Brian A. Hopkins
Adventure Stylin' Made Easy

Oklahoma Dualsport Rally
12 - 15 Oct 2006

-- Abusing Other People's Bikes --

I gassed up Kay's bike, then gave it a quick once-over. Her license plate was hanging by just one side, so I fastened the other end with a zip-tie from Pratt's toolbox. Her right handguard was loose, too, so that got a zip-tie. Other than that, the bike looked ready for some abuse at the hands of a professional moto-destroyer like myself.

For Pratt's "spirited ride," we took the back way out of camp again, attacking the hill at a much faster pace than we had that morning. I stalled the TTR several times because Kay's clutch lever had like a quarter inch of travel and about 2 yards of free-play. How the hell does she ride with it like that? You can't feather it at all and starting off takes some major getting used to. Other than that, the bike was running great. I charged up that hill. There's nothing to throwing that little scooter around, launching over ruts, bouncing off rocks and recovering with just a flick of the bars (because the TTR weighs about the same as the seat on my Dakar), although it's light enough that it does get knocked offline pretty easily. Danny was in front of me, still mounted on his XR650L, a bit of a handful at our present rate of ascent, which might be categorized as a "full bore charge."  Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead, Devil take the hindmost, and all that rot.

But Danny lost control in a deep rut, the octopus reared its ugly tentacles, and next thing I knew: crash, boom, bang. Rider down! Rider down!

I dismounted and made sure Danny was okay. He'd gone down fairly hard on some nasty rocks. There was no blood and no broken bones protruding, so he seemed to be okay. I didn't have to wave smelling salts under his nose or administer mouth-to-mouth. I helped him pick up the XR. Since I was on Kay's bike and there was no where to carry my camera, I had left it back at camp.  Dammit, I couldn't record the moment for posterity! Danny and I agreed that if there was no photographic evidence, then the incident never actually occurred -- but he was forgetting my habit of writing all this crap down. BAH the historian. Columbus discovered America, us white folks slaughtered the injuns, and the octopus had Daniel-san for lunch on Friday the 13th. It's all been documented. Ha!

I took a minute to adjust Kay's clutch lever -- Ahhhhh, that's better! (She would make me adjust it back for her the next day.  To each his own, I guess.) Then Danny and I took off after everyone, really hauling ass now cause we didn't want to be left behind or be the ones that held up everyone else. We'd only gone five hundred yards down the trail, though, Danny leading and totally hauling the mail, requiring that I pin the throttle on the little 250 to keep up, when I saw something black fly off the back of his bike. Did he just lose something? I wondered, having difficulty seeing through all the dust. Watching Danny's wake, I didn't see anything that might have fallen off his bike. I thought maybe I had imagined it.

Next thing I knew, Danny's rear tire seized up and he was suddenly slip-sliding all over the trail, spraying gravel. Somehow he managed to keep the octopus at bay and slide to a halt, slewing sideways across the trail. Wedged up under his rear wheel was his tail bag, now somewhat shredded and looking unfit even for ebay. His bungees had given up the ghost and the bag had been flicked down into the rear wheel, locking it up. He's real lucky he didn't go down. Funny thing is, on this very same hill last year, Chris Marlow's tail bag had flown off his bike. He would have lost it entirely if a rider behind him hadn't stopped to pick it up off the trail.

Anyway, we got Danny's tail bag sorted out and took off again, eventually finding everyone waiting for us at the bottom of the mountain's south side. Don't mind us, guys; we've just been taking our time and enjoying the scenery...

That's me in the background on Kay's little TTR250. Note the dust. (Photo courtesy of James Pratt.)

We flew a few miles south on blacktop, then James took us off in search of virgin territory. The trails were tight and we were traveling fast, but these were all experienced riders. Eventually, we came upon the scene of a massacre (pronounced "mass-ah-creee"). Some logging company had come through the pine forest chopping and chainsawing and wreaking mass destruction. Everything except the trunks of the trees -- which would have been hauled off to be turned into paper towels or toilet paper or something -- was left in a great slurry of "pine tree afterbirth" (Danny's expression for the mess). There were branches up to eight or nine inches in diameter strewn this way and that. Easy enough to ride over if it's all laying perpendicular across the trail, but this mess was scattered every which way. It was like riding through a deadfall or burn-pile. What made it even more difficult were the stumps hidden beneath the pine boughs. Some of these were as much as a foot or more high, and many of them were impossible to see.

If I'd come across this mess on my BMW, it would definitely have been time to turn around!

Pratt's a he-man, of course (Kay says so!), so "turn around" isn't in his vocabulary. When he charged on through, everyone followed. Danny and I were bringing up the rear. I was right on his heels, chanting my mantra "Momentum is my friend! Momentum is my friend!" trying to avoid all the stumps that I could see, lofting the front wheel over those that either couldn't be avoided or caught me totally by surprise. Shortly, I was much too close to Danny. I think his strategy was different than mine. With the heavy 650, he was moving slower and trying to pick his way through. I was doing the "Stand aside! I'm coming through!" do-or-die technique, well known to attract the octopus.

Danny's front wheel plunged down into a particularly deep pile of branches and at least one branch decided it really liked that whole rotational motion thing -- only problem is, a straight pine branch measuring five or six feet doesn't really travel well around a 21-inch rotational axis. Danny went down amidst a cloud of dust and pine cones. I slammed on my brakes and plowed to a halt, managing to keep from running over Danny by about two inches. He rose up out of the forensic evidence of the Great Pine Tree Massacre (remember to pronounce it correctly) with pine needles sticking out of his helmet and sap dripping from his nose, blinking at me like a possum frozen in headlights.

Robbed of all momentum -- My dear, dear friend, why hath thou deserted me? -- my bike seemed to sink a foot deep into the branches, settling my feet amongst the ticks and chiggers and diamondback rattlers.

"You okay?" I asked.

Danny's response shall be edited for our younger readers. Essentially, he said he was just peachy keen. (Yeah ... right.)

I would have helped him pick up the bike, but I was buried to my knees in branches, couldn't even dismount. Somehow he got the bike vertical. I pointed out to him that several branches had taken up residence between his front wheel and fender. He dragged those out with an expletive or three, then remounted and got underway. Had he bothered to look back, he could have had a good chuckle at my expense.

Stopped dead in its tracks -- grateful that I hadn't run over my friend (good travel companions are so hard to find, you see, and I've just about gotten Danny trained) but missing my assistant, Mr. Momentum -- the TTR's rear wheel just kinda spun amongst the branches. Traction, I had none. I bounced on the pegs, using the suspension to try and lift the bike up on the branches. The wheel caught, spun some more, caught again. I put my ass on the rear fender, yanked on the bars, and twisted the throttle to the Warp Factor Nine setting. The little 250 caught on something and launched, skipping over the Brush Pile From Hell. Something knocked me off my chosen path: a log, a stump, a lumberjack on his lunch break ... I dunno. The bike bounced this way, then that-a-way, then something caught the front end, twisted the bars out of my hands, and tossed me ass over tea-kettle. I had a vision of my body hanging impaled in a mad bird's nest of jagged pine branches just before I landed on my back with a crunch!, crackle!, pop!, pine cones up my ass and scratches on my brand new Arai XD.

We are having some fun now, lemme tell ya!

After checking for puncture wounds, I fought my way through the jungle to the bike, wishing for an axe, a chainsaw, a friggin' bulldozer with which to clear a path. Got the bike picked up.  Got it started.  And somehow rode it out of there.  Whew!

Scene of the infamous Pine Tree Massacre. Danny and I are somewhere at the tail end of this train ... unless we're still flopping about in the pine needles begging for mercy. That's Phil on his KTM in the front. (Photo courtesy of James Pratt.)

The rest of that ride would be a blur except for another crash on my part. I don't even remember how it happened. It wasn't that difficult of a trail, just a bit of single track with assorted logs and ruts and whatnot -- the usual stuff. I got tossed down on my right shoulder pretty hard. Danny said he heard me holler. This must be where I set my pants on fire, but I didn't notice it at the time and, like the crash, I haven't a clue how it happened. How did I melt a softball-sized hole in my left pants leg (just above the boot) when the exhaust on Kay's bike is on the right side? How did I not feel it, even if I was wearing long underwear under my motocross pants?

It's a total mystery. The truth probably involves UFOs or the CIA ... or some other conspiracy-oriented acronym.

Like I said, I didn't notice the hole until later, back at camp. I told Kay that her bike ate my pants.  She laughed and said that now I had an excuse to buy myself a stylin' new pair.

That night, Rich took charge of the camp stove and fixed burgers and dogs. We were chowing down when Danny's wife and stepsons arrived. Later we had a good time around the campfire telling tall tales about how fast we all used to be, watching Levi the fire eating dog, and revisiting the day's mishaps. Mine and Danny's escapades at the scene of the Great Pine Tree Massacre were told more than once. James Pratt interviewed Phil for the Ride Oklahoma website, using me to ask the questions, informing me only after I'd agreed to help that he would be editing me out of the audio so as to just use Phil's answers -- my brief moment of stardom denied. Bummer. Phil did a great job, though, standing next to his ugly KTM.

Eventually, it was into my tent for some much needed shut-eye.  Chris took up snoring at his usual eight thousand decibels. From the tent next to mine, I heard Ashley ask Rich if he'd remembered to bring earplugs. A little while later, Ashley and Rich started snoring, but of course, I was still lying there, counting sheep in Evil Knievel star-spangled leathers as they jumped their Harleys over my tent, my muscles twitching as they remembered Friday the 13th's chills and spills.

Saturday morning, I heard Rich banging around. I unzipped my tent and poked my head out. "Coffee ready yet, Rich?"

A few minutes later, Levi tried to crawl in my tent with me. Fortunately, he hadn't jumped in the lake yet that morning. James came walking up and said he had a deal for me. His son Adam had arrived last night and brought his Suzuki with him. It's the offroad version of the DR-Z, lighter and faster, with more of a motocross hit to the motor because of the larger carburetor, bore/stroke, gearing, and whatnot. (Find a mechanic if you want a real technical explanation.) But Adam wanted to ride James's Dakar two-up with his girlfriend.  Did I want to ride Adam's 400?

Well, let me think about that for ... oh, I dunno ... about 0.000001 of a second.

"Yes!"

Only catch was that James wanted me to ride with the easy group that morning and lend a hand: scout uncertain trails, round up stragglers and help keep folks from getting lost, etc. And Adam wanted the 400 back for the afternoon's expert-level ride (which James had been calling the "He-man Ride"), which meant I would have to ride the Dakar back to camp. (After our lunch stop in Pickens, Adam's girlfriend would hitch a ride back with James' parents in their jeep.) No problem, I'd wanted to ride another Dakar and compare it with my own anyway. And helping lead the easy ride sounded like it could be fun. Only real drawback was that Danny was taking the more difficult ride that morning, and Chris and Rich were going to go off and do some exploring on their own, so none of those guys would get to see me riding like a stud on Adam's 400.

Ashley made me a bagel for breakfast: cream cheese, smoked salmon, and onions. (Thanks, Ashley!) After I'd finished eating, James brought a cameraman around and interviewed me for something or other ... maybe a television show about Oklahoma. I dunno. I stood in front of my Beemer and tried to look intelligent, but all I remember about my answers was saying riding around Clayton was a "whole lot of fun" like three or four times. What an idjut! There goes my chance at Hollywood stardom.

Adam gave me a quick intro to his 400: kick this and it'll start; twist here and it'll go; find yourself a tree when you want to get off it, cause there's no kickstand.

Then it was time to saddle up.

Riders line up to depart for the "easy ride." That's me on Adam Pratt's Suzuki 400 (the offroad version of the DR-Z) in the foreground. (Photo courtesy of Randy Myers.)

Our ride started out simple enough, but then became a lot more difficult than James had intended when we stumbled upon a very rocky rutted hill just south of Nashoba. Technically, this hill was beyond the skill level of many of the riders in that group. I remember the hill from last year. I had gone up it on my Dakar, all the while wishing I could turn around. I didn't fall, but I remember it being pretty sketchy. (It's mentioned in my report from last year.)

James and I went up the hill first. It was an absolute blast on Adam's bike and I actually looked like I knew what I was doing. Man, what a difference the machine can make! Then we walked back down and scouted out the easiest route, filling in several deep washouts with logs and rocks to make it easier for the other riders. We positioned ourselves at strategic points along the way to help and waved the others up. I didn't keep count, but there were a lot of spills. Adam, who is an excellent rider, went down riding two-up on James's BMW. Amanda got off and walked from that point, but Adam still went down a second time, probably rattled from the first fall. I cringed to see the Beemer tossed down on the rocks, but the bike came through with minimal damage. Pratt's crash reports on his BMW and its survivability are in part what led me to buy mine.

Adam Pratt and his girlfriend Amanda. (Photo courtesy of James Pratt.)

My favorite fall was Cyndi's. I was guiding her up, keeping her on a line where she was clear of the worst obstacles, ready to catch her in this one spot if she started to go over. She must have been chanting my mantra, because she whacked her DR-Z400 pretty hard, flying past me and launching off a little rocky berm. She caught some pretty good air, sailing past me at about waist level ... then .. crash!  I think she might have tried a knack-knack. At least that's what I think you call it when you kick the rear end out sideways. I think you're supposed to pull it back vertical before the ground comes up and smacks you though, Cyndi. LOL.

I was worried she was hurt, but she got up laughing. I picked her bike up for her (one of several I picked up on that hill). Cyndi says I'm always there to pick her bike up, because I picked it up for her once on another trip. I offered to ride the bike the rest of the way up the hill for her, but like all our other female riders, Cyndi's a tough one. No chance in hell she was going to back down from that hill. She mounted back up and finished the hill without incident.

Same for Trish after I picked her up; no way she was going to surrender her XT225 to me. I think Kay might have fallen on the hill, too, but can't remember for sure. I've got nothing but respect for the women who ride with us. They're all damn fine riders and gutsy as hell.

Some of the ladies who are members of the Oklahoma Dualsport Riders (back to front): Trish, Connie, Kay, and Amanda. (Photo courtesy of James Pratt.)

Amanda, Kay, Trish, Connie, and Cyndi. (Photo courtesy of Terry McLeod.)

Once we had everyone up the hill (except for a few KLR riders who turned around at the bottom and went their own way), karma decided to bite James Pratt. He'd told everyone earlier that it had been two years since he'd crashed. Well, you just can't go around saying things like that, even if Friday the 13th is over and done with. I'm not sure what happened. I was either still trudging back up the hill from where I'd been helping others at the halfway point or I was trying to kick start Adam's bike or I was cloud-gazing ... I dunno. All I know is James started his bike to lead on, took off down the trail, and there came a big crash. He got up holding his left wrist, and it started swelling shortly thereafter. He was afraid it might be broken.

We pressed on -- James wincing anytime he had to use his clutch. There were a few other highlights on this ride; for example, a bridge that had washed out. There was a path around, but it was over some pretty good sized rocks. James wisely decided to find another route. This was supposed to be the easy ride.

I think this bridge has actually been out for a couple of years, as I've seen photos of it in other ride reports. The KLR in the photo belongs to Randy Myers. The same bike's pictured in one of my Eureka Springs writeups with a deer skull on the fairing. (Photo courtesy of Randy Myers.)

There is a way around the collapsed bridge -- and several riders took it just to prove it could be done -- but James deemed the route too difficult for the group we were leading that morning. (Photo courtesy of Randy Myers.)

Another break. That's me in the foreground on Adam's 400. Trish on her XT225 is just to my left. (Photo courtesy of James Pratt.)

Because the group was so large and because of all the dust, we were having trouble keeping everyone together. The rule was that anytime a turn was made or a fork taken in the road, you were responsible for making sure the rider behind you saw which way to go. After the group got fragmented a time or two, James changed his strategy and assigned a couple of the more experienced riders (and me -- ha!) to stop at these points and make sure everyone stayed together. Once the last rider made the turn, the dropoff rider had to fly at warp speed back to the front of the pack so that he could be dropped off at the next fork in the road. This made for some fun riding. I was careful about passing everyone, though, since I didn't want to be responsible for startling someone and having them swerve into a ditch, a boulder, a tree, or a cow. Generally, they heard Adam's pipe as I came up behind them and would wave me around. It was still fun working out the pass and riding at twice everyone else's speed.

What I didn't realize, however, was that all that idling at intersections and zipping about was taking a toll on the 400's gas supply.

We finally got to the main road leading to Pickens where we planned to have lunch. James stopped -- I think because his wrist was really hurting -- and waved everyone on ahead. Everyone got pretty scattered out on this road because the dust was absolutely awful. You literally couldn't see ten feet beyond your front wheel. Somewhere on this road, Adam's bike died on me with absolutely no warning ... out of gas. I switched to reserve and starting kicking the bike. It was hard to start. Lots of folks rode past me and waved, accustomed to seeing me sitting beside the trail somewhere making sure they didn't get lost. I gave the universal out-of-gas gesture to several of them and they just waved and went merrily on their way.

Eventually, the bike started. (It's hard to kick because the decompression lever is broken.) I continued at a slow pace, uncertain of the reserve capacity but guessing it wasn't more than 1/2 a gallon at most. Other riders passed me without wondering why I was poking along at a snail's pace on the edge of the road. Eventually Terry stopped for me and we continued into Pickens, the last two to arrive. I rolled up to the gas pump and asked Chris to pump gas for me (because Adam's bike has no kickstand). Chris put 2.2 gallons in the 2.4 gallon tank.

Then I had a ham sandwich and a Poweraid drink and tried to clear some of the dust from my eyes.

Curtis displays where the gravel bit him after an apparent attack by the octopus. (Photo courtesy of Terry McLeod.)