I love the earth and I respect the law.
So what follows may seem like a contradiction or, depending on your tendencies, outright hypocrisy. If I cared, I wouldn't post this.
Glad we got that out of the way.
AND SO IT WENT A LITTLE LIKE THIS...
The 2nd Annual Moto Beer Mayhem
2010 US tour - IDAHO
I've done a few things on this rock, and I've certainly had my share of deep-down-in-the-bucket bad times. And, when I think about those lowest of the low days, I usually end up also pondering the highest of highs... those moments in life that grow in value with every recollection. The good times. The good days. The best of days. That one amazing day. The one incredible minute. That one moment. That blink of an eye, when I was king of the world.
I can say with out a doubt, a large majority of those "blinks" were flashed to memory during some on-the-edge-of-life experience, shared with the closest friend or friends.
Something about clinging right on that edge, knowing you have a companion right there, feeling what you are feeling. It can't be explained any further.
I had another blink a couple weeks ago.
And I was honored to share it with these good people....
- The Moto Mayhem Maniacs -
Zambi was there for support, keeping the deadly Idaho squirrels at bay.
Sean (SOB) and I left Los Angeles for Idaho on a quiet Wednesday night. There is no better day to leave the big city than right in the middle of a work week. It just feels good - slipping by 10 million people who have to work the next day.
We'd hoped to leave sometime around 5:30, but there were the inevitable, last minute motorcycle issues. Sean's XR600 wouldn't run. After some hassles, we just tossed the dead horse on the trailer and said we'd fix it when we get there.
We left at 8pm and drove north, taking interstate 14 until it turns into hwy 395.
About 5 hours later, we passed Mammoth ski resort and sometime around 2am, pulled down a dark road and passed out.
We were up at 7 and making good time.
Through Nevada.
Into rainy Oregon.
Sean was kind enough to drive for a stretch, taking the wheel of the Dodge. Soon he was experiencing the Dodge's unique feel - An uncontrollable floating sensation also associated with mind altering drugs. You want to control the big beast, so you grip tighter and attempt to steer straighter, only to find yourself buzzing the rumble strips or dipping over the double yellows.
The dodge 2500 with a camper and towing a light trailer is not much, but for those first few miles, I swear you feel like you are dragging a mile long freight train on rubber tracks. Let go, Luke...
(The GPS, wrong again.)
Sean dragged the train north on hwy 95 and into Idaho. We rounded the final bend in a canyon and, on our right, we could see the edge of Boise in the distance. But it was off to our left where mother nature was brewing up some serious magic.
What usually follows a remarkable sunset is a remarkable hunger.
Sean and I stopped in Marsing, ID at Caba's Restaurant Lounge, hoping for some tasty burgers.
I immediately felt at home. There was the local drunk at the end of the bar, a burly firefighter, and a raspy barkeep making sure everyone was in line.
The bar kitchen was closed. Bummer.
But the barkeep had a solution and so we ordered a pizza from the bar next door. Why didn't we just go over there?
Sean challenged me to a game of shuffle board, bragging that he was king or queen of something or other.
Unfortunately for him, I won, making him jack.
I took the wheel again, and continued on through Boise and up hwy 55 in the dark, along the Payette river for the final 100 miles. This was the destination stretch, not to be confused with the home stretch.
We floated through space and time. I am not sure Sean and I made any meaningful conversation for the hour and a half of curving guardrails, dark voids, and glowing yellow center-lines. It was just too surreal and sketchy to discuss.
We blasted out of the canyon with a huge sigh, and 30 minutes later were greeted by Keith and Garrett.
We'd made it to McCall, Idaho. To the Garrett and Sonya Mapp residence. Keith was kind enough to save me the last swallow of Early Times. A celebratory ritual? It tasted like making out with a drunk...don't think too much on that.
It was now around 1am, leaving us with just 4 hours to catch up.
As is customary for reunions with this motley bunch, Beer was consumed at a rate greater than my ability to elaborate new sentences, and sometime around 5am, I stumbled into the camper.
The next morning, Sean made a valiant effort to fix his ailing xr600.
When a motorcycle doesn't run, there's a short list of culprits. We all agreed - It was obviously the Carburetor.
It wasn't. The spark plug wasn't sparking.
So we wiggled some wires, kicked the tires, drank a beer and decided that the 600 was officially a paper weight for the time-being.
Garrett's wife Sonya showed up with their daughter Lauren and her friend Clara.
They had flashlights and pinwheels for exploring. I tried to understand how pinwheels helped out, but they just looked at me like I was an idiot.
We left for the hills sometime around noon on Friday.
Gas, food and beer.
An hour later, the two trucks, towing 6 motorcycles, wound up the Warren Wagon Rd and disappeared into the Payatte National Forest.
Coffee.
And Whiskey? There was no open bottle-per-say, only a bad idea.
(The identity of the perp has been hidden to protect the innocent.)
We rattled down a dirt road for some miles and landed here.
We set up camp, unloaded the bikes and went for a quick ride into the mountains. A warm up.
It was on this ride that we ran into Brad, on his way to meet us. We told him to just keep going straight down the road, until you see the honda motorcycle leaning against a tree. That's your turn.
Brad is a curious gentleman.
He was a downhill ski racer growing up so I assume that's where he got the need for speed and insanity that is baked into his soul. And I guess that's why he thought riding dirt bikes would be fun. He'd never owned a dirt bike and was joining this bunch as a "first-timer." I was truly scared for him. It's a sport that seems so easy - floating over rocky, rutty, washed out, sandy, root-strewn terrain with little effort...until you make your first stupid mistake and fly over the handlebars at 30mph.
Weighing heavily on this was that the bike Bradley decided to purchase was a 1991 CR250. A two-stroke death machine. Uncontrollable, testy, wild, powerful, old.
Brad showed up with a Carhart jacket and pants, a full-face ski helmet and some work boots. As luck would have it, there was a moto-gear store in the back of the camper.
We got him suited up in proper protection, he hopped on the bike, kicked it over and we spanked the whiny steed as he spun off down the road. My fingers were crossed, heart was racing, and I had this lump in my throat telling me the weekend was about to come to an ambulance chasing end.
After 10 minutes, Brad came back. Smiling. Garrett and Keith told him, "sit up further on the seat. All the way to the front." That was the only advice given and he spun off again. We all fired up the bikes and were off on a ride.
Brad must have sold his soul to the devil, because on that first ride, I was following him as fast as I could go and he just pulled away. I had to slow down to ludicrous speed to avoid death and watched his dust trail disappear. Who is this guy? What did I just witness? Am I that horrible?
During the ride, we found a more suitable campsite. One that would suit our behavior a little better than the first site...far away from the 30 foot motorhome neighbors, who probably wouldn't have liked the rumble of dirtbikes at midnight drowning out their satellite TV.
This new spot was great. It was in the trees with a roundabout for the camper and trailer, gave us plenty of room to spread out and was sheltered from the wind.
So we got to cooking and making fires.
The nice thing about camping with this group is that everyone just does what needs to be done to get everything done. Which is great, because then I don't have to do anything.
Brad set about burning down the forest.
Sometime during this gasoline fueled inferno, his pact with the devil was revealed when the devil himself appeared to collect his soul.
(Brad and the Devil.)
Keith set about cooking up some AMAZING grub.
Brown and toasty french fries and the fattest, juiciest, tastiest burgers on record. Mark my words they were the best! You weren't there!
We ate and drank and told so many inappropriate stories.
It was soon time to recharge the brain. Sean Peace'd out.
...and Zambi kept my bed nice and warm.
Zambi also doesn't snore, which gives her two points up on Sean, who sounds like he's cutting down redwoods with a machine gun. I was tempted to shoot video proof, but thought to myself, "I shouldn't tell anyone. That'd be mean."
The next morning.
Coffee first.
What came next started as a fantastic idea.
Cheese filled bratwurst.
9 eggs.
and...What the hell is that?
We choked it down. Fuel is fuel and we had a long day ahead.
This was my mood 15 minutes after consumption.
The crew dressed for battle. Packing food, water, extra clothes, emergency supplies and the ever necessary spare clutch lever.
Garrett told me months before about this crazy single track trail that leads to a remote lake, where, in the early 50's, a USAF B-23 Dragon Bomber crash landed and slid into the woods and where the wreckage remains.
The bomber wreck was our destination today.
We headed out to the highway, crossed the road and jumped on the Loon Lake trail.
The first 5 miles or so were very fun, very fast double track. A perfect warm-up.
Then Keith took the lead for about 30 seconds and crashed on a muddy corner. He was on the ground in less than a second and back up a second later.
Keith broke his front brake lever completely off. Now, there are some people who can ride without a front brake, and they are in a different league and out of their minds. The front brake is used at least 90% when you're in the dirt. It's everything. Without it, you're just a sliding, skidding, out-of-control mess.
In my tool kit, I had put a clutch lever to my old 1984 XR500. Somehow... magically, irrationally, and after some filing with a multi-tool, the ancient Honda clutch lever actually fit and worked as a Yamaha brake lever. Problem solved...the day continues.
We reached Loon Lake without much more stress. This canyon is remote to say the least.
Heaven.
(Loon Lake. The Bomber lies 100 yards into the trees on the far left side.)
We chose to hike the East Shore route - around the left side of the lake.
About 20 minutes later we came across the wreckage, tucked back in the trees. A twisted heap of aluminum, two engines and one rubber tire in good shape.
It's hard to believe that all 8 crew members survived a belly landing on a lake. It's even harder to believe they then survived a suicide slide 150 feet through the trees which tore both wings clean off. Then they survived for 16 days. In the winter. Eating various rodents.
On the way back to the bikes, Brad and I took a dip in the frigid creek. My only bath for the 3 days. I smelled stagnantly fresh from there on.
After a long day of riding and complete physical exhaustion, the moto maniacs settled back to camp and cracked a cold one. It was time to relax and enjoy and remember on the amazing day....
But Brad wasn't satisfied...he had the bug...his soul was gone...and he HAD to ride again. I said, "no way." Keith said, "no way." Sean said, "no way." Garrett said, "Ok."
After watching them suit up, and against all better judgment in the waning light - I changed my mind. I came here to ride and it's just so fun.
So the three of us, promising to "take it easy," headed for Lookout Mountain.
Well, Garrett led the way and he did not "take it easy." And so, in a hell-bent, feverish rage, we raced to the top of the mountain without stopping. It was the most incredible ride in recent memory. Flying through the forest at maximum speed. 3rd gear....kick into 4th...the three of us, neck and neck, tire to tire, in-sync. Feeling the energy and excitement - man and machine in perfect harmony. This was my blink...I was king of the world.
Garrett would glance over his shoulder, see me right there and put the throttle down. I would glance over, see Brad on my tail and open it up. Yeah...chase me you crazy Devil. Catch me if you can.
We made it to the top in what had to be some sort of Payette National Forest record.
And so, feeling like we'd just done something bad, illegal or against reasonability. We snapped the cliche "bad dudes" photo.
(Brad - CR250 - Bad dude)
(Me - XR400 - Dirt Bag)
We spun the bikes back down to camp. We were laughing and smiling and drenched in adrenaline. Without much thought or consideration and in school-girl like glee, we said, "lets do it again."
So I grabbed the helmet cam and the three of us made a second go.
THE LOOKOUT TOWER RALLY - round 2
(Yes...the ride to the top - in its uncut entirety)
Night came soon after. More food, more beer, more fun.
The next morning, we made coffee and chowed a breakfast of brat and egg sandwiches. They were delectable.
We cleaned up camp, packed up all the gear and went for a ride.
Winding through the woods for several hours, we found ourselves on an unmarked trail that headed downhill into a canyon. The steepest parts were slick with mud and more than once I thought going back up would be a challenge. These types are my favorite trails: Not on the map, tending downward, into the unknown. In other words, these are the types trails that you'd be stupid to ride by yourself.
...And then Garrett crashed hard. Handlebar to the gut, wind knocked out, but okay. And his bike was fine too, but this was the big "sign" to turn around and go back whence we came.
We sat for a moment there, in the beautiful sunshine, lost somewhere between massive mountain walls, sniffing the cool air, pungent with the smell of mud, yet subdued with the scent blowing from the towering pines and through the grass. It was there, while waiting for Garrett to catch his breath, when smart guy Brad decided to throw out that now I was the only one who hadn't crashed.
Thanks, Brad.
Didn't you know? There is nothing more awkward and stupid than riding a motorcycle through the rough woods when you're constantly thinking about crashing. Nothing works. My line choices are bad. I look at rocks I shouldn't be. I notice that huge tree limb ready to skewer. I think about not having disability insurance. I go too slow. The water crossings aren't fun anymore. I tend to panic and grab fistfuls of front brake. I sit too far back. I feel heavy and weak. I start hating this stupid sport...
I don't believe in witches or magic, and I certainly don't believe in voodoo or curses, but I have been forced to believe in "suggestive coincidence" by a really lame past experience. You know those times when everyone is thinking "he might just pitch a no hitter" but no one says anything and then some guy says "he might just pitch a no hitter" and then someone bunts a base hit.
But my scurdy-cat, tenderfoot survival tactics paid off and we all made it back to camp without any mishaps. I wasn't going to give anyone the satisfaction of calling it. No way.
We relaxed for a bit, finished up packing, loaded the bikes on the trailer.
And of course...
Before calling it a wrap, we loaded some rounds and shot the ruger .40 at a can that some previous camper had been nice enough to hang by a rope some 50 yards from camp.
No one hit it.
We left camp and drove the hour or so back to McCall.
We'd made it. Back to civilization. Back to reality. Safe. No broken machines. No injuries (the bruised livers don't count).
So we stopped at paradise burgers for the celebratory "eat-like-s**t-meal."
2 pitchers of beer, 2 orders of chicken tenders, onion rings, fries, and giant, greasy, yummy burgers.
And it was sooooo right.
We said our goodbyes to Brad. The guy was a trooper and a blast to hang with. He tested the lines of appropriate conversation, crossed several times and was threatened with severe bodily harm at least twice and I officially endorse that behavior in the woods. Expect him at the 3rd annual MotoBeer...or perhaps racing professionally. The guy has insane, natural abilities to go fast.
Finally back at Garretts, Sean and I packed up the camper for departure.
Zambi chased the rope bone into the field and we relaxed for a couple more hours.
Lauren came out to play.
She sat on the bikes, finally deciding that she liked mine the best because i had a stuffed animal ziptied to the front light.
Soon after that, Sean and I said our goodbyes and were on our way. Sean and I drove until about 3am and crashed here, 10 miles north of the Nevada border.
From there it was a gorgeous trip home.
(HWY 93 South to I15 - NEVADA to CALIFORNIA)
And lastly, always check your mirrors...
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