is your problem, not theirs.

They’re content, chaotic, and happy. Theirs is a dirt paradise and they love it.

Tents and RVs were scattered about. There was no particular order to camping arrangements, because there didn’t need to be. There was no fee for camping. Why should there be? There were no services other than an ancient outhouse and a dirt spot for parking. What more could anyone need?

Americans and personally owned internal combustion engines are a match made in heaven. This is probably why politicians spend so much time trying to crush them. Take James Dean’s bike and what’s left? An emo in a cool jacket? A ‘rebel without a cause’ moping on the stained plastic seat of a light rail car?

A deplorable on a Suzuki might be a noisy, mud spattered ruffian, but a college student waiting at a bus stop is a pawn on a vote farmer’s chessboard.

Some of the more motivated folks were making field expedient repairs to their equipment; often surrounded by an audience. Isn’t it better for the heart to watch someone using JB Weld to patch up a swingarm than stream a TikTok of a non-binary weirdo whining about depression?

It was a heady mix of nature, machinery, and reckless bravado; imagine if the guys from Mad Max went on holiday. Where would they go? What would they do? They’d be drinking Bud Light on a mountainside while tuning their desert racers. My happy tribe of Americans looked only slightly tamer than the half naked oiled Australian body builders who were actors in a silly movie.

Each machine that roared off on a trail would return in due time. Some returned damaged. In general, scratches and dents are treasured battle scars. Each damaged ATV came with a story:

“Jim just hammered it! You shoulda’ seen it. It was awesome! But the headlight bracket got bent up.”

“Did you get it on video?”

“Hell yeah! We already sent it to his old lady, she’s pissed!”

“Why?”

“Turns out that’s her ATV! His is in the shop!”

“That’s some funny shit!”

Cell service did detract a little from the fun (in my opinion). Most of the places I ride are “off grid”. But everyone else was enjoying it. Photos of torn plastic body cladding were sent off to the hive mind. I assume they became Facebook posts; meant to be assessed by like minded people scattered all over this great nation.

Why not? If you wish to claim entry into mechanical Valhalla, smashing an ATV to bits on a cliff face is as good a place to start as any.

If you’re feeling down, go visit the beating red heart of flyover country. The people are strong and vital and happy and… this is very important so pay attention…. they aren’t chickenshits.

More later…

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…