[By the time you finish reading this you’ll wonder; “does this guy have some sort of creepy obsession with small mammals?” I assure you I don’t. If I’d seen a moose, or a cool helicopter, or pretty flowers, I’d have mentioned that. I’m reporting what happened and nothing more. If I seem weird, it’s only because I’m observing a weird world.]
For most of the spring, I spent far too much time wishing I could ride instead of riding. It’s not my fault. It was just too damn cold out. Every week or two, I would suit up with as much insulation as I could manage, careen about on frozen dirt roads, and return home just shy of hypothermic. In the meantime, I ordered minor parts and gadgets for my future adventures. Nothing too mechanical, mostly just racks and a skid plate. I also MacGyvered a really cool toolbox arrangement to carry gear. None of this had been fully tested.
Eventually the weather cleared. Eventually the trails thawed. Eventually the seasonally closed trails were opened. By then I could wait no longer, even though it was 50° and scheduled to rain, I loaded up with some of my gear (mostly to test the load carrying of my toolboxes) and rolled out.
My target was the easiest trail I could find. I got a bit mixed up by beginning at the wrong trailhead but that was okay because my bike is street legal. I lit out on pavement and cruised around randomly on country roads (mostly dirt) until eventually I bumped into the trail. It was a repurposed old abandoned railroad track. The trail is “multi use” and it is ridiculously well-maintained. Everyone knows railroad beds don’t have steep slopes, they’re wide, and they are well-built. Perfect for someone who has absolutely no idea how to operate a motorcycle off-road.
The first few miles were uneventful. The bike was built for this and it knows what to do.
Later I got into something like very long wave washboards. I think these are called “whoops”? Whatever they are called, there are two ways to handle them; stand up on the foot pegs and let the bike hobby horse beneath you or slow down. Standing up on the foot pegs works great but that’s not my style and I think I need to get bigger foot pegs. So, I sat down on hard seat and then, for some reason that eludes me even as I type this, I just ripped the throttle wide open. This jackhammered my ass and damn near sent me flying into a tree. Lesson learned.
The OEM tire for this motorcycle has a nickname. The nickname is “deathwing”. Yes, there is irony throughout the universe! This is the second vehicle I’ve had with a known front end steering issue. A new tire is pretty cheap and supposedly an excellent improvement for off-road riding. I haven’t had a chance to order one yet and none of the shops are open to swap it out. Besides, I wasn’t sure if that was just a bad rep or a real thing.
At first the bike handled like a pig, but I stopped to air down to about 12 psi front and rear. That tamed the beast amazingly. I was rather impressed with the traction I got on a series of different surfaces.
After about 15 miles I had decided that the front tire was good enough and everyone bitching about it on the Internet was just too sensitive. About 20 miles into my ride I hit deep sand and the “deathwing” did everything it could to kill me! I did not dump the bike but I had a couple of moments of excitement.
Lesson learned. As soon as society gets its head out of its ass and there’s a garage to do the tire swap I’ll buy a superior front tire and make it happen. If it gets towards fall, I’ll do it myself if I have to. The tire is not going to wear out in that time but there’s no need to make my life any more exciting than it needs to be when the snow hits again. Incidentally, the rear tire is pretty darned awesome, it’s only the front that has “issues”.
My toolbox arrangement worked great. I was loaded heavy and had a little coffee pot and some matches. I wanted to stop and make coffee and a campfire. Sadly, the wind was howling and I didn’t want to deal with the fire risk. Also, every time I tried to stop and rest and just enjoy the scenery, I started getting chilled. Even the birds were staying quiet that day. Any day that’ll make a chickadee call it quits is a bad day to be out and about.
The bad winds and cold annoyed me immensely. It was defeating my purpose. The goal was to hang out in nature and get mellow. Traversing from point A to point B was only a means to an end not the goal itself. Yet here I was, relentlessly flogging myself (and my machine) simply because the weather wasn’t nice enough to relax. Was the flaw in myself? Did I lack the adaptability to enjoy that which was around me? These thoughts occupied my mind as I came towards the highlight of my ride.
There’s an area where the train once crossed beneath a main thoroughfare. It has been cleaned out and it is managed as a good way to allow ATVs, horses, snowmobiles, and idiots on motorcycles to get past the main thoroughfare without darting across like deer. It’s a very safe and very intelligent method and I should appreciate it. For subjective reasons, I hate that tunnel!
Anytime there is a concrete tunnel beneath a road it just picks up that “urban sewer rat/thug gathering point” vibe. For example, it has graffiti. This is not a big deal; graffiti is not the end of the world. But where I live there is no graffiti on anything. Graffiti is an urban thing. If you graffiti some farmer’s barn you will get shot. So, I am accustomed to a world that doesn’t have graffiti. I don’t like passing through the one tiny little spot where you could shoot up heroin and graffiti the walls and otherwise act like you live in Detroit.
Further, there’s a little part of me that is always paying attention to risk. I can travel through 50 miles of open forest and mountains and swamps and natural areas and there is nowhere that a person could get a jump on me like they could in that tunnel. In a condition white world, that tunnel is a perfectly logical spot. For me, it’s where I would put a trap if I was trying to catch a muskrat. (Okay that’s a terrible metaphor. Forgive me, most people aren’t out there trying to run a trap line. For that matter, I’m far too lazy to run a trap line myself. But if I were a space alien, intent on nailing some dude on his off-road vehicle, I’d be sitting at one side or the other of that tunnel. Make of this what you will.)
As I approached the tunnel, I was dismayed to see three people clowning around right at the entrance. There’s really no alternative route, you’ve got to go through or you’ve got to turn around. I rolled up slow, calculating scenarios in my head. My main thought was “If they make a grab for the handlebars, we’ll both find out how far I can drag their ass with this little motorcycle… and then I’m going to step off and handle any further aggression personally. I’ll be wearing a helmet, gloves, and armored jacked. If they think I’m a mark, they’ll be learning a new thing today!”
Call me paranoid if you wish, but I rolled up to that group of three people with a mindset ready for combat. What’s worse, just as I rolled into the group my “deathwing” front tire smeared into a big messy deep pile of sand and I could just about keep the bike upright. Damn!
Lucky for me, we live in a wonderful world!
Instead of pelting helpless and stupid into a group of three possible urban thugs in the only dangerous chute for hundreds of miles, I wound up in the middle of a cluster of two women and a man who were laughing their ass off. One of the women just barely stopped laughing long enough to point at something in a ditch nearby. She clearly wanted me to see this important thing.
I glanced there and saw a patch of fur in motion. That got my attention!
I turned off my engine, planted both feet, and lifted my visor.
“Two squirrels are fighting!” One of them shouted.
“You gotta see this!” The other one enthused.
There, in the ditch, not 5 feet from my left foot, two creatures were going at it with hammer and tongs. I identified them as 13 lined ground squirrels, also called striped gophers. As far as I’m concerned they’re gophers and not squirrels. I’m a little embarrassed that I’m such a nerd. Some people have deeply help opinions on whether Pluto is a planet and I don’t think striped gophers are squirrels. This is a fault in my personality. What kind of dipshit has an opinion on the species classification of little furry psychos that happen to be running amok in a ditch? My only saving grace is that I managed to keep my opinions to myself. The world has enough pedantic assholes without my help.
Meanwhile, we were getting quite a show. All four of us couldn’t help but watch the wildlife acting particularly wild.
Something dawned on me, and I just had to pitch it out there. “I am not sure if this is actually… combat.”
“What are you talking about?” The guy asked.
“Well, I’m not an expert in these things, but baby squirrels have to come from somewhere.”
One of the women, who was already laughing heartily, damn near hyperventilated. “They’re doing the nasty!” She cheered.
Suddenly all three of them started laughing and cheering on the little critters. One of the women whipped out a cell phone and deftly hit a few keys. “I just put squirrel porn on Facebook!”
By this time all of us were laughing uproariously. “Oh my God, pound for pound these guys are amazing!” The guy laughed. “They been doing this for like eight minutes!”
“That’s going on Facebook too!” The other woman laughed.
Somewhere, server farms recorded the situation, photos were processed, posts were assembled, and the great hive mind of humanity began reflecting on eight minutes of squirrels fucking in a ditch. I could see it in my mind. Social media doesn’t record what’s important, it records what is recorded… which becomes vitally important to some among us; even though it’s nothing but mental flotsam.
Meanwhile, I enjoyed the laughter. The shared camaraderie of three friends and some random weirdo watching wildlife hammer at it next to an old railroad grade. Has there ever been anything less threatening? A moment devoid of politics, scheming, complaints, or any of the more obnoxious traits of human interaction. God help us, the savior of humanity might well be that we all laugh equally at a fart joke.
The squirrels broke it up at that point. One zoomed off in a random direction that nearly collided with the guy’s foot and we all laughed harder as he hopped energetically out of the way. “Yiiiiieeee!!!”
The other one looked up at us and blinked. As if to say “What are you watching bub?” Then it flashed off to disappear under a shrub. The moment was gone.
We all stood there for a bit regaining our breath after all the laughter. Then with a smile the three people headed off. I fired up my bike to continue in the opposite direction. We’ll probably never see each other again. Which is OK.
What a strange day it had become. My highlight of the trip… or perhaps the month… was a shared moment of peace and laughter. I’d rolled up ready to throw down, only to have a great joyous belly laugh. It was a chance to totally ignore a jittery and overwrought world.
That’s what it’s all about folks. Standing around laughing as the squirrels fuck.
The first true test of my motorcycle was a total success. Sixty miles, most of it off-road, and ten minutes standing around doing absolutely nothing of import. I couldn’t have asked for a better maiden voyage.
The Wow Factor… There Isn’t Any:
