Brian A. Hopkins
Adventure Stylin' Made Easy

Oklahoma Dualsport Rally
12 - 15 Oct 2006

-- "Let's get Brian to lead us back to camp!" --

Some of the riders were going with James on the "He-Man Ride," which he was leading despite a wrist that he thought might be broken.  And, hey, let's just clear up that mystery right now by showing the x-ray that was taken after he got home.

X-ray of James Pratt's left wrist. He-men can take these types of injuries and still ride another day or so. (Photo courtesy of James Pratt.)

I would have loved to do the "He-Man Ride" on Adam's bike, but, alas, Adam was reclaiming it.

Some of the riders were taking an easy dirt route back. Some were doing a pavement ride back. Pavement sounded good to me since I would be on Pratt's Dakar. Even though I'd seen Adam dump it twice that morning on the rocks, I didn't want to do the same. Then Chris and Rich, who'd joined everyone else for lunch, said they were going to do some further exploring. Going with them sounded like a good idea, too, since they promised not to get into anything gnarly.

Only there was no one to lead the offroad group back to Clayton (40 to 50 miles, 99% offroad).  "Brian'll do it," said Connie ... or Kay ... or somebody. I told them I didn't like to lead and didn't know the way. "It's easy, all you have to do is follow the GPS on James's bike." Uh-huh. Famous last words. "Just go west and north, and eventually you'll hit the highway. Nothing to it." Riiiight.  "Brian'll take us back!" Before I knew it, it was a done deal. Chris and Rich said "Nice knowing ya." The pavement group split. The He-Man group split. And I was left with seven other riders, including Connie and Kay. I didn't pay attention at the time, and wouldn't have thought it significant even if I had been paying attention, but four of the eight bikes in our group were dirtbikes -- totally NOT street-legal.

We started out in the right direction ... I think. West is toward the sun, I told myself, neglecting the fact that the sun really sets to the southwest. The GPS was pointing in the right direction ... kinda. Only, as I rode through curves, the damn thing wasn't changing. It was still pointing in the same direction. I don't own a Garmin. I own a Magellan. My GPS is always oriented with north to the top of the screen, an arrangement that makes complete sense to me. The Garmin doesn't work that way. And the orientation of the little "you are here" arrow wasn't changing one damn bit. I pushed some buttons, trying to zoom in, trying to zoom out. Nothing worked. We were cruising along, heading toward the sun. My inability to get the GPS to work was compounded by my desire to constantly check my mirrors for the other riders. I wasn't giving my own riding the attention it warrants -- which is the reason I absolutely do not like to lead. I spend way too much time worrying about the people behind me.

I went further than I should have, even after I guessed that we needed to turn around, mainly cause I didn't want to look like an idiot to the seven people riding behind me. I went as far as Cloudy ... a few miles further. Then I pulled over. I finally figured out that the GPS was locked in some kinda mode ... I don't know what mode. I hit the quit button and it started showing me my actual location and heading. We were 20 or 30 miles out of our way.

The dirtbike riders started bitching about how much time we were spending on pavement and how fast I was riding and -- unspoken, but there nonetheless (at least in my mind) -- why was I leading when I clearly couldn't navigate my way out of a paper sack?

We asked directions of a couple locals, but all that did was waste time. (One lady wanted us to continue west into Antlers and then take Hwy 271 all the way north to Clayton, which not only was a great distance out of our way, but it would have been entirely on pavement.) We started trying to work our way north from Cloudy, taking every dirt road and trail we could find. Each either deteriorated into what I decided was risky riding for this group or ended at a locked gate. Here's a tip for future riders who get roped into leading when they don't want to. Don't apologize for anything. I can't count how many dead ends James has lead me down or wrong turns that we've taken only to be followed up with an aggravating u-turn. It's all part of the adventure when you're following him. He just turns everyone around and we keep going. I felt the need to do the "Sorry, gang, I'm trying to get us going in the right direction" schtick each time I was forced to turn us around, which doesn't instill much confidence in your leadership abilities. Or "Hey, if anyone else wants to lead, you're welcome to it..." On James's bike, the GPS shakes so bad and the screen is so hard to read in sunlight, that each time I came to a fork in the dirt roads, I was forced to stop to check the GPS. Every time I'd stop, some of the riders would get off their bikes, remove their helmets, etc. The smokers would light up. Someone would wander into the woods to pee.  And so on. Time was a'wasting.

After four or five aggravating attempts to make our way north from the Cloudy area, we made a group decision to just ride back to Pickens and re-establish our bearings. It was getting late in the afternoon, of course. Most of us wanted to be back in camp.

Backtracking, I had the opportunity to play with the GPS because the road ahead demanded a bit less of my attention and the pavement didn't shake the crap out of the unit. I scrolled around and thought I saw how to get us north to Nashoba. From there, I knew it was just a quick run up the highway to Clayton. So I turned us north again. The rider behind me started waving to get my attention, wanting to tell me I'd taken a wrong turn, that this was not the way back to Pickens. I ignored him. Eventually, however, he pulled up beside me. I stopped to explain that I thought I had figured out the quickest way back to camp.

Connie rolled up at this moment on a flat front tire.

Okay, so let's get the tire fixed. "I've got tire irons," someone said. "I've got a spare tube," said another. "Tools here," someone volunteered. Who has air? I looked around. CO2 cartridges? A compressor? A bicycle pump?

Nobody had air.

Surely James was prepared for anything. I opened the top case on his Dakar. There was a spare clutch lever ... for his DR-Z400. There were some dirty clothes. That's it.

Back on my own bike ... 40 miles away at Clayton Lake State Park ... there were tools, a patch kit, spare tubes, tire irons, and an air compressor.

"Connie," Kay said, "we're just going to have to hide your bike in the woods and come back for it later. You can ride two-up with Brian."

Connie let it be known in no uncertain terms that she was not leaving her bike behind.

"It'll be fine," said Kay. "Brian can leave a cookie on the GPS."

I know she meant a waypoint, but she was overlooking the fact that I'd proven my inability to use this GPS.

"Not leaving it!" Connie insisted.

Kay suggested that we had to do something soon, pointing out what I'd already realized: we were beginning to run out of daylight and four of our bikes had no lights. The dirtbikers started fretting.

Before any further argument could develop, I decided it was time to take charge -- be the ride leader I should have been from the start. "Enough! Here's what we're going to do," I said in a tone implying there'd be no further discussion. "Connie, I am going to ride your bike. Since you can't ride the Dakar, someone on one of the small dirt bikes is going to have to let you ride his bike--"

"She can ride my 250," volunteered one of the guys, "but the Dakar is too big for me, too." Someone else agreed to swap bikes with him.  Maybe more than one person. I dunno.  I let them work that out. Everybody could ride something different for all I cared.

"You won't have any steering on that flat," someone pointed out to me.

"I know. I can ride it," I told them. "I'll take it easy. You guys press on and I'll follow at a slower pace. Drop someone at forks and turnoffs, so I know which way you went." I went over the proposed route with the guy who'd be leading on the Dakar with the GPS.

"Won't it ruin my tire?" Connie asked.

"I'm not worried about your tire, Connie. I'm worried about your wheel. That's why I'll ride slow. If I hit a big rock or something and bend your rim, you're going to be out four or five hundred dollars. But I rode a flat on my Dakar on the way here last year for about 40 miles. No problem." Of course, that was a rear flat, which is a lot easier to ride on, and I was on pavement or graded gravel all the way.

So we set out ... and everybody did what they were supposed to ... and the group kinda came together a bit, bonded by the adversity of the flat and the call of adventure. I took it easy on Connie's bike ... 20-25 mph for the most part, weaving around rocks that might bash and bend her rim, easing through turns that might roll the tire off the wheel and throw me down. The guy leading on the Dakar did an excellent job following the GPS. Eventually, we came to the top of a hill. The others were out ahead, but Connie and Kay had hung back with me. I recognized a certain tree and realized what hill we'd come upon. That's the tree where I had leaned Adam's 400 while I walked back down the hill to help everyone up that morning. The Hill of Doom. I had inadvertently navigated us into Nashoba via the route we'd ridden that morning.

But everyone did fine going down the hill. The guys ahead walked back and showed me the places where I could ease Connie's bike downhill on its flat front tire. We pressed on and arrived in Nashoba 15 minutes before the only gas station was to close up. Most everyone was almost out of gas.

"Gas and go," I told them. "Hurry, because you have less than 30 minutes of daylight left. I'll wait here with Connie's bike and you can bring a trailer back for me."

Connie argued that it was her bike and she should stay with it. I refused, explaining that I was not about to leave her here alone. She insisted that she'd be fine, that it wasn't like I was leaving her somewhere dangerous. I told her that it was the principle, that I knew she'd be fine, that the odds of anything happening to her were one in a million, but I was still not leaving her. She could go get her trailer and come back for me. Shouldn't take more than 45 minutes or so.

About this time, we learned that there's fix-a-flat in the store. Everyone insisted on trying it on the tire, even though I told them it wasn't going to hold because I'd been grinding up that poor innertube for the last 30 miles. We tried it anyway and it looked like it might last a few minutes.

So we made a run for it. I was doing about 45 mph on the highway, leaning out and watching the front tire slowly deflate, the fix-a-flat goop bubbling out around the base of the valve stem, which was probably sheared from my riding on the flat. Halfway to Clayton Lake State Park, the tire was flat again. I sat on the rear fender to keep weight off the front and just rode it out. Leaning into the curves, I watched the tire, waiting for it to roll off the wheel and send me down for an asphalt dance. It held.

When we rolled into camp and I parked the bike, the tire was as flat as could be ... in the two minutes of twilight left in which the tire could actually be seen.

Aggravated with the whole afternoon, I skulked away while everyone else began recounting the story. What aggravates me is that I know the one thing that will be remembered:

BRIAN GOT US LOST!!!

Later, I joked with Kay: "I'll never earn my he-man status this way, will I?"

The catered BBQ that night was good, but I kept pretty much to myself, only later joining folks at the campfire to take part in the teasing and tall tales.

Danny had a great day. He spent a good bit of it fishing with the boys and taking them riding. Wish I'd spent the afternoon with them ... but, of course, then I wouldn't have as good of a tale to tell!

While some of us were out riding, Danny got his boys saddled up for some fun around the campgrounds. (Photo courtesy of Daniel Holloway.)

You'll be glad to know that Danny's teaching them the basics of falling down -- something we both do quite well, thank you very much -- as demonstrated here by Isaac. Isaac is probably saying, "Get this bike off my leg!" but Danny's busy capturing the moment on film. Don't know who he gets that from. Ha! (Photo courtesy of Daniel Holloway.)

After the BBQ, Chris headed home because his son had come to visit. The campground was much quieter without his snoring ... until about 4 a.m. when one of the guys in an RV decided to pack up. I have NEVER heard so much goddamn racket in all my life. Whoever you are, you are one inconsiderate son of a bitch. There was so much banging and clanging, it sounded like a construction site,  then he started a very loud bike so that he could load it up, revving and racing the engine and blatting from pipes that surely don't meet any decibel requirements. It got so bad that after 30 minutes of this selfish behavior, I shouted, "I bet if you worked at it, you could make a little MORE noise!" Ashley and Rich laughed from inside their tent, obviously ALSO awakened by this asshole. Then I heard Danny chuckle from inside his camper, so they were also awake. Though I know the offending party heard me, the noise did not abate in the least.

What's worse, is whoever it was (I actually have a good idea who it was, but let's just let that go for now, okay?), didn't pack up early so that he could leave. When I eventually headed home at nine that morning, he was still there. So it's not like there was even a reason for all that racket! I'm reminded of last year, when I left at 4:30 in the morning and took extra care to be quiet and respectful of those sleeping around me, even rolling the bike away from camp before I started it up (and I have a QUIET bike). Several people had remarked that they'd never even heard me leave, which is how it should be...