Sat. the 21st. Middle son & I head up for a day's worth of putt-putt trailing.
Traveling in on the "Big Eye" (Interstate 5), we came within a few miles of the main entrance's off ramp; not only was it starting to snow quite steadily, this huge white cloud was coming over the horizon in our direction. We exited the fleaway - stage left to the southmost entrance, settling in @ a campsite in lower elevation with the intent to escape the coming weather front.
The wind & snow didn't let up as we unloaded, even to the point of warming up the bikes. Dressed like Pillsbury (sp?) doughboys, we began by attacking Backbone Trail; as fate would have it, the mud was so tacky & slick that a loss of momentum was inevitable, repeated attempts @ any incline became the norm. After several stalls, restarts, & layovers, as small clusters of riders B4 & behind us, we put off any hopes of finishing that slick, wicked trail by bailing via a spur back down to the valley floor.
By then the snowfall had let up, but any attempts at forward movement was squashed by well-impacted loam mixed with small embedded gravel; futile as the the soil's makeup was liken to Backbone, tacky, & ad/cohesive; this stuff ain't coming off.
My son's efforts were no better on his little brother's 80, not being a clutch fanner himself, nor particularly inclined to two-smoke bursts & subsequent boost @ elevated RPMs.
B-lining back to camp was his relief, content to stay put while I continued tooled around and combed the various campsites, searching for a suitable adult to accompany my exploring inclination.
Upon finding none to my immediate liking, my eye caught one young lad in his 20s, adjusting the suspension on his 426 adjacent to his F150 flareside.
"Care to scout the trails?"
"Certainly; I don't know the area - if you could show me around, that'll be great."
"OK. Let me replenish my fluids 1st."
Another victim in the making? Not for long...
As I refilled my water bottles, he did did these laps around the campsite @ a very high rate of speed, well beyond my measure of sane manhood.
Mmmm: that shrinking feeling; perhaps I should call it off? He did say he'd be content to follow - how close to my rear fender? Alas, honor is @ sake here: I must keep my word.
So off we went, speedily down Homestead, East Freeman trails to the MX track, all the while this "BRRRAAAP, pa!; brrrappp-rrrRRRRAAAApppPPP" noise was drowning out my ring-dinger (how do you guys concentrate with all that noise?), where we took a break (for me to catch my breath), & he was liking it; then back via Pronghorn to West Freeman Canyon, where I could throw some WFO sand washes his way, and nope - couldn't shake him - I was only holdin' him up; did the manly thing & waved him by (pass me now - uncle!) in the whoops.
(Side note for LT: he said a baseball-sized rock hit his abdomen, pitched his way(inadvertantly) by yours truly. "Oh; sorry!")
About the only place he was admittedly brought into subjection was on the twisty, ridge top trails, where he said I put time on him, but not much by my estimation.
"Don't you stand up?" He says to me.
"Oh, we are going fast, aren't we!" "I'm kinda tired; it's the end of my day."
Back @ camp he said of wanting to solo the Baja 500 (he's a crazy kid, afterall), but mostly do hare & hounds, of which he is qualified. And he's plain too fast 4 me; any takers out there?
Me: I'll stick to family enduros, where I can compete against those closer to my skill (novice.) And sore! Ugh! 50 miles of mud wrestling, high-speed sand washes & goat trails. Another fine day @ Hungry Valley.
------------------
Forgot to mention: got the bikes clean after 2 hours of washing, poking, digging, spraying. Damage to RM80: (thank you Works Connection - radiator brace; Fredette: handguards) kickstand bent in two directions, & rear fender ripped off; wet-fouled plug (he luggs it like a stroker.)
[This message has been edited by placelast (edited 04-23-2001).]
Traveling in on the "Big Eye" (Interstate 5), we came within a few miles of the main entrance's off ramp; not only was it starting to snow quite steadily, this huge white cloud was coming over the horizon in our direction. We exited the fleaway - stage left to the southmost entrance, settling in @ a campsite in lower elevation with the intent to escape the coming weather front.
The wind & snow didn't let up as we unloaded, even to the point of warming up the bikes. Dressed like Pillsbury (sp?) doughboys, we began by attacking Backbone Trail; as fate would have it, the mud was so tacky & slick that a loss of momentum was inevitable, repeated attempts @ any incline became the norm. After several stalls, restarts, & layovers, as small clusters of riders B4 & behind us, we put off any hopes of finishing that slick, wicked trail by bailing via a spur back down to the valley floor.
By then the snowfall had let up, but any attempts at forward movement was squashed by well-impacted loam mixed with small embedded gravel; futile as the the soil's makeup was liken to Backbone, tacky, & ad/cohesive; this stuff ain't coming off.
My son's efforts were no better on his little brother's 80, not being a clutch fanner himself, nor particularly inclined to two-smoke bursts & subsequent boost @ elevated RPMs.
B-lining back to camp was his relief, content to stay put while I continued tooled around and combed the various campsites, searching for a suitable adult to accompany my exploring inclination.
Upon finding none to my immediate liking, my eye caught one young lad in his 20s, adjusting the suspension on his 426 adjacent to his F150 flareside.
"Care to scout the trails?"
"Certainly; I don't know the area - if you could show me around, that'll be great."
"OK. Let me replenish my fluids 1st."
Another victim in the making? Not for long...
As I refilled my water bottles, he did did these laps around the campsite @ a very high rate of speed, well beyond my measure of sane manhood.
Mmmm: that shrinking feeling; perhaps I should call it off? He did say he'd be content to follow - how close to my rear fender? Alas, honor is @ sake here: I must keep my word.
So off we went, speedily down Homestead, East Freeman trails to the MX track, all the while this "BRRRAAAP, pa!; brrrappp-rrrRRRRAAAApppPPP" noise was drowning out my ring-dinger (how do you guys concentrate with all that noise?), where we took a break (for me to catch my breath), & he was liking it; then back via Pronghorn to West Freeman Canyon, where I could throw some WFO sand washes his way, and nope - couldn't shake him - I was only holdin' him up; did the manly thing & waved him by (pass me now - uncle!) in the whoops.
(Side note for LT: he said a baseball-sized rock hit his abdomen, pitched his way(inadvertantly) by yours truly. "Oh; sorry!")
About the only place he was admittedly brought into subjection was on the twisty, ridge top trails, where he said I put time on him, but not much by my estimation.
"Don't you stand up?" He says to me.
"Oh, we are going fast, aren't we!" "I'm kinda tired; it's the end of my day."
Back @ camp he said of wanting to solo the Baja 500 (he's a crazy kid, afterall), but mostly do hare & hounds, of which he is qualified. And he's plain too fast 4 me; any takers out there?
Me: I'll stick to family enduros, where I can compete against those closer to my skill (novice.) And sore! Ugh! 50 miles of mud wrestling, high-speed sand washes & goat trails. Another fine day @ Hungry Valley.
------------------
Forgot to mention: got the bikes clean after 2 hours of washing, poking, digging, spraying. Damage to RM80: (thank you Works Connection - radiator brace; Fredette: handguards) kickstand bent in two directions, & rear fender ripped off; wet-fouled plug (he luggs it like a stroker.)
[This message has been edited by placelast (edited 04-23-2001).]