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!”
