I’ve had too much on my mind lately, and what better way to clear my head than to scare myself half to death? Sure! How about a dirt ride? Great! A dirt ride with Scott D (aka, Mr. BiteGuard?) PERFECT. At breakfast yesterday morning, we were discussing possible routes, and, while I had no idea what he was talking about, I was game.
“I trust you,” I said.
We both immediately burst into side-splitting gales of laughter.
Would this face lie?
Yep. I’m starting to get the hang of Scott D. Sort of – I have yet to see the bite guard. I DO, however, know that glint in his eyes now – it’s half open-hearted, good-natured fun, and half mischief.
With perhaps one or two percentage points of evil glee. Statistically insignificant.
It was a brisk 48 degrees when I left the house this morning to travel the grueling 5.1 miles to Granny’s in Julian. Wynola -> Farmer -> Granny’s. Life is rough up here on the mountain.
The rules for today were:
1.) No flat tires;
2.) No getting shot.
I feel like these are good baselines for just about any ride.
After shepherding us through the first gate and a bit up the road, Scott stopped and visited each of us in turn, conferring intently. He looked at me and waved his hand – “I’m not worried about you.” AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Hell’s bells, son; I’m the one you should worry about the most.
As it turns out, he was telling them to turn off ABS and Traction Control, and I did indeed have that taken care of – after almost learning a harsh lesson on a very loose downhill section some months ago. While I thought I had ABS disabled, I in fact did not, which led to a rear wheel which refused to lock up, and therefore refused to slow me down. Whoops. No overturns there, thankfully, but I did almost go over a cliff. NBD.
This trail was incredibly fun, and at the upper limit of my minimal skills. At one point very early on, I said, “this is equal parts fun and terrifying.” True fact. Sand was thankfully minimal at this stage, though there were a lot of loose rocky sections and enormous ruts, but it wasn’t anything that made my pucker factor go through the roof.
We took a spur that led up a trail which ended near a wolf sanctuary of some sort, and it was almost entirely medium-sized loose rocks. No problem on the KTM, though I would not call my execution flawless. Or quick. At the top, we turned around at the gate. Scott leaned in: “Go ahead and lead them, down,” he said nonchalantly.
“‘LEAD THEM DOWN?’ Is that what you just said?!”
“Yeah, g’head.”
“Okaayyyyyyy….”
“Go ahead and lead them down.”
What followed was the least-exciting 17 hours in the history of off-road riding. We covered about a mile and a half in that time, with me muttering the whole way:
“Downhill. Loose terrain. And I’m leading. Everything is totally fine right now.”
“Downhill is my Achilles’ Heel. Wait, no – loose substrate is my Achilles’ Heel. No, it’s sand. SAND is definitely my… you know what? Lack of pavement is my effing Achilles’ Heel. FFS, I am holding up the whole parade right now.”
“What am I even doing, trying to learn how to ride dirt at my age?”
“I definitely need to start doing Yoga again to work on this lack-of-strength problem.”
A fine example for my friends I set, too – of what NOT to do: Get sucked into ruts; pick the wrong line; go too slowly; and so on, and so forth. At least the audio from my video (which will, incidentally, NEVER see the light of day) was full of dignified and impressive commentary like “SHIT,” “uh-oh,” “oohhhhh, efff,” “whoops,” and small eeks and shrieks. I am a frickin’ swan, the very picture of grace and elegance.
Back on Oriflame, Scott properly took the lead again. On the way back down to Rodriguez, I suddenly found myself face to face with Scott again – with two enormous trucks in tow. “Golly! These fine gentlemen,” he said, “are unfortunately in our way and we are unable to pass.”
That did seem to be the case.
“It would behoove us all,” he continued, “to be polite and to remove ourselves from their path so everyone may proceed. Let us make haste.”
(This may be slightly paraphrased.)
It wasn’t long after the truck encounter that people began falling down. Naturally, I am included in that group, but I was thankfully not alone.
Multiple times, Scott had to turn around and come back to figure out what was taking so long. Ever fond of understatement, at one point he said, “I’m a little quick on my light bike.” A little. Just a little. And ONLY on his light bike, of course.
On the first occasion during which Scott had to play Border Collie and herd the group together, one of our number had stopped to make sure the folks behind him (read, “me”) were not, in fact dead, and were, indeed, coming. He stopped, put his foot down… only to find there was no ground beneath it. Ah, the old “stopped on an incline” bit – I know it all too well, buddy.
HOLY SHIT, YOU GUYS, THERE IS A CRICKET SOMEWHERE IN MY HOUSE THAT WILL NOT SHUT UP AND I AM GOING TO LOSE WHAT PRECIOUS LITTLE REMAINS OF MY MIND.
Sorry. As you were.
Anyhow.
The second drop, and immediate third, then fourth, came as we turned onto Rodriguez, a very sharp, sandy turn that had a bit of a nasty rut on the outside/left edge. I managed to eke my tiny bike around with only a small amount of harsh language and foot-fumbling, but the kind man following me (to make sure I didn’t die unnecessarily) was not so lucky – he fell victim to the rut and tipped over a bit.
As I saw him tip over, I immediately did the same thing myself when I tried (and failed) to stop. Well, I supposed I succeeded at stopping; I simply failed at keeping the bike upright in so doing. Watching the video, I have utterly no idea how it happened, but these things do (“especially on The Bad Thing,” Phil echoes in my head.)
Leaving the KTM all asunder, I went back to help my comrade. That first tip-over was easily righted with the two of us, and I began trudging back up the hill to my bike. As I neared the sad-looking, napping machine, I realized he was still in the rut. I stopped and looked back. He was upright, and moving a bit, but it was looking a bit precarious. I began going back, and he shortly stopped both moving and being upright. Whoops.
This second incident was… less easy to fix. The rear tire was on the hill, the front on the other side of the gully. As if I had perhaps been in this situation before <cough>, I knew how to fix it, but his right valve cover wasn’t going to enjoy the process.
We struggle-spun the bike on the head a bit, until both tires were on relatively equal ground, then hoisted. Boom, headshot, done. Still, however, in the rut.
I suggested waiting until the other guys came back, which they surely would. I’m certain they would have, eventually, and we in fact ran into them coming back at us after we’d both gotten him unstuck and gone a fair way down the road.
Between his skill and my tiny bit of help, we got him going again, we got my bike picked up, and we proceeded at my usual snail’s pace.
After turning around, it took Scott all of about 13 seconds to catch up to and pass me. Soon, all I could see was his dust. Shortly thereafter, nothing – just a clear, unfettered view of the scenery. After another few minutes, I came around a turn to find him dismounted and holding the next gate open. That Midwestern politeness, though!
I went through and looked for a good place to stop. I failed. Entirely. Well, again… I succeeded in stopping. Fortunately, the ground broke my fall.
It was the sand demon that nailed me once again, ever so gently cushioning my fall, but poking a sharp finger into my pride’s eye (this is not an unfamiliar feeling.) Sidenote: Phil, your mouth is open and words are coming out; you might want to see to that. (What, no “Firefly” fans here?)
Just a month or so ago, dropping the bike caused me to unleash a string of invectives that made polite company blush. These days, it’s just par for the course, sadly, and each new scar on the bike is a sort of badge of honor as far as I’m concerned: “I DID STUFF, bitches! Sure, I fell over and looked like a flailing monkey doing so, but it was fun, and I did it.”
Ever helpful, after closing the gate, Scott inquired, “ERIN, WHAT DID YOU DO?”
On second thought, forget I said anything about Midwestern Politeness.
Off we went again.
After a stunningly beautiful view going up the next hill, things went kind of to crap. And by “to crap,” I of course mean, “to sand.” It was ugly. Forging ahead, there were frequent bushes pressed up tightly on the right, paired with nasty gullies on the left, with only a narrow path between. Hooboy, here we go.
While I managed to keep myself upright, I believe it was my insanely slow pace that caused the person behind me to hit the dust again, as he was unable to pick and keep the line he wanted. It was also just a gnarly section of road. This time, however, I was so focused on not effing falling down again, I failed to notice he wasn’t behind me until I was about a quarter-mile down the way. The sand was thick, the trail was a bit narrow, and I am inseam-challenged, so I couldn’t turn the KTM around. Instead, I hoofed it back, hoping like crazy I wouldn’t come upon a nasty scene.
He was already upright when I arrived, thankfully, though he’d hit his hip pretty badly.
I trudged back to the bike.
Scott had scouted ahead and had determined the rest was “no fun.” If HE says that? I believe him.
We turned around, found a wide spot in the road, and took a break. This was excellent timing, because I was getting super antsy about the sand.
My strategy for scary sections of road is basically “just pretend it’s not there” in reference to the scary thing. That might be a three-hundred-foot drop-off less than two feet from my tire track, or a giant rut in the road, or a huge, pointy rock, or whatever disconcerting thing happens to be present. It works well most of the time, but where it fails completely is SAND. There is no pretending the sand isn’t there; I must contend with it.
Perry astutely observed, “When I’m riding behind you, your whole body does this freak-out dance as soon as you SEE sand.”
Yep. Yep, yep, yes indeed, I’m certain that is 100% true. My brain surely does, so it tracks that my body would follow suit. Whee. I have to get that handled, and, now that it’s almost Desert Season, that’ll mean going out to Borrego or Octotillo Wells or whatever other hellish damn place where there are just acres and acres of my dread nemesis. Oy vey – but it must be done, and I’ve had a slew of very kind people offer to take me out there to help me learn. They will have to have the patience of saints.
As we mounted up for the final push, Scott reminded us – “If anyone falls down, we need pictures!” I would like to point out, however, that (despite several opportunities) Mr. BiteGuard failed to procure ANY photos of fallen bikes. THAT’S what you get when you’re 18 miles ahead of the pack, mister. Fortunately, I have us covered. In spades. VIDEO.
For the final descent, I shooed everyone ahead of me, knowing that if I did something stupid (again) they’d eventually come on back and rescue me if I needed it. I’m quite chuffed that they only had to wait approximately 7.5 hours for me at the bottom. NAILED IT.
At the penultimate gate, I noticed Scott was either taking photos or video, almost assuredly in hopes I would biff it again. I was happy to disappoint. I also somehow managed not to ride over his bike.
Scott caught up and passed me in microseconds again, and Perry waited for me now and then when I lagged too far behind. <3
At the bottom of Rodriguez, Monte and Lou waved us both by, apparently desiring some leisurely time to contemplate the scenery. Perhaps to stop and compose a symphony.
We reached pavement, and my literal everything relaxed and breathed a deep sigh of relief. A sedate and responsible trip back up Banner Grade to Julian… WHERE THE WORLD HAS LOST ITS DAMN MIND. You’d think people had never seen apples or leaves before – took us 10 full minutes to get from Granny’s to the left-hand turn. Criminey. GET OFF MY LAWN.
I had offloaded my warm clothing to Perry’s topcase, so we stopped at The Chairs for me to fetch them. As luck would have it, the club was there, too, so I got to spend a short amount of time with some of my most-favorite club members whom I haven’t seen much of lately due to all the traveling.
Once home, I looked at the GS, and looked at work. Looked at the GS… looked at work.
Guess which won?
Needing to reaffirm to myself that I do, in fact, know how to ride a motorcycle, I went off to romp and run some errands, and it was glorious.
Many thanks to Scott for the route and for leading, and also to Perry, Lou, and Monte for their kind and gracious support and patience. It was a fantastically good time!
Photos and video forthcoming, but with my insanely slow satellite internets, it may be March before they upload.
One thing dirt does is get me out into the middle of nowhere, where everything is quiet, the scenery is beautiful, and a sense of peace and contentment abides. The adrenaline and challenge is of course super fun, but being out in All the Nature is tops.
Be safe, have fun, my friends.