Friday, March 26, 2004

dirty thoughts

I’ve been sick all week, and have not accomplished a goddam thing.
Nyquil makes me have the most incredibly bizarre dreams.

Got all excited last weekend that, after two months since the accident, I’d be getting back to the gym. Finally. And not a moment too soon. But I think my weekend caught up with me, and I woke up Monday with a cold. And proceeded to sleep nearly every hour I was not at work (or shopping for work, which is worse.)

Last night I went over to see some motorcycle folks, and ran into some other Sheetiron victims (and victims to be). (Sheetiron being a 300 mile dual sport ride, and act of attrition)

So last year, I fell off of my bike twice Sunday morning, came around a corner to a nice big hill, crashed heroically, and came upon this guy standing in the ditch. I had never met him before. He offered to take my nice brand new DRZ up the hill a ways. “It does not get any better. This hill is a killer.” (you can see a picture of this exact spot in my profile pictures, which, I know, are fucked up right now for some reason. It’s the one that says “action!” and it’s there because Eric ALSO crashed there. It was a popular spot. That’s a picture of his bike. My ex-bike, with my ex-boyfriend. Both have been replaced with something better, and less-maintainance) It says a lot about how much this particular section had broken me, and a lot about the sort of friendship that forms with complete strangers in the face of the Big Evil Dirt Ride. I handed off my baby to a complete stranger, keys and everything. “Make it go away.”

Standing in that spot for a while, I was surrounded by chaos. It seemed, anyway. Somewhere up off the trail, and behind us, I could hear some guy having trouble, needing help. I couldn’t help. I could hear engines rev, rev, rev, then die. Followed by laughter, or yelling, or both. That’s the sound of the crash you can’t see. I stood there for a while, watched several people fly by, and a few more crash, before Eric came by and ate shit in the same spot I’d gone down in. Served him right, he hadn’t crashed yet all weekend. I think he was beginning to get smug. Yes, I’m aware that I make a terrible girlfriend. We stopped for a photo op and jumped out of the way of some more riders/crashers. James stopped to help a lot of people through this particular section.

Hiked back up to the DRZ, I’m not sure whether I was relieved to see it or not. Back on, then back off again almost immediately, coming down a hill, knowing I was completely out of control. Wee! Face first, plowed into the road (and by "road," I mean something a goat would not hazard) under the bike somehow, in front of where a bunch of people had stopped. If your gonna do it, at least have an audience! I’d come to accept the only way to approach this section was “how far can I get in between falling off?”

Then I realized that this guy who fished my bike out of the hill for me was riding an 1150GS! Holy crap, and I thought I had trouble! Turned out he was a friend, or acquaintance, at least, of some friends I was riding with. We ended up all riding together the rest of the day. I’m a shitty dirt rider, on a good little dirtbike. I know why my bike kept tossing me. It was embarrassed to be seen with me. “Get off of me! I’ll do it myself!” But these guys on the big bikes, are fucking nuts! And I love that. It’s so perverse. I really appreciate people who do something just because it’s not supposed to be. Because it’s fucked up, and stupid, and just because they can (or die trying!). The concept of a BMW is that it can go anywhere and do anything, and I rarely meet people who really test that.

So for the past year, whenever I run into this guy, I bug him about repeating the Sheetiron. He’s some kind of hero in my mind. He recoils every time. I can see him wince at the memory, “no way, no way, on that bike, never again. Maybe if I had a small dirtbike.” But, see, that’s missing the point.

Last night, he admitted that he wanted to do it again, and even on the beemer. Woot. Also spoke with a guy who’s gonna do it on a Tiger. It was hard to find knobbies for it, he told me. (no shit, they'd prolly never had to sell a set before!)

So, yeah, I’m sure I’ll be pissing and crying the whole time, but these guys, they are hardcore! That’s what it’s all about.
You’re all insane. And I love it.

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