It used to be that difficult conversations happened face-to-face, across the kitchen table, or maybe over the phone when distance got in the way. We could hear the tremble in someone’s voice, see the expression in their eyes, catch the pauses that revealed what words couldn’t. Tone and body language carried as much weight as the message itself.
Today, more and more of our communication happens in short bursts: a text, a comment, a quick post blasted out to an audience that may or may not understand what we’re really saying. Convenience is king. But with it comes something else—heightened sensitivity.
Lost in Translation
Texts and social media posts strip away the human cues that help us interpret meaning. A sarcastic remark in person can be softened with a smile or playful tone. In a text, the same words can come across as biting or cruel. A quick “k” might be shorthand for “okay” to one person, but to the recipient, it feels like a cold dismissal.
How many arguments now start because someone misread a message? How many friendships fray not because of what was said, but because of how it was perceived? Without the sound of a voice or the look in an eye, the reader is left to fill in the blanks with their own assumptions—and usually, those assumptions lean negative.
The Megaphone Effect
Social media has taken this even further. Platforms designed for connection have become arenas for grievance. Instead of calling a friend to work through a disagreement, we post about it. Instead of speaking to someone directly about a concern, we subtweet or craft a vague status that airs the frustration for the whole world to see.
It’s not just that the point of view can get lost—it’s that the very act of going public often escalates the situation. What could have been a quiet conversation becomes a spectacle. People pile on, interpretations multiply, and suddenly a small misunderstanding is amplified to the size of a full-blown controversy.
The Rise of Hyper-Sensitivity
Because communication has grown so impersonal, our sensitivity has heightened. We read between the lines, searching for intent that may not exist. We overanalyze word choice, punctuation, and response times. Did they use a period because they’re mad? Why didn’t they reply with an emoji? Why did they leave me on “read”?
This constant decoding is exhausting. It keeps us on edge, quick to assume offense, quicker to respond in kind. In the end, we’re left feeling more fragile, less trusting, and more disconnected than ever—ironically, in an era when we are supposedly more “connected” than any generation in history.
The Human Cost
At the heart of all this is a simple truth: relationships are built on nuance. Trust, empathy, and understanding require more than just words on a screen. They require presence. And presence is something our devices can’t fully replicate.
Think about the last time you really talked to someone—face-to-face, with no notifications buzzing in the background. Chances are, you walked away feeling lighter, closer, and more understood. Now compare that to the last text exchange that spiraled into frustration or the social media thread that left you more upset than when you started. The difference is night and day.
A Way Back
So where do we go from here? I don’t think it means abandoning technology or pretending we can live without texts and posts. They’re here to stay, and they do serve a purpose. But maybe we can be more intentional.
Pick up the phone. If the topic matters, don’t leave it to guesswork. Call.
Save sensitive conversations for in-person. Tone and body language matter more than we realize.
Think before you post. Ask yourself: Is this something better said directly to the person?
Give grace. Not every message has hidden meaning. Sometimes “k” just means “okay.”
Technology has given us incredible tools, but it’s also created new challenges. The key is to remember that behind every screen is a human being who still craves connection, nuance, and understanding.
Maybe the cure for heightened sensitivity isn’t tougher skin—it’s softer hearts, willing to step away from the keyboard and back into honest conversations.
I’ve noticed something lately, and it’s not my graying hair or the fact that my knees sound like bubble wrap every time I stand up. No, this one’s bigger. Apparently, I’ve become invisible. Not the cool comic-book kind of invisible where I can sneak into a bank vault, but the real-life version—where I walk past people on the trail, smile, nod, even throw out a friendly “hello,” and… nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. Just me, standing there like a misplaced garden gnome.
Now, I know what you’re thinking—maybe it’s just the kids. The “phone zombies” are glued to their screens, as if waiting for breaking news from TikTok headquarters. But it’s not just them. I’ve seen working professionals, a latte in one hand and a phone in the other, walk or ride their bikes right past another living, breathing human being without so much as making eye contact. If an alien ship landed right there on the trail, I swear half of them wouldn’t notice unless it had a push notification.
Back in the day, saying hello to a stranger was just what you did. Walk past someone out in nature—nod, smile, maybe even a “howdy” if you were feeling extra social. Today? You try that, and half the time they look at you like you’re selling timeshares. The other half, they don’t look at you at all.
The sad part is, I actually enjoy those tiny, meaningless interactions. A smile, a nod—these little exchanges are like WD-40 for the social gears of life. Without them, everything feels rusty and disconnected.
What’s wild is that it’s contagious. After being ignored enough times, I catch myself doing it too. Eyes down, phone out, pretending to be busy with an important text that probably just says “OK.”
I hate it!
But here’s the kicker—sometimes when I do go out of my way to say hello, I get the biggest, most surprised grin back, like I just handed someone a winning lottery ticket. It’s proof that we all still crave connection, even if we’re too distracted (or too guarded) to start it ourselves.
So maybe I’m not really invisible. Maybe we’ve just built ourselves little bubbles of distraction. But bubbles can pop. And maybe, it starts with us, the “older invisibles,” insisting on being visible. Saying hello anyway. Acknowledging the other humans around us, even if they’re busy curating their next Instagram reel.
I’m not asking for much—just a little eye contact, maybe a nod. A simple “hello” to remind me I’m not walking through a society full of holograms. Until then, I’ll keep being that guy—the one waving, smiling, and talking to people in line at the grocery store. If nothing else, it makes me laugh when they finally look up, startled, as if a ghost just spoke.
Let me start by saying—if you’re easily offended by foul language or the occasional adult reference, this might be your cue to quietly back out. No hard feelings. For the rest of you, grab a chair.
A couple of years ago, I started following a Facebook group called Michigan Motorcycle Trail Riders. At first, it was just another way to get my dirt fix from behind a screen. But then I noticed something odd—post after post from one group of guys, all declaring the same thing:
“The Best Day Ever!”
At first, I thought, Well, that’s cool. But then it kept happening. Week after week. Post after post. These guys weren’t just tossing around a catchphrase—they were living it. And apparently, they were riding a lot. I’m talking two to three times a week!
Now, I live in Bend, Oregon, and I can barely get a ride together once a month without someone’s kid getting sick, a schedule conflict, or someone claiming their bike’s still in pieces (again). So I had questions.
Who are these maniacs?
Do they really ride that often?
And how the hell do I get in on it?
I had to find out more.
If you know me, you know I grew up in Michigan, and my immediate family still lives there. Every summer, I make the trip back to catch up with family, reconnect with old friends, and—most importantly—ride my dirt bike on the trails I grew up on. That’s exactly why this group of diehard trail riders caught my attention in the first place.
So, in the summer of 2024, I sent a message over to the “Kingpin” of the group, Jim Justin, asking if I could tag along on one of their rides.
Crickets.
The summer came and went, and I quietly moved on, figuring I must’ve been ghosted by the off-road mafia. In hindsight, I don’t think he ever got my first message-I’m going with that.
Fast-forward to the summer of 2025. I thought, what the hell, and gave it another shot. Once again, I messaged Jim and asked if I could ride with them.
This time, he immediately responded with an enthusiastic, “YES!”
I was in.
The day had finally arrived—I was about to meet up with the crew for my first ride. We were gathering at the Leota Trailhead, just north of Harrison. I’d ridden there plenty as a kid, but the trails had changed over the years—thanks mostly to the addition of ATV access, which had chewed up and widened what used to be tighter singletrack. But I digress… back to the ride.
A few days before, Jim had texted me a link to WhatsApp—that’s where all the group communications happen. And as ride day drew closer, that app lit up like a damn Christmas tree.
Riders were chiming in with their yays or nays, tossing around logistics, and sprinkling in a healthy dose of pre-ride smack talk. Half of it went over my head—inside jokes and nicknames I hadn’t earned yet—but I was already starting to get the vibe: this wasn’t just a riding group, it was a tribe.
I was told kickstands go up at 9:00 a.m. sharp, so I planned to be there a half hour early. The last thing I wanted to do as the “new guy” was be late on the first ride.
I pulled into the lot at 8:30 a.m., and there was already one truck waiting. In the bed: a spotless Beta, race numbers on the side panels and front plate—this wasn’t his first rodeo. The driver looked about my age. He stepped out, stuck out a hand, and introduced himself as Scott. We traded the usual pleasantries—where are you from, what are you riding, how often do you get out—until the rest of the crew started rolling in.
Within minutes, the place was buzzing—trucks, trailers, bikes, gear bags, and all of that pre-ride energy you can feel before a good day in the dirt. Jim made a beeline over, introduced himself, and then walked me around the horn to meet the rest of the guys. Names, nicknames, bikes, inside jokes—coming at me fast. It was clear: these guys had a rhythm. I was just hoping to keep up.
The nickname thing was downright comical.
I was getting introduced to guys with names like Dick-Head, Asshole, Spanky, Fucking Mike, and—wait for it—Herpies (because they couldn’t get rid of him). I wasn’t sure if I’d accidentally joined a biker gang or wandered into a roving comedy club.
Jim leaned in with a knowing grin and said quietly, “This is a full-contact group, if you haven’t figured it out already.”
I chuckled, not quite sure what that meant… but I’d find out later that day—once the ride was over.
We rolled out of the parking lot promptly at 9:00 a.m., just like Jim said. One by one, we funneled into the main trail. I took up the back marker position—I wasn’t sure where I fit in yet, and I wasn’t about to find out the hard way by throwing it away in front of someone in the first five miles.
It’s always an interesting dynamic when you ride with a new group. You quickly start to feel out who likes to twist the throttle and who’s just happy to be in the woods on two wheels. I’d say I’m somewhere in the middle. I’ve had my fast guy days, but fracturing my pelvis in three places back in the early 2000s slowed me down a bit. That, and being a little near-sighted, helps keep my senior-rider instincts in check.
Toward the end of the ride, we were all stopped at a trail marker with about two miles left to go. That’s when Spanky casually announced that Jim (aka Asshole) had to poop—and had taken off like he’d been shot out of a cannon to hit the outhouse before his moto gear turned into a hazmat situation.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that this was all part of a premeditated prank—carefully set up earlier by Jim and Brad (aka Herp).
After a few minutes of trail banter, we fired up the bikes and knocked out the last couple miles back to the lot. As we rolled in, there was Jim—standing there with his phone out, filming.
That’s when Scott pulled up to his truck and spotted it: a life-sized cardboard cutout of Dolly Parton standing proudly in the bed of his truck. And Dolly? She wasn’t alone. She was sporting a strap-on dildo that would’ve made John Holmes envious.
The place erupted. Guys were doubled over laughing as Scott—unfazed—posed next to his new trail romance like it was just another Monday.
As it turns out, Scott had made the critical mistake of once telling Jim about a dream he’d had as a young man—about Dolly Parton. In the dream, he was admiring her beautiful blonde hair, his eyes slowly panning down to her—well—ample assets… and then down a little further, where things took a hard left turn.
There it was. A penis.
Jim had laughed at the time—but, apparently, he never forgot the story. The Dolly cutout, the strap-on, the full parking lot audience—this was the long game in action.
Some stories are best kept to yourself. Scott learned that the hard way. And now… so have I.
After the ride, everyone pulled out their camp chairs, cracked open a few beers, and got right back to the smack talk. One thing I’ve found to be true about my moto brethren—they’re all cut from the same cloth. Most, if not all, have that adventurous spark, aren’t easily offended, and would drop everything to help a fellow rider in a jam. These guys were no exception.
I fit right in.
But something was starting to eat at me.
I knew, realistically, I maybe had four or five ride days with this group to make an impression. And while I was grateful just to be part of the action, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. Most of these guys had nicknames—some earned, some gifted, all legendary. I, on the other hand, was still stuck with the most dreaded label of all:
“The New Guy.”
And I didn’t want to be the New Guy anymore.
The question was, what could I possibly do—in such a short window of time—to earn a nickname and be liberated from my placeholder status?
It was midweek when the WhatsApp thread lit up with details about the upcoming Friday ride. This time, we were headed to the Higgins trail—a local favorite of mine. I’d ridden it plenty over the years and always loved the flow and variety it offered.
Friday rolled around and, one by one, the usual suspects started rolling into camp. Asshole showed up first, followed by Dick Head, Spanky, Herp, Fucking Mike, and so on. A few new faces joined the circus too—Big Mike, Cactus Dan, and a guy they called Lolliepop, though I didn’t want to ask why.
As everyone geared up, I felt a familiar rumble in my gut. You know the one. An intestinal emergency was imminent, and there was no way I was risking a tactical deployment in the van.
Thankfully, I always travel prepared.
I’ve got a trusty honey pot in the trailer—basically a 5-gallon bucket I line with a plastic shopping bag when nature calls. It’s not glamorous, but it gets the job done. And this job? It got done.
Now came the question: what do I do with the aftermath?
I couldn’t leave it in the trailer or the van—it’d turn the whole rig into a hazmat zone by lunchtime. And then it hit me. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I was going to slide it under someone’s truck seat. I didn’t know who yet, but I figured fate would decide. I had only been on one ride with these guys, but this? This was next-level shit—literally.
If this didn’t earn me a nickname, nothing would.
I decided to walk over to Dick Head and casually ask where I could “deliver my package.”
He didn’t miss a beat.
“Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t put it in Jim’s truck.”
Naturally, I asked why.
“Because I already did that once,” he smirked. “And he’ll think it was me again.”
That’s all I needed to hear.
At first, it didn’t look like the mission would pan out—Jim was sitting in the bed of his truck, gearing up, and taking his sweet time. But I got impatient. The window of opportunity wasn’t going to open itself.
So, I snuck around to the passenger side, quietly cracked the door, and slid the contents of my “shit bag” under the front seat like a Navy SEAL planting C4.
I gently pushed the door closed and slithered back around the front of his truck to the other side of my trailer.
It was done.
The package had been delivered.
Now all I had to do… was sit back and let it go to work.
We decided to grab lunch at the Silver Dollar Saloon in Higgins Lake—the local watering hole just a few miles up the road. After packing up the bikes and gear, we caravanned over in the heat and humidity, the kind that would guarantee results only time could deliver.
I figured once we hit the bar, Jim would come flying out of his truck, “shit bag” in hand, demanding to know who planted the land mine. I was half-expecting to be confronted in the parking lot.
To my surprise… nothing.
Not a single word.
We circled up around the table, choked down burgers and a few tall drinks, and got into the usual trash talk. Lunch came and went. Goodbyes were said. Still no reaction from Jim.
Surely he’d discover it on the drive home, right?
He and his wife run a campground in Bad Axe, Michigan—a solid two-hour haul. That hot sun, sealed cab, and stewing payload would be reaching critical mass by the time he hit Saginaw.
All I could do was smile to myself and wait for the fallout.
I started to question what I had done. At first, it seemed brilliant—a surefire way to earn my nickname and break out of “new guy” status. But as the day wore on, guilt crept in. What if Jim’s wife got in the truck with him when he got home? What if she thought it was him?
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I picked up the phone and sent Jim a text.
“Hey man,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Just thought I should let you know—I saw someone… I can’t say who… but they may have, uh, slipped something under the passenger seat of your truck.”
Without missing a beat, Jim fired back, “Yeah, I found it.”
I played dumb. “Found what?”
“A bag of shit.”
I burst out laughing and sent him a 💩 emoji. His response? Silence.
Turns out, Jim had already called every single guy on the ride—except me—asking if they were the culprit. Dick Head cracked under pressure and told him it was me.
That following Monday, I couldn’t make the weekly ride. But at lunchtime, I got a message from Scott that read:
Chet (my current nickname), during today’s lunch/board meeting, it was unanimously decided that your “Best Day Ever” nickname has officially been upgraded… from “Chet” to “Shit Bag.”
This honorable title was awarded based on the fact that you strategically placed a bag of (still steaming) shit under “Asshole’s” passenger seat—in his brand new truck. He wondered what the hell stank all the way home. Congratulations from all of us Best Day Ever Bozos.
I had finally earned my place.
On next week’s ride, I could barely look Jim in the eye. I mean—I shit-bombed the guy’s brand new truck. But to my surprise, he just laughed and said, “I don’t get mad… I get even. Your day is coming!”
Gulp.
Later, while we were suiting up, I asked Jim and Dick Head how long it usually takes to earn a nickname in the group. Before they could answer, the guy next to me chimed in, “I’ve been riding with this crew for five years and I still don’t have one!”
Dick Head grinned and said, “You broke the record, man. Nobody’s ever earned a nickname that fast.”
Less than ten days. Two rides. One bag of steaming mischief. And now I was officially Shit Bag.
“Be careful what you wish for,” someone said.
I couldn’t have been more proud.
I rode with the group a few more times, and on the last day, I sat down—pen in hand—and decided to learn a little more about my new, adopted off-road family.
There’s Jim Justin, a.k.a. Asshole, and his right-hand man Don Clairhout, a.k.a. Asshole 2. Then there’s Scott Roerig (Dick Head), Steve (Spanky), Brad Goldsmith (Herp), Gary Seibert (Lolliepop), Ralph Schwartz (BDM), Scott Ruggles AKA Struggles, Mike Bukawski (Fucking Mike), Mike Mueller (Big Mike), and Nick Gordon (Thumper).
As it turns out, Don and Jim started riding together around 2005, hitting the trails religiously every Friday. The group’s original name was “The Dirt Dudes,” but Scott suggested “Soggy Bottom Boys” after watching O Brother, Where Art Thou?, and it stuck. Seems fitting, really.
Apparently, they got kicked off a group chat a couple of years ago for posting pictures of titties—go figure. That’s when they migrated over to WhatsApp, where they’ve managed to keep things barely under the radar.
They now ride together every Monday and Friday, all year long—even in the winter, as long as there’s six inches of snow or less. At last count, the WhatsApp group has around 50 members, though rides usually average between 5–10 regulars.
Jim told me he logged 105 rides in 2024, which is absolutely bonkers considering each ride clocks around 25 miles. That’s commitment. He also said they host a big spring and fall group ride every year—three days of trail riding, barbecues, bonfires, and enough bench racing to make your ears bleed.
All I know is… I’ve found my people. These guys are wild, unapologetic, hilarious, and most importantly—my kind of tribe.
They’ve inspired me to try and recreate something like this back home in Bend.
Get ready boys, I’m coming home. Get your boots on!
Motorcycles have been in my life for as long as I can remember. When you’re 4 years old, committing to riding a machine with two wheels, propelled by a gas engine, and equipped with brakes that stop just one of the two wheels, there’s going to be some figuring out to do. Motorcycle technology has undergone significant changes over the past 50 years, but the principles of riding remain essentially unchanged.
When you ride a motorcycle in the dirt for the first time, you learn right away that some things are not completely in your control. The tires move around a lot depending on the terrain you are riding over. The front tire floats on sand differently than it does on hard ground, such as black dirt or clay. Riding in the sand for the first time gives the rider a tense, uneasy feeling in the bars. The front end can push and swerve depending on speed and technique. As you learn to ride in this condition, you learn to move your weight back over the rear wheel and keep the throttle on. This keeps the front end light, which helps the motorcycle go where it’s pointed.
You start out riding in your yard one day, and the next day it rains, you come flying around the same corner, and the next thing you know, you’re sliding across the lawn on your ass.
Lesson #1: You can’t go as fast on wet grass as on dry grass…
Lesson #101: You can’t stand on the seat of your motorcycle and let go of the handlebars under 30 mph.
You get the picture.
Growing up on two wheels teaches you things you could never learn from anyone else, and some of it hurts like hell! You know how your father would tell you you’re getting a spanking for doing something you were told not to do?
On a motorcycle, you don’t see the ass-kicking coming.
It just shows up!
Failure is equally important as success. Ask anyone successful, and they will have dozens of stories about failure. What you choose to do with failure makes or breaks you. If you don’t fall, pick yourself up and try again; all that’s left is failure.
Two years ago, I resigned from the best job I ever had as Zone Sales Manager for Victory Motorcycles (a division of Polaris Industries). I had full medical benefits, a 401 (k), stock options, a company truck, demo units, a great salary, and commission to boot. I left it all at the curb to take a chance on my own start-up business.
Why?
Let’s just say I flew off a motorcycle one too many times—and somewhere in the air, between takeoff and crash landing, I figured out I could handle whatever came next.
Once upon a time, tucked away in a dusty old garage, sat three little motorcycles named Mustard, Ketchup, and Pickle. They were Honda CTs from the 1960s, with bright colors and big personalities. Mustard was a sunny yellow bike who loved to laugh and tell jokes. Ketchup, a brilliant red, was bold and brave, always ready to race ahead. And Pickle, a soft green, was the thoughtful one, always dreaming up new adventures.
For many years, they sat quietly, their tires flat and their engines silent, dreaming of the days when they zipped through forests and bounced over hills. But time had passed, and big, fancy adventure bikes had taken over the world. They were tall, heavy, and covered in gadgets. The little bikes often whispered to each other, “We may be small, but we can still have the biggest adventures!”
One bright morning, something magical happened. A sparkle of sunlight slipped through a crack in the garage door, and with it came a wave of energy that woke Mustard, Ketchup, and Pickle from their long sleep. Their engines coughed, sputtered, and roared to life! It was time to find three new riders—riders who would believe in them and help them show the world that adventure isn’t about size; it’s about spirit!
The three little bikes rolled out into the modern world, amazed at how much had changed. Cars whizzed by faster than ever. People stared at tiny screens in their hands. And the adventure bikes? Oh, they were HUGE! Towering KTMs, sleek BMWs, and roaring Triumphs zoomed past, their riders wearing serious faces and even more serious gear.
But Mustard, Ketchup, and Pickle weren’t worried. They knew they had something special. They just needed to find the right riders. Riders with big hearts, wild imaginations, and a love for the road less traveled.
Their search led them to a small town on the edge of a great forest in central Oregon. There, they met three friends: Mike, Dylan, and Harold. Mike was a daring explorer who once climbed his neighbor’s tallest tree to rescue a stuck kite. Dylan was a jokester who could find a mud puddle faster than anyone. And Harold? Harold was the planner, the one who always knew how to turn a crazy idea into a real adventure.
The moment the boys saw the little bikes, it was love at first sight. “They look like candy!” Dylan laughed. “They look like trouble,” Mike grinned. “They look like the beginning of something amazing,” said Harold with a wide smile.
With a little tinkering (and a lot of giggling), the three friends got Mustard, Ketchup, and Pickle ready to ride. They packed their Giant Loop luggage with sandwiches, apples, and maps drawn with crayon. Then they set off, bouncing down dirt trails, splashing through shallow creeks, and laughing louder than the birds in the trees.
Everywhere they went, the big adventure bikes stared in shock. How could these little bikes be having so much fun? Mustard zoomed ahead, telling silly jokes. Ketchup leapt over puddles like a red blur. And Pickle led them through secret trails, weaving like a green snake.
At the end of the day, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky with pink and orange, the little bikes and their riders camped under the stars. They roasted marshmallows over a fire and told stories about their incredible day.
Mustard, Ketchup, and Pickle smiled to themselves. They might be small, but they had the biggest hearts—and with Mike, Dylan, and Harold, they were ready for a lifetime of big adventures.
After all, it’s not about how big you are. It’s about how big your dreams can be.
So far, Mustard, Ketchup, and Pickle have ridden the Oregon BDR and recently completed the Moab “Trifecta,” riding Slickrock, White Rim Trail, and Porcupine Rim Trail in just three days. They just can’t wait to see where their riders take them next!
Sitting here at my computer while typing these words, I think about “What’s Next?” It’s January 2nd, 2024, and I find myself unemployed for the first time in almost 50 years. I recently decided to retire (at least for now), turning over the balance of my work to my business partner, Tristan Henry, whom I met at a bicycle shop here in Bend almost nine years ago.
For the first time in my life, I have found myself without direction or purpose! What the hell am I going to do with my time? I could annoy my wife a little more, but she would insist that I am already maxed out on that subject matter. I could begin writing the book I have been noodling over for nearly a decade or maybe travel a little more…
I never really thought that I would be “lost” in the thought of retirement. I thought retirement would be stress-free, and provide the time to do whatever my heart desires. I still have so many ideas for work that I find it hard to sleep at night. I guess retirement doesn’t mean you can quit thinking about work? For me, “work” hasn’t felt like work since I quit my job at the plastics factory in Alma where I grew up. When my dad and I started the motorcycle dealership in 1984, it was the beginning of the end for “work,” as I knew it.
Let me explain: it never feels like work when you love what you do. I have my dad to thank for that. I really enjoyed the challenges that business brought to the table. Working as a team to solve problems that increased sales and productivity was something that I looked forward to. I will forever be grateful for the opportunities the family business provided me. It set the tone for the coming years, all the way to these keystrokes. Thank you, Pops!
Some of you may remember my post about the Desert 100 from last year, where I had to ditch my goggles five miles into the race due to dust on the inside of the lens. This is where I learned about putting baby oil on the foam in the goggles’ frame to keep the silt dust out. The first time I raced this event (2019), I learned about bib mousse; I got a flat tire 32 miles into the race. This year marked my third attempt at this grueling desert race in Eastern Washington. They say the “third time’s a charm” for a reason; it usually gives you enough chances to learn, plan, and execute, hoping the stars will align for a better result.
Well, that’s what happened this year, but not without a few monkey wrenches thrown into my (so-called) “PLAN” of attack. This year, my riding buddy from Michigan (Ryan “Ryno” Weatherby and his wife Denise) drove about 2,500 miles (one way) to join us at the D-100. Ryan is a very accomplished motocross rider and has teamed up with me on several hare-scramble events but has yet to race a motorcycle through the desert at break-neck speeds.
The Weatherbys showed up at our home in Bend, Oregon, on Saturday before the race so we could go to the desert and test the bikes. I learned that Ryno can ride like the wind in any condition and terrain. The dude just flat-out hauls ass!! He makes me look like a guy who just learned to ride and has yet to master getting his motorcycle into third gear. Sickening, really.
Testing Day-Millican Trail System
It started snowing when Ryan’s wife Denise stepped foot on Oregon soil. She informed us that it’s like this whenever she travels. She explained that a black cloud follows her wherever she goes, and it either rains or snows on her, depending on temperature and altitude. I was glad she came because as soon as we got to Odessa (the site of the D-100), it started raining- yes, no dust! But I’m getting ahead of myself here.
After a couple days of testing in the desert East of our home in Bend, Ryno had the KX-450 hooking up like a yarn ball on velcro. We loaded the bikes, gear, food, and libations for after the race and hit the road.
My good friend Harold from Giant Loop Moto hooked us up with vendor status, and we were through the gates in Odessa a day early to claim our patch of land for the weekend. We did help (the other Ryan) set up the Giant Loop booth on vendor row; heck, I even sold a few hundred dollars worth of gear while Ryan was busy visiting the loo.
The D-100 is the largest desert race in the Country, but that’s not why so many riders come. Over six thousand riders attend the Desert 100 each year and for a good reason. The main attraction is the family fun atmosphere and events starting early Saturday morning. There are Dual-Sport rides, Poker Runs, and unlimited riding in the “Square” almost all weekend. I would dare say that the race itself is less attractive to most who come to the D-100.
Desert 100 2023
After a few days of listening to the sound of over-revving motorcycles belting out 2 and 4-stroke harmony all over camp, race day finally arrived. I was busy going over race strategy in my head as soon as I was conscious. The only time I’m ever nervous about a race is when driving to it. When race day arrives, I’m cool as a cucumber. I had already gone over every nut and bolt on the bike, changed the engine oil, checked the fuel level and coolant, adjusted the drive chain tension, verified suspension settings, released the build-up of air pressure in the forks, and cleaned the air filter. My bike was ready, and so was I.
Jenn and Sadie-Moto Support CrewRyan and Denise Weatherby
Ryno was up tinkering around with his bike, but the look on his face said, “I think I might have to go to the toilet” Good plan; it’s definitely better than pooping your pants out on the race course. Yes, the racer’s creed is that when doing battle, you never stop, even if it means soiling your gear! I got that stuff all out of the way early on. My body has a daily schedule, like the world clock, which is very timely.
Ready
The riders’ meeting was set for 8:30 AM sharp, and the schedule said to bring your bike and not be late. Ryno wanted to roll in at 8:30 (he’s a cool Moto guy), but I explained my strategy for getting in line early. He grunted at me but submitted to my neurotic behavior. When we arrived at the rider’s meeting, what looked like a hundred riders were waiting to go. We sat there through the usual announcements and the playing of the National Anthem. Ryan and I looked at each other with huge grins on our faces, high-fived, and couldn’t wait to get underway. All at once, almost three thousand bikes fired to life.
Riders Meeting
The pace car started to lead us out to the starting line, but all of a sudden took a right turn, wait, WHAT? We are supposed to go left to get to the starting line! F%#C!! Ok, here is monkey wrench number one. Apparently, people were practicing their holeshot early, and the organizers decided to change the start location at the last minute. This is where my plan to line up early failed us. We were lined up to the very left of the main line to the holeshot.
When the cannon fired, it was time to run to the bike, fire the engine, and take off into a cloud of dust along with 1,500 other riders in our group. We had to go around a little knoll out of the main line, and when we joined the group of riders, we were almost dead last through the holeshot area. The start of a desert race is always a little chaotic. You are just trying not to get hit or run into another rider until things spread out. The first half hour of the race is just trying to find good lines around the mass of bikes in your way. The night before the race, I told a friend how I seldom get arm pump, yet there it was just 30 minutes into the race. I started to breathe a little more, loosen my grip, and squeeze the bike with my knees. My arm pump was gone a few minutes later, and I was settling into a nice pace.
The Start
I had the Beta running a gear high, lugging the motor just enough to find good traction on the slick, rough, rocky desert floor. I dodged and weaved my way through sagebrush, boulders, and riders who were swapping out all over the place. About 15 miles in, there was an uphill climb through a boulder field littered with downed riders. I found a clean line on the left and buzzed right up and over. I was so focused that I was choosing lines with the precision and clarity of a cat chasing a mouse.
Nasty Boulder Field Climb
Something magical happens to your body after about an hour of aggressive riding. You start to find another energy level you didn’t know you had. For some reason, I feel more robust during the race’s second hour than during the first. Maybe this is just nerves settling down? I don’t know, but whatever the reason, it always feels good to charge harder and smooth out the whoops. This year, the course was littered with rocks and whoops, some deeper than I have ever seen. If you race the outside lines, you can avoid the deepest ones.
4-Mile Mark
At about the halfway point, monkey wrench number two showed up. There I lay with a rider and his bike on top of me. I approached another climb with two other riders to my left. I found a line on the right and proceeded to pass when the guy on the far left hit a big rock and ping-ponged into the guy to his right, who then fell into me. I couldn’t get up until he managed to pick himself and his bike off of me. Once he did, it was back to business.
While riding, I couldn’t help but worry about my buddy Ryno. After all, he had never raced in the desert for that long before. Riders were flying everywhere, boulders big as land mines, and a million other hazards waiting to take you out around every corner. I hadn’t seen him since the start and wondered where he was. I didn’t have to wonder long. When I approached the finish line, there he was, standing right next to the girls with a big, dirt-faced grin. He probably had time to eat, drink a beer, and shower. He passed me not long after the start and finished 10 minutes ahead of me.
#553 “The Ryno”
Ryan finished 11th in the 50-59 class, and I finished 3rd in the 60-69 class. It was a good day for us both. Sadly, he checked the desert racing box and likely won’t return. It’s ok because I promised my wife this year that if I had a good result, I wouldn’t drag her back here again, at least until I can race the 70+ class 🙂
After my wife and I completed our tour of the Alps in 2017, we were chomping at the bit to add another adventure to our motorcycle touring portfolio. The question was, where and when? Sometimes when you’re looking for a new adventure, it just shows up!
It was March of 2019, and we had landed in Croatia for our next tour of duty, and then, the entire world shut down. It was two and a half long years before I would get a text from my good friend Jeff Cole who was living in Thailand at the time. The note read, “Hey Mike, are you going on the Giant Loop ride to Nepal?”
He proceeded to tell me about the ride and sent me a link to the website that had all of the details. I must admit, riding a motorcycle through Nepal had never even entered my mind. Jenn and I combed through all of the information about the expedition and decided that we were in. Now we just needed to figure out how much it would cost?
The Giant Loop Far Xplorer expedition includes nine days of riding, Royal Enfield motorcycle rental, all meals, hotels/camps, food, and support. The expensive part was airfare, which we won’t discuss here because it’s a moving target. Our flight itinerary would have us leaving Bend, flying to Seattle, then Doha, Qatar, and on to Kathmandu, Nepal. The expedition was booked for November 19th through December 5th, 2022. Actual riding dates would be November 23rd to the 1st of December.
Over the next several months, Jenn was busy learning about Nepal, and I was looking into the right gear for the ride. It was supposed to be mostly warm, with lows in the 30s to 50s at the higher elevations of our ride route. Nepal is basically on the same latitude as Baja. The rainy season in Nepal is during the summer, so there wasn’t a real concern about getting wet, but we needed to have gear that would be water-repellant with venting for those warmer days. We gathered all of the suggested items in the travel guide, got our vaccinations, and were ready for our new adventure to begin.
Harold and Michelle (Mr. and Mrs. Giant Loop) were also going to join the expedition. Harold and I have been friends for almost 10 years. He’s one of the first people I met when I came to Bend in early 2013. He and his wife Michelle are passionate about the outdoors and riding on two wheels.
Our General Itinerary
Nov 22 – Day in Kathmandu with a visit to Bhaktapur Durbar Square
Nov 23 – Transition to the starting point at Naubise – first night in the safari lodge in Sauraha (Chitwan Nat Park)
Nov 24 – First camp in Dedegaun in the Palpa District on the Kali Gandaki River
Nov 25 – Second camp in Ridi (soccer pitch) after a coffee stop in Tansen, a former kingdom
Nov 26 – My favorite camp in the Syanjia District, Honey Hill as we call it.
Nov 27 – This was our big push to the lodge at Kalopani in the Mustang
Nov 28 and 29 – Two nights camping in the tea house at Boksikola
Nov 30 – We arrived at my other favorite hilltop camp at Giplang
Dec 1 – We rolled into the Bar Peepal Resort in Pokhara!
Expedition Highlights
From Christophe Noel-our expedition leader.
“The highpoint village we walked through was Jharkot. The great little village of white stone with the monastery is Marpha. Yak Donalds is in Kagbeni. Those are the notable spots in the Mustang. The big peaks were Dhaulagiri (26,975) and Annapurna I (26,500 ft). 7th and 10th tallest peaks in the world.
By my count, we passed through 11 of the 77 districts of Nepal. I suspect we interacted with at least 9 unique peoples, castes, and ethnic groups, including Newar (Susan), Chettri, Brahmin, Tamang, Takali, Gurung, Magar, Tharu (safari guide), Rai (our support team), Pun, Sherpa, Bote, and Kami.
There are 37 types of forests in Nepal, and I believe we visited 11 of those spanning four of the five climate zones from tropical to subtropical, temperate, and subalpine at Jharkot.”
Time to fly! It’s 4:30 AM, November 19th, and we are hustling to get our gear staged in the garage while we wait for our Uber ride to take us to the airport. 48 hours, 4 planes, 18 hours of total layovers, and we touch down in Kathmandu, Nepal. Let the adventure begin!
Overlooking Kathmandu
Our shuttle to the hotel in Kathmandu was one of the wildest rides I’ve ever taken in a vehicle and a sign of things to come. We made it to the hotel just before dark to find our expedition leader Christophe and a few other members of our group enjoying a cold beverage in the lounge. The first night was all about settling in and trying to get a good night’s sleep. Our schedule for the next day in Kathmandu was to hitch a ride into town and tour one of the oldest parts of the city.
Town square Kathmandu
Christophe had arranged for his good friend Susan to show us around the historical parts of Kathmandu. Susan was born and raised in Nepal and spoke fluent English. I understand that she has also done some work for the History Channel.
Susan
We ventured deep into the city to visit a 400-year-old part of town reserved for royalty. The monarchy was riddled with drama that eventually lead to a massacre that wiped out most of the royal family. On May 28, 2008, the newly elected Constituent Assembly declared Nepal, a Federal Democratic Republic, abolishing the 240-year-old monarchy. Nepal today has a President as Head of State and a Prime Minister heading the Government.
It’s Tuesday, November 22, and we are headed two hours out of town to the West and up into the foothills just outside of Kathmandu to pick up the motorcycles. We arrived at a lodge high up on a bench overlooking the valley below. It’s a beautiful sight to behold, with lush green valleys and the snow-capped Himalayas in the background. We unpack our riding gear and daily necessities, mount our Giant Loop travel luggage to our motorcycle, then prepare for departure.
Our starting point-Naubise, Nepal
Christophe chose this location as a starting point so we could acclimate to riding in Nepal, which is much different than riding in the States. For one thing, you ride on the LH side of the road, but it’s important to learn how the flow of traffic works in Nepal. Horns are not a signal of aggression here. They’re used primarily as a “get noticed” alert. It says I’m here; please see me.
What to understand about riding/driving in Nepal is that you trust others for your basic welfare. There are little to no traffic lights or signs, even at major intersections, which include roundabouts. The key to success is getting a wheel ahead of the next rider/driver. When you do this, the drivers around you are responsible for yielding and looking out for your safety. It’s truly a thing of beauty to behold. It was difficult to get my head wrapped around this, but after the first day, I was gliding along in synch with my Nepali motorists-friends.
After a 50-mile ride to the SW corner of Nepal, near the border of India, we arrived at our destination for the night. The hotel was located near the Chitwan National Park. Christophe had arranged for dinner outside near a roaring fire. We were right on the edge of the nature preserve and could hear elephants trumpeting in the distance. The next morning we went out for a safari and saw rhinoceros, elephants, wild boars, crocodiles, and many species of birds.
Do you see it?
After our safari, we were on the road heading North up into the Mustang Valley area. The next several days were spent chugging along mostly dirt roads heading up in elevation. Christophe explained that there are three types of roads in Nepal, on-road, off-road, and on-off-road, meaning pavement with potholes the size of cars. Most nights while traveling in the backcountry, we stayed in tents that our support team had pitched before our arrival each day. Travel was slow and technical, with a mixture of rain ruts, loose rock, and an occasional river crossing. We passed small mountain towns that grew fruits and vegetables and high mountain farms that raised sheep, goats, and buffalo. The Nepali people are very resourceful, growing most of their food; they import very little, with the exception of rice.
Our Royal Enfield motorcycles held up well, with the exception of some wheel bearing failures and mufflers falling off; they proved to be strong as mules. The 350 Classic I was riding put a big smile on my face around every turn. It didn’t seem to matter what condition the road threw at us; the little bike just kept chugging up, around, over, and through anything we encountered. The only condition I had difficulty with was mud; the tires were made for the street with a solid rib down the middle; this allowed the rear end of the bike to try and pass the front almost every time I hit a wet spot. I did the Fred Flintstone several times but, fortunately, never went down.
Dhaulagiri (26,975 ft) is the 7th tallest summit in the world, and Annapurna (26,455 ft) is the 10th tallest.
Jenn had a few close calls, once while trying to pass a car that sped up and moved over on her. She came face to face with another rider, and they both went down, but no one was hurt. A few dollars in reparation, and we were back on our way. Jenn had to ride with me for a few miles until the mechanics could find a place to weld her footpeg back on.
Once we arrived in the village of Marpha, we were able to visit our first Buddhist temple. The people of the village are largely Tibetan and live a simple, peaceful life. Children are Nepal’s greatest gift and are treated as such. I originally came for the adventure of riding a motorcycle through the mountains of Nepal, but I quickly fell in love with the people, the food, and their way of life. I will be forever changed by their welcoming nature, infectious smiles, and resourcefulness.
Prayer WheelOne of several suspension bridges
We spent a few more days exploring the Mustang Valley and visited some beautiful local farms, mountain villages, and temples that were sacred and off-limits to the general public. In fact, we were each one of just 20 visitors in total that were allowed into this particular temple. I’m not even at liberty to discuss what we saw inside. Let’s just say the contents were several hundred years old. If word ever got out, the temple could be robbed. Our guide Christophe had donated several hours of service to the community there.
Tibetan farmer in Marpha
At our final camp, just NW of Pokhara, we were greeted by a couple dozen students and their English teacher. From the minute we arrived at camp, we were drawn into a celebration of dance and laughter that was unlike anything we have ever experienced. The children were all dancing in a circle, hands in the air, smiles on every face; they pulled us to the middle and danced all around us. The energy level was so great that I felt like I was floating on air as I moved around their inner circle. This went on for several hours until a feast to suit a king was prepared for all to enjoy.
My favorite shot of one of our camps
That night our support team consisting of our chef, his son Suman, our mechanic Ravdam, and our support truck driver threw a party around the woodstove that would rival anything I have ever been a part of. The libations were flowing, and the music was provided by our incredible support team. They were playing traditional Nepali instruments; it was raw, live, and exciting to hear and see. They really know how to live life to the fullest every day in Nepal.
Our final day on the bikes would see us travel back down the mountain with 4,000 feet of descent into Pokhara, where we saw hand gliders catching thermals rising to the clouds in a ballet of flight. Up and down, we went while traveling along a spine high atop a mountain ridge with spectacular views of the valley below. Our trip was coming to a close, and a bit of sadness started to creep into my body. I wasn’t ready to leave Nepal and the people I fell in love with, but soon we would be shuttled back to the airport and back to the good ole U.S. of A.
The “Goat”
This trip will likely stick with us forever, and we would like to think we are better people for it. I teased my wife that I would likely have PTSD after we return to our everyday reality that’s largely based on consumerism. It’s now time to admit something about the “Goat”. I’ve had my eye on that little Royal Enfield Classic 350 for a couple years now. In fact, when I bought all of my gear for this trip, it was with the goal in mind that I would own one of these bikes someday. That day came as soon as we arrived home. I picked up “Bullet” the next week. Yup, part of Nepal will be with me every time I sling my leg over this little bike.
There I sat, eyes burning like someone poured gas into them, sanded them with 80-grit, and then threw some salt in for good measure. When my vision finally cleared, I could see a dirt road just off to the right. I was at a crossroads.
Can’t see a F’n thing!
In March 2019, just after the pandemic shut down the country, the 50th anniversary of the Desert-100 scheduled for April was canceled. 2020 came and went with just an (unattended) cannon blow in a silent desert that would otherwise signal the start of the Desert 100, and over 2000 rabid dirt bikers headed to the same first corner at wide-open throttle.
Then it happened, it was December 2021, and word hit the street that the 50th annual Desert 100 was going to happen this coming April as it had 49 times before the pandemic shut it down.
Time to prepare.
6500 Campers
I sold the 2019 KTM 300 XC-W, which is great for tight singletrack but not really competitive for wide-open racing in the desert. I purchased a 2022 KTM 350 XC-F because this motorcycle can hold up to higher speeds and rougher terrain found in the desert.
After Jenn and I returned from our mid-winter vacation in Baja, it was time to get to work. If I was going to have any chance at placing near the front in my class, I was going to have to get after it. These desert races are tough on your body and can destroy your equipment if you’re not prepared.
Depending on which class you’re in (the 50-mile class or the 100-mile class), the race can go over 2 hours at a very minimum. That’s a long time to hang on to a machine, running at high speeds through rough terrain in the desert.
To prepare, my wife convinced me to join her group fitness class at Embark here in Bend. These classes use the HIT (high-intensity training) method. I started in March and tried to go at least 3-days a week. I consulted with a professional bike racer (a friend of mine) about performance nutrition. We developed a program that really helped boost my energy while on the bike. It also kept me from cramping, which was a big problem in 2019.
Embark Fitness Bend
It was time to get on the bike and put all of this work to the test. I decided to use a trail system just a few miles from where I live here in Bend. I scouted out a 10-mile loop that would include many deep whoops, lava rock, sagebrush, and hill climbs. My plan was to run the loop three times so I could get a baseline of how my speed and endurance would be.
Test Day in the Desert
The first lap felt really fast, but the second two felt about the same. When I stopped and reviewed my fitness tracker, it confirmed exactly what I felt on the bike. My goal was to average at least 25 miles per hour. That’s what it was going to take to win my class. This was based on times I saw from the winners of the last two events. My average speed on the first three laps was 26.7 MPH. This would definitely be good enough to get me on the top step of the podium, but I had to remember that there were no other riders out here on the trail with me, and there would be hundreds of riders on the same course at the D-100
After getting back home and analyzing the data, I determined that I should back off a little in the beginning and ride at a more steady, conservative pace. This strategy really worked. The next time out on the same course, I finished 3 minutes earlier and had an average speed of 27.9 MPH. Ok, now I just have to keep it up for 50 miles!
It’s a week before the race, and I’m getting the bike prepped and ready, which includes changing the engine oil and filter, cleaning and lubricating the air filter, loctiting all of the bolts that can come loose, and making sure there are no parts that need replacing. Next, load all my gear, bike, fuel, tools, chairs, and other miscellaneous items in the trailer and get ready to head to Odessa, Wa. Moto-Jenn was busy loading the camper with everything we needed to sustain ourselves for living in the desert off-grid for 5 days.
We usually leave a few days before the race and camp about halfway. This takes a little pressure off and is very relaxing for Moto-Jenn and the pooch. We make it a little family adventure. This also allows us to get in line before the gate opens on Thursday. The race is held on 1200 acres of private land used to graze cattle in the winter. Yes, there are a few cowpies to dodge out on the racecourse.
Moto-Jenn and Sadie
It’s Thursday at 12:00 noon, and the gates swing open to let the first arrivals in. There are already several campers set up and fully dialed in. Most of these people are volunteers from the Stumpjumpers organization (the club that puts on the 100 each year). Others allowed in early are some of the industry vendors who provide parts, accessories, and services to the 6500 riders in attendance. Wait, did I just say 6500 riders? Yes, I think I did.
The Desert 100 race itself is the smallest part of the overall attraction of the weekend. There are other riding events at the 100 as well. It’s a real family affair that brings men, women, and children out to play on their motorcycles for 3-days in the desert. Poker runs, kid’s rides, and adventure bike rides go off non-stop. There are prizes, food, and fun to be had for all involved.
Does this dress make me look fast?
Our friend James from Canada showed up again this year to camp and race the 100 but with a bit of a deficit. He had shoulder surgery and was still healing from that. He had also fallen and landed right on his face giving him the classic shiner. It looked like he just came out of the ring in a prize fight! I think he had a few cocktails, tripped, and fell.
Motorbike Mike and James
It’s Saturday night, and I’m cooking some pasta to carb load before the race. I do this so I don’t run out of energy before I finish the race on Sunday. I’ve also been taking my amino acids and protein supplements for the day. I do this for 3-days leading up to race day. I’m not working out leading into race day as my body needs the rest. Tomorrow morning it’s go-time!
We awoke (as we do most days here) to the sound of a revving motorcycle or 10…I’m quickly up and ready to get this day started. Some quick eggs and toast along with my amino acid concoction, and I’m fueled and ready. The rider’s meeting is held promptly at 11:00 AM, and the D-100 begins at 1:00 PM sharp!
With the riders meeting in the rear window, it’s time to get to business. It’s a chilly spring morning, but the weather is supposed to be perfect for racing-or, I thought. I step into the race trailer to get geared up before I do one final check of the race bike. Jenn is busy in the trailer getting around and ready to start pacing. She says it’s unnerving when I leave for the starting line where the race starts. That’s because she has no idea where I’m at in that big cloud of dust that would be 1200 riders (50-mile class) all headed down the start straight to the first turn before disappearing into the desert for 2+ hours.
The Start
The start of the Desert 100 is the coolest part, I think. As far as the eye can see, there is a sea of riders lined up to enter the service road that leads to the start. A few volunteers are in a pace car, and a few more are on bikes when someone on a bullhorn says, “Racers, start your engines!” I’m not sure I can accurately describe what 3400 dirt bikes sound like firing up all at once, but it gives me goosebumps even as I type these words.
With thousands of riders sitting there, revving their engines at full throttle, the lead cars start to move, and the riders follow them out onto the service road. It really is a spectacle to behold. The local news channels are there, along with thousands of spectators (mostly supporting friends and family) watching their rider(s) leave for the start. It’s the coolest parade I’ve ever seen, and it will be the last time most will see their rider until he or she finishes the race.
2700 Riders Ready to get after it.
One of the first things I learned this year is that there is a strategy to staging at the starting line, and the seasoned veterans know this. The idea is to be right behind the pace car because you will have the first pick at the starting line. This is important because a few straight lines from the start lead all the way down the first mile before turning to enter the desert. If you’re not in one of those lines, you’re screwed. I was somewhere in the middle,
The race starts when the cannon is fired, but you first have to prop your bike up with a stick and walk back about 100 yards behind your bike. Once the cannon fires, you run to your bike as fast as you can, start it up, shift into second gear, and hold it wide open, shifting as fast as possible while trying not to hit someone or something or get hit. It’s utter chaos for the next 2 hours.
Waiting for the cannon
So here I stand, waiting for the cannon while trying not to pee 🙂 I have been hydrating nervously for the past hour. The first group has already started, so there are already 1700 riders in front of our class. The 50+, 60+, 70+, and 80+ men, women, Juniors, and team riders are all in the 50-mile class and the second to start.
Finally, the cannon goes off with a big puff of smoke, and I run as fast as I can to my bike (which is more difficult than it sounds in full moto-gear, a full backpack of tools’ and water), hit the starter, and take off shifting the KTM 350 through the gears as fast as I can. I started somewhere in the front 1/3 of the pack but quickly lost sight of any race-line due to the cloud of dust the other riders were kicking up. I’m literally just following the only thing I can see, which is the rear fender of the guy in front of me.
Remember when I said the weather should be perfect for the race? Well, it was so dry for so long that it created silt dust so fine that it almost immediately penetrated the foam of my goggles, causing dust to cling to the lens. I was frantically wiping the outside of the goggle lens with a cloth I fastened to the back side of my left hand, but my vision wasn’t improving. That’s when I realized the dust was on the inside. A little rain would have been a godsend.
Has anyone seen my goggles?
Lesson #2, I found out that the best desert riders put baby oil on their goggle foam to keep the dust from getting in. Duh! Even at 60 years old and with years of racing motorcycles (mostly in the Midwest), I’m still learning. I didn’t even make it three miles and had to toss the goggles. In hindsight, I should have just stopped and cleaned them, but in my little pea-brain, I was thinking I still had a chance to podium. Man, was I ever drinking my own Kool-Aid!
The other problem with the weather was that there was no wind to speak of, and the dust just hung there. This brings me full circle to where we were at the beginning of this post. I wanted to quit in the worst way because my eyes were burning, and I just couldn’t see. I had to sit there for what felt like an eternity, just blinking my eyes, trying to clear the dust (which was now mud) from my eyes.
The dust never settles
After sitting there a bit, I finally decided to get going and at least finish the race if possible. I figured that I had about 20 miles or so to go. Things were going relatively well when I came upon a good size bottleneck. There were at least 100 riders waiting their turn to get through what looked like one line through a tunnel. My bike started to overheat and boil the coolant out of the vent hose. I shut it off and started pushing the bike one or two feet every few minutes until it was my turn to go through. Once I was clear of the mess, it was time to get back on the gas.
I was just getting up to speed again when the bike started spark knocking really bad, and it quit. I was like, “Come on, man, now what?’ I looked the bike over and didn’t see anything wrong, and after about five minutes, it finally fired up. This process would repeat itself again and again, all the way to the finish line. THE ISSUE IMMEDIATELY REVEALED ITSELF when I rolled into the pits and put the bike on the stand. The water pump hose had popped off the flange, effectively dumping the coolant from the bike. I still can’t believe it ran 20+ miles with no coolant. The result was not pretty, and the entire cylinder head was toast.
You finish and you get a t-shirt
I ended up finishing 14th in my class of 130 entries. 19 riders did not finish. Overall, I’m happy to have finished the race and learned a lot this year. Let’s just say I’m stubborn, and I like the challenge the D-100 offers. So, “I’ll be back.”
Yes, it’s been a while since a new Victory Motorcycle has rolled off an assembly line but I am happy to report that they are alive and well. They are just living under the skin of the Indian® brand name.
2017 Victory Cross Country
Let me be clear. Indian Motorcycle® would not exist today in its current form if it weren’t for Victory motorcycles and a bunch of hard-working engineers, sales, marketing, production, dealers, and various other key people involved with building a new motorcycle company from scratch.
The work that the Victory Motorcycle team did in the late ’90s was instrumental in laying the foundation for the new Indian Motorcycle®. If it weren’t for Victory it would likely be another 5-7 years before the new Indian Motorcycle® would be as good as it is today. That’s right, the new Indian Motorcycle® is not just a good motorcycle, it’s a GREAT motorcycle and it has Victory to thank for that.
Let me be the first to say, it was a long, hard, and frustrating road bringing a new American-made motorcycle to market. For all those involved, we worked hard for every sale. The dealers held bike nights, attended rallies, hosted destination rides, and ordered more bikes than they could sell. The Harley crowd was our intended buyer but they could have cared less. Our bike had more power, rode, and handled better but didn’t sell well due to the high cost of ownership and low brand recognition. Asking a loyal Harley rider to switch brands was like asking them to move out of the country.
We did sell a good number of Victory bikes to buyers looking for a high-tech, American-made cruiser that wasn’t a “me too” motorcycle. These buyers were often riders who got out of motorcycling to raise a family, start a career, and then return to the sport later in life. They were looking for something a little unique, more up-to-date, and stylish. Victory hit the nail on the head where these needs were concerned.
In 2011 Polaris Industries (the parent company of Victory motorcycle) purchased the rights to Indian Motorcycle® and so it was, the beginning of the end for Victory. The dealers who sold Victory Motorcycles were the hardest hit by the news. In fact, the news came in the worst way possible, and with no prior warning, the Polaris team decided to announce the news to its dealers via a faxed press release. On January 9th, 2017 Polaris began winding down the production of Victory Motorcycles.
2021 Indian Chieftain
I’m not suggesting that the company made the wrong decision here, in fact, if any brand has a chance at knocking the King off his throne it would be the Indian Motorcycle® brand. What I’m suggesting is that all of the hard work and effort on behalf of the Victory motorcycle group and its dealer network was NOT for nothing. Victory Motorcycles will live on forever in the genetic make-up of the new Indian® Motorcycle brand.
Motorbike Mike 