think I’d have some by now). Actually, I found very few accounts of these and other powerfully appealing elements that really have been substantial sources of joy and might actually prompt someone to try this kind of motorcycling.
The stories that do show up here are among those I was most excited to tell and count among my cherished memories of off-road riding. That may be partly a function of the terrain where they took place: the steep, craggy slopes of the southern Appalachians. Single-track trails can be strewn with anything from loose, fist-sized rocks to car-sized boulders and covered in cement-hard clay (slick even when dry) or peanut-butter-like mud that is somehow both impossibly slippery and incredibly sticky (accumulating tenaciously on bikes and riders). Good traction is a rare find and is typically interrupted in short order by snarls of tree roots, downed branches, or pools of black water that might be a couple of inches or several feet deep.
Having spent my teenage dirt-biking years in flat, sandy Florida, I’d never seen anything like these trails, much less knew anything about riding them. Spurred on by how my first guides deliberately hunted for the most insanely treacherous passes to attack, my off-road riding quickly became a proving ground for not only skill but also bravery and perseverance—if you weren’t crashing on a regular basis, you weren’t trying hard enough. While that may sound like crazy machismo (and, no doubt, there’s some element of it involved), I learned that this kind of riding requires a tremendous amount of careful, albeit often swift, tactical planning—at least as much as I’ve ever exercised on street bikes. And, while we can usually ride more slowly through a worrisome stretch of road, many situations on the trail require some minimum amount of momentum for the rider to have any chance of making it through or over what lies ahead. So, confronting one’s fears, displaying fierce determination and keen insight, and employing physical balance, coordination, and stamina all leave a rider both thoroughly spent and possessing a sense of great accomplishment; and that’s what I tried to convey here.
Dirty Thoughts
September 2002
Since returning to the dirt after this column, I’ve always kept at least one off-road bike in my stable, even though the pendulum of my interest swings back and forth between street and trail. There’s just no substitute for getting dirty.
A friend of mine has a teenage son who’s got it bad. It’s all the boy can think about, day and night. He’s feverishly preoccupied, and he spends every possible moment scheming, searching for that magical combination of words and gestures that will persuade his parents to give in and gratify his desire. His torment is palpable to anyone who’s been in his position before, and I figure almost all of us have. He desperately wants a dirt bike.
The parents in this case are actually on the verge of yielding. In fact, the father and I have already been doing some surreptitious shopping, checking out the most promising ads in local papers. And not just for the son, either; Dad is going to get a bike to ride with his boy. Relief is not far away for this lad, though telling him now would only intensify his agony during the wait that remains.
The excitement presently surrounding this father–son pair is contagious, at least for me. I haven’t owned a dirt bike for something like fifteen years, although that’s what I started out on, and I owned half a dozen before becoming a street-only kinda guy. Not that I haven’t snagged rides on a few since then. It’s just that the moto-pleasure center of my brain has been satiated with the innumerable joys of asphalt, and there’s been no need—or room—for any other form of vehicular stimulation. Although that may be about to change…
Another of my friends has a six-year-old boy who just got his first “gear bike” (his term for a bicycle with multiple gears). It’s a mountain bike that begs to be ridden in the open field near their house. I recently accompanied him out there with a few of his bicycle-riding buddies, and they allowed me access to their secret test track. I didn’t tell them I’d seen the likes of their facility before: a raggedly cleared oval path with several dirt-mound “jumps” along the way.
These boys had a blast racing around their beloved speedway, trying to catch and overtake one another. But the big thrill for them was in the jumping. None of them was strong enough to actually get any hang time, but the simple change in altitude while ascending each ramp (no doubt accompanied by an internal movie of awesome aerial acrobatics) was enough to provoke gleeful squeals every time. I couldn’t help but wander back in time to my own early jumping, first over the curb in front of my house (actually over and over and over—what did the neighbors think?), then on a little course like this one (made more elaborate as the neighborhood kids got access to nails and plywood), and later—finally on a real motorcycle—on trails and tracks set up by unknown adults who’d come before me with earth-moving equipment more powerful than a handheld shovel. As I watched those old reruns in my mind’s eye, it was always the jumping that was the best.
Street riders don’t get to do much jumping. Some roads offer sharp elevation changes, and there’s the occasional rise that results in brief flight, but the visceral sensations are confined to roller-coaster effects. Air travel really isn’t part of the deal. And, unless we’re highly skilled road-racer types, spinning that rear wheel through corner after corner is out of the question, too. Wheelies are a lot more difficult on a street bike, and the intimidation factor of a machine at least two or three times its rider’s weight is hard to ignore. Then there’s the issue of the perception of safety: while one can certainly get just as badly injured in the dirt as on the street, the idea of taking a tumble at relatively low speed onto “soft” ground (never mind the rocks, trees, etc.) is a lot easier to live with than fantasies of high-siding at warp six onto pavement in front of oncoming traffic. I’ve been starting to wonder if dirt bikes are so popular because they may actually be the most fun. What have I been doing without one all these years?
Two-stroke dirt bikes—easily identified by their bulging exhaust pipes—are light and nimble. In the old days, they had no power down low. Modern ones hit hard at every engine speed. Big fun, with a deft right hand. This one has been the author’s most trusted companion.
So now, as I help my friend look for a couple of dirt bikes for himself and his teenage son, I’m also starting to check out the possibilities of one for myself. The delay between wish and action is the best time to investigate the nature of desire; that’s when motivation is laid most bare. What is it about all that hopping around that holds such powerful appeal? Why does street riding suddenly seem like such a cerebral activity by comparison?
If you haven’t already seen Spider-Man, I’ll put in a plug here. Overall, I found the dialogue and much of the action disappointing. But the final clip, just twenty or thirty seconds long, made the entire thing worthwhile. Whereas up to that point we mainly watch the superhero swing through space above our heads, during that last segment we’re actually flying with him. The effect is quite impressive, evoking real motion sensations in many viewers’ guts (certainly mine); we get to feel the g-forces, the speed, the freedom of flight. On the right road, on the right street bike, it’s possible to get the first two of those. But the third is possible only in aircraft—and machinery that jumps.
Leaving the ground is one of the most direct and concrete acts of autonomy known to humankind. It defies (savor that word for a moment) the “law” of gravity, even if only for a short while. Just repeat as needed if you didn’t get enough. It’s a celebration of freedom, adding the dimension of height to one’s domain. Moving through space unfettered by friction is a qualitatively different experience than traveling on the surface of the planet. The appeal seems to be hardwired into humans at birth, despite our physical limitations as a species (ever watch an infant giggle with delight while being tossed upward and caught?).
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