UberKul
Tire Assassin
Haven't been around much or ridden for that matter so a little dual sport ride with forum member John (CAJW) might merit a report. Some of you guys are experiencing less than perfect riding conditions this time of year and this might ease your pain.
John inviting me down to ride some super secret single track he had gleaned onto through a pay-to-ride he helped flag earlier. Since selling the Husky TE450 last year I was a little hesitant to take the plump girl to this dance. Plump being the Suzuki DR650 that went to Alaska and back in 2014 and the only dirt worthy pony in the stable at the moment. Doug (Bugnatr with a Kawasaki KLR 650) received and invitation as well but had made other street riding arrangements down in southern California. Hmmm, no one to share big bike excuses with, this might go badly. I knew John would be sporting the latest in hi-tech dual sport machinery with his Beta 450 and his son on a KTM 450 EXC so the potential for humiliation was high. Speaking of high, these guys can flat-foot an average size horse. While I on the other hand tip over when things get ten degrees off kilter. None of us are short mind you, but our middles are at different elevations.
A quick google search tells me the start point for this escapade is two and half hours drive south and John has arranged for parking at a towing company closed for the weekend. I get loaded up the night before to get an early start but feel a little out of sorts since it’s been so long since I went through this ritual. Morning comes and I’m off, only to realize 20 minutes down the road I forgot my boots. Yes, F word exclaimed and U-turn performed. No biggie, I should be able to drive an extra forty minutes and still get there close to the start time. Grabbed the boots and took the opportunity for a missed morning constitutional while back home that made the whole debacle seem worthwhile. Driving south on Hwy 49 over the northern portion of The Little Dragon had me yearning for the FJR but nervous excitement kicked in and still arrived before my buddies. Time enough to unload, gear up and buy a cup of coffee from across the street.
John and his adult son Jeff arrive just as I’m walking out with a to-go cup of go-go juice. We chat it up as they gear up and I drool on their bikes. Yes, these guys brought the good stuff. John not only has a really nice dirt bike with lights, he’s got some sweet aftermarket goodies thrown on just to make us lower life forms feel like crap. “It’s the rider, not the bike” my little inner voice whispers. Yeah, and I sold my fancy machinery because it was costing a small fortune in medical bills my outer voice explains when John asks about my last ride.
Now keep in mind I’ve never really ridden dirt bikes with John. I know he had a Suzuki DRZ400 he rode at a FODS in Death Valley. He also played on a trials bike but until today I never actually rode with the guy to gauge his experience off road. I was giggling in my helmet five minutes later with my face in the tank and butt hanging off the seat to clear the low hanging tree branches on some true singletrack. We stop for our first break nine tenths of a mile from my initial odometer reset to eyeball the “TRAIL CLOSED” marker stuck in the trail we just came from. The National Forests have taken trail closure to a whole new level in recent years and it looks like the Service just came through the area with a fresh injection of time and money in the form of pretty brown plastic markers. These clearly threatening a mandatory court appearance should you pass this mark. A quick battle plan was agreed on at that break, first sign of law enforcement, scatter like cockroaches and meet back at the trucks. The rest of the late morning and early afternoon was spent searching for open tracks that were marvelous fun but inevitably ended with a “trail closed” marker on the exit. Technically we weren’t breaking the law but didn’t want to test our theory.
John and his son Jeff are both good riders and I didn’t mind riding anywhere in the lineup knowing they weren’t too far ahead or behind me. The portly DR did it’s best impersonation of a dirt bike and only suffered one tip over in the pine needles on a slight side slope. We had a blast getting lost while zigging and zagging over a surprisingly small piece of ground in search of open trail.
The real fun started when we rode by an off highway vehicle (OHV) park named Date Hill that was supposedly closed but no signs were posted. With John leading the charge we found ourselves on a rock strewn trail #8, marked with a little black triangle that read “most difficult”. It began gradually then quickly disappeared into a small valley below. No problem, we’ll just turn around if it gets too bad right? When John suddenly introduced his jewels to the top of his tank on a steep drop and needed time to untangle I took the lead. The trail was tough, with small drops and tight twists that could leave you in a bad way if you didn’t keep the momentum up and rolling. Keeping up the momentum meant we were getting firmly committed, in my mind, to finding another way out from this trail. We could come back up this but the clutches would have taken a beating and made for a very long day. Near the bottom it turned into a dry creek bed with more rocks and drops, unforgiving terrain should balance fail and gravity prevail. When I poked out onto a jeep trail about a hundred yards later with shaky arms I was pleasantly relieved.
A mix of loose gravel forest roads and nice twisty asphalt led us back to Greeley Hill and the trucks. Tired and dirty we said our goodbyes with a promise it would be my turn next to host a single track ride. I type this report with two angry calluses and a shoulder sore to raise but the discomfort will fade far sooner than the memory of this great ride.
John inviting me down to ride some super secret single track he had gleaned onto through a pay-to-ride he helped flag earlier. Since selling the Husky TE450 last year I was a little hesitant to take the plump girl to this dance. Plump being the Suzuki DR650 that went to Alaska and back in 2014 and the only dirt worthy pony in the stable at the moment. Doug (Bugnatr with a Kawasaki KLR 650) received and invitation as well but had made other street riding arrangements down in southern California. Hmmm, no one to share big bike excuses with, this might go badly. I knew John would be sporting the latest in hi-tech dual sport machinery with his Beta 450 and his son on a KTM 450 EXC so the potential for humiliation was high. Speaking of high, these guys can flat-foot an average size horse. While I on the other hand tip over when things get ten degrees off kilter. None of us are short mind you, but our middles are at different elevations.
A quick google search tells me the start point for this escapade is two and half hours drive south and John has arranged for parking at a towing company closed for the weekend. I get loaded up the night before to get an early start but feel a little out of sorts since it’s been so long since I went through this ritual. Morning comes and I’m off, only to realize 20 minutes down the road I forgot my boots. Yes, F word exclaimed and U-turn performed. No biggie, I should be able to drive an extra forty minutes and still get there close to the start time. Grabbed the boots and took the opportunity for a missed morning constitutional while back home that made the whole debacle seem worthwhile. Driving south on Hwy 49 over the northern portion of The Little Dragon had me yearning for the FJR but nervous excitement kicked in and still arrived before my buddies. Time enough to unload, gear up and buy a cup of coffee from across the street.
John and his adult son Jeff arrive just as I’m walking out with a to-go cup of go-go juice. We chat it up as they gear up and I drool on their bikes. Yes, these guys brought the good stuff. John not only has a really nice dirt bike with lights, he’s got some sweet aftermarket goodies thrown on just to make us lower life forms feel like crap. “It’s the rider, not the bike” my little inner voice whispers. Yeah, and I sold my fancy machinery because it was costing a small fortune in medical bills my outer voice explains when John asks about my last ride.
Now keep in mind I’ve never really ridden dirt bikes with John. I know he had a Suzuki DRZ400 he rode at a FODS in Death Valley. He also played on a trials bike but until today I never actually rode with the guy to gauge his experience off road. I was giggling in my helmet five minutes later with my face in the tank and butt hanging off the seat to clear the low hanging tree branches on some true singletrack. We stop for our first break nine tenths of a mile from my initial odometer reset to eyeball the “TRAIL CLOSED” marker stuck in the trail we just came from. The National Forests have taken trail closure to a whole new level in recent years and it looks like the Service just came through the area with a fresh injection of time and money in the form of pretty brown plastic markers. These clearly threatening a mandatory court appearance should you pass this mark. A quick battle plan was agreed on at that break, first sign of law enforcement, scatter like cockroaches and meet back at the trucks. The rest of the late morning and early afternoon was spent searching for open tracks that were marvelous fun but inevitably ended with a “trail closed” marker on the exit. Technically we weren’t breaking the law but didn’t want to test our theory.
John and his son Jeff are both good riders and I didn’t mind riding anywhere in the lineup knowing they weren’t too far ahead or behind me. The portly DR did it’s best impersonation of a dirt bike and only suffered one tip over in the pine needles on a slight side slope. We had a blast getting lost while zigging and zagging over a surprisingly small piece of ground in search of open trail.
The real fun started when we rode by an off highway vehicle (OHV) park named Date Hill that was supposedly closed but no signs were posted. With John leading the charge we found ourselves on a rock strewn trail #8, marked with a little black triangle that read “most difficult”. It began gradually then quickly disappeared into a small valley below. No problem, we’ll just turn around if it gets too bad right? When John suddenly introduced his jewels to the top of his tank on a steep drop and needed time to untangle I took the lead. The trail was tough, with small drops and tight twists that could leave you in a bad way if you didn’t keep the momentum up and rolling. Keeping up the momentum meant we were getting firmly committed, in my mind, to finding another way out from this trail. We could come back up this but the clutches would have taken a beating and made for a very long day. Near the bottom it turned into a dry creek bed with more rocks and drops, unforgiving terrain should balance fail and gravity prevail. When I poked out onto a jeep trail about a hundred yards later with shaky arms I was pleasantly relieved.
A mix of loose gravel forest roads and nice twisty asphalt led us back to Greeley Hill and the trucks. Tired and dirty we said our goodbyes with a promise it would be my turn next to host a single track ride. I type this report with two angry calluses and a shoulder sore to raise but the discomfort will fade far sooner than the memory of this great ride.
