Sometimes man and/or nature connive to make what is normally a relaxing trail ride into something you haven’t quite bargained for. With friends and obstacles like these, who needs enemies?
It sucks to fall. It sucks even more to get knocked off. It seemed like my small body made a more authoritive thud than could possibly be allotted to it. I’m not sure how I got there because I had just ridden past this branch going the other way. We had ridden up the trail a couple of kilometers before we noticed Frank Wood was no longer behind us. The “we” I am referring to is a group of five seasoned dirt bikers who try to get together once a week for off-road motorcycle adventure. We had turned around and were riding toward the last place Frank had been seen. We headed back up the trail and again into the Medusa of branches and wet tree roots. This time, since my visor was now hot and totally fogged up, I had decided to raise it. I rode on totally unaware of what lay ahead for me. The forest darkened around me and branches slapped at me in waves. Like a crouching cat, one branch waited for my approach. With uncanny collaboration, the raised visor aided in the assault to my beaded forehead and ear. Like a Mike Tyson left hook, it had scooped me off my bike and unceremoniously dumped me on the ground. Thank goodness my ear hadn’t been bitten off.
As my trail-mates gathered around to amass some sick amusement from my embarrassing position, I couldn’t help but reflect on an incident from a previous ride.
The week before I had decided to split from the group at the hydro line close to Lingham Lake. I think the odometer was reading 70 kilometers of trees, wet boulders, elbow high weeds and mud bogs. They turned left, opting for even more physical abuse they oddly refer to as “fun.” I turned right, needing to expedite my return trip home for an afternoon appointment for some dental “fun.” The trail sign said that only five miles away, lay a friendly strip of pavement flowing right to my front door. Surely this would be a more appropriate medium for a former road racer. But oh… that five miles!
I didn’t have to go too far before I saw the first reminder of a tornado that had pushed through the area days before. A tangle of trees lay across the trail, gatekeepers to that elusive strip of tarmac.
A clumsy detour around the first tangled mess, only revealed more hurdles and fallen trees. I picked my way around each one in order, sometimes half carrying my bike over fallen trees and shoving it through a jungle of branches. After several of these diversions and uncertain if I was still near the trail let alone on it, I seemed to finally break free of the forest that plotted to keep me. Now tired and overheated, I was determined to make up for lost time. Charging ahead, a more welcome terrain soon started to unfold beneath me. Soon an old barn appeared, the first sign of a civilized world. As I rounded a bend, something told me to slow down and finally there it was. A house, but between myself and the house a clothesline was rushing toward me at eye level. Had I not been as tired and wary- had I not been taking it a little easy on my wife’s brand new XT 225- had not as many things conspired to save me as there were to take me down- I would probably have rushed headlong into that wire. I didn’t. Not this time.
Tired and beaten I finally reached my glorious black/gray ribbon of pavement to home. It had been a very long day and on the road ride home I had some time to reflect, not only on the days ride but the many that preceded it. I have been riding, racing and trail riding for a lot of years. I’ve run over, into and around many things. I’ve faced many obstacles on the trail ride of life.
Of these obstacles, both natural and man-made, all pale in comparison to the crash of 92. Frank and I had been riding the once abandoned open pit mine at Marmora. Iron ore miners had created this enormous hole in the earth. Railcar after railcar carried away its iron ore bounty and now nature was reclaiming it. They had pierced to a depth of 850 feet when the water rushed in and recaptured the land. It is still 350 feet down before you can dip your toes in that cold spring water. The terrain man left behind was a great trail-riding venue. Since the rail lines also served it, it became a traditional stopping point for most of our trail rides. The mounds of tailings and slag piles made for many impromptu moto-cross races, hill climbs and informal flat track races. It was on one of these many rides that both Frank and I, one after the other, plummeted some twenty feet into a ditch carefully placed at the mine entry by some misdirected site foreman who wanted to keep us out. Thankfully our injuries were only minor but our motorcycles and riding gear received major damage. Frank’s XL 250 had the entire fork assembly broken off at the steering head. My XR 200 had the handlebars twisted into a nice set of clubman bars. The front wheel had tried hard to make itself square. The gas tank was caved in right around where the seat first meets it. I could have sang a great soprano aria at the church choir the following Sunday. We spent the whole afternoon dragging our twisted bikes back to the truck. Bruised and battered, we limped home. On closer inspection we found we had to toss out our helmets. Both had received extensive damage.
Every trail ride is a pleasure and sometimes an adventure. All have their own obstacles. Just as in life these obstacles can be natural or man-made. How we overcome them is greatly dependant on how prepared we are when they emerge. Spend the extra on proper riding gear. Take the time to do a proper set up of the bike. Expect the unexpected and above all, have fun and ride safe!