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California Desert Trip IV
No Time for Resting
The highlight of my year had arrived: it was time to once again pack up everything motorcycling-related that I owned and haul it to the Southern California desert for a week of riding the greatest off-road terrain on the planet. January 2001 would mark the fourth consecutive year I had made the roughly 3000 mile round trip. Yes, just to ride my motorcycle. Insane, you say? Asinine? Just plain stupid? Well then, you've obviously never ridden a motorcycle in the California desert. Not only is it far and away the greatest riding I've ever done, it's the greatest thrill of any kind I've ever experienced. Bar none.
This year's trip would go off under a damper though; my desert compatriot of the previous three years, Rob Cook, would be unable to make this year's trek due to health reasons. The trip would still be great, but there was no way it could be the same without Rob joining in the fun. In a fashion befitting the guy holding the Nicest Guy You'll Ever Meet title, Rob was allowing us the use of his travel trailer for the trip.
| “ | The trip would still be great, but there was no way it could be the same without Rob joining in the fun. In a fashion befitting the guy holding the Nicest Guy You'll Ever Meet title, Rob was allowing us the use of his travel trailer for the trip. ” |
This year's trip had a new twist: I had finally managed to twist someone else's arm far enough that they had agreed to make the trip with me. Pat "Patman" Hall would be trying his hand at desert terrain for the first time in his long and illustrious riding career. While I was overjoyed as usual to be able to introduce someone new to the desert, I did so with mixed feelings. I suspected that for Patman, much as is the case for me, riding here in North Texas (or anywhere else for that matter) would for evermore pale in comparison to what he was about to experience. I did harbor no small amount of trepidation about enduring the two days of driving with the Patman, however. Not that I'd have any problems with him, mind you. You see, in the roughly 18 months I've known Patman, one thing I've learned is that he's not that big a fan of my particular brand of nonsense, especially my affinity and propensity for flatulence. I feared I wouldn't make it back home with my life.
Departure Thursday this year fell on January 4, 2001. Certainly a better day I have not experienced: the night before, my beloved Oklahoma Sooners had captured the National Championship in the Orange Bowl by throttling Florida State, and now I was departing for the California desert to ride my motorcycle for a week. I was the luckiest man alive.
We had the truck and trailer loaded down with the works: 55-gallon drum
of race fuel, generator, riding gear, tires, and spare bike parts out the
wazoo. Oh yeah, and three motorcycles, Patman's, Cindy's, and mine. Cindy
of course would be traveling out in true factory-rider style whilst her
flunkies toted her bike halfway across the country. I'd be picking her up
at the airport on Monday.
