DS Ride 04 - Dec '06 - Recap

PUTTING “PORT” INTO DUALSPORT:

EAST ANGELES FOREST LOOP

What . . . . . Dualsport Ride, full day, novice / intermediate
When . . . . . . . . . . . Meet Sunday, 17 December, 7:00 AM
Where . . . . . . . . . . . . . Meet @ BMW Ventura parking lot
Contact . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Laine_MacTague@verizon.net

DS RIDE 04: RECAP

[As told by the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson, having infested the visor of the ride leader’s helmet with his essence]

WHAT I AM ABOUT TO TELL YOU is, on a fundamental level, true*1 :

Sunday’s ride started out sane enough, but rapidly degraded into a panic-stricken and disorganized lemming stampede, punctuated by self-inflicted wounds and suicide attempts. Imagine a herd of ants grazing on a piece of dried duck meat in the bottom of a sauté pan you left cooling on the stove last night. Now imagine how they react when you light the burner under the little bastards. You should have an idea of how the ride went.

“It’s only funny,” Joe Arnold used to say, “until somebody loses an eye. Then its hilarious.” People have died laughing at day trips far less top heavy than this one, and I myself had to be forcibly sedated in order to escape cracking my own ribs, while merely recollecting past craziness in a comparatively relaxed moment under controlled conditions.

Four riders showed up at BMW Ventura for this one, but a third of the way to Azusa there were five, and by the time the rubber hit the shale there were nine. Most of them, the sane ones, would soon be heading back to the lowlands for a safe and sane brunch, but some were destined for what turned out to be 12 hours of stark terror, punctuated by brief seconds of abject boredom.

I thought I would fall asleep during the hour-long freeway ride from the shop to Azusa, where we stopped to meet the rest of the group, and I did fall asleep as the complete group, having left Azusa, wove its way slowly up Highway 39 behind dawdling, trailer-towing cagers. Things got interesting, though, the moment the riders left the pavement. The group pulled up to the gate, and ride leader Laine MacTague dismounted to unlock it, throwing the bolt cutters into the bushes when he was done.

It’s a little-known fact that the basic psychopathic personality comes standard with the tendency to remain calm in stressful situations, and to become distressed in calm situations. Keith “Unbreakable” Carbine (It’s a good idea to run like hell from any one named after a type of projectile weapon) was so jumpy at the get-go that he almost missed it – off watering the bushes as the entry gate to the first unpaved section was being closed. He just squeezed by as the gate was being shut. Here’s a picture of him squeezing by:

He had plenty of cause to calm down later, but -- more on that after this:

MacTague opened the gate and let the dogs out. Eight riders headed up the climb-out from San Gabriel OHV area on the Rincon Shortcut Route, 25 miles of normally quite tame fire road leading through the San Gabriels from Highway 39 to the middle of nowhere on Highway 2. MacTague rides his Dakar like – well, picture a Doberman that got into your amphetamine stash, went out in the back field, and kicked up a rabbit. In no time he was tailgating Mike Agnitch, possibly the sanest and most smooth rider of the group. MacTague rode along with one hand on the bars, sticking out his tongue, making nyah nyah sounds, and shooting photos like this with his free hand:

In other words, everything was fine, and making at least some sort of weird, messed up sense.
Then came the snow:































Who would think that 3 inches of puffy frozen water could so befuddle and confusticate? Sure, at first, it was pretty. So pretty, we had to make Phil cover his phace to keep from mucking up the group portrait.

But it was only a matter of time – and little of it at that – until grown men would weep in fear, gnaw off their own ankles to get away, or just go into that rabbit-in-the-headlights staring shock that comes right before a serious impact.

Phil Wren was the first. MacTague, following Roman along the ridge, came upon Phil parked sideways across the snow-covered road; the rear end had decided that following the front end was passé, and headed off elsewhere. Selah. Roman helped Phil get straightened out while Laine took pictures and snickered.

Finally Laine took over for Roman, who headed uphill, and Laine followed Phil as the road swept along the south face of a ridgeline to the west. The snow was mostly melted here, on the sunny side of the mountain.

But there was more snow to come. Little did they know that Roman had already had enough of the snow, and was busy just ahead giving an impromptu Adventure break-dance demo:


Sure, it seemed fun, in a way, but the skittery ride up had taken its toll on riders’ nerves, and seeing Roman go down like a harpooned rhino in a skating rink was bringing the group to its breaking point. It made it worse that no one could explain how Cooper went down.

“It was like the snow just came alive and took him,” some one said. “I’m scared. This snow is evil and I want to go home.” Riders muttered together, sent sidelong glances at Laine when his back was turned: What was the meaning of all this? He looked like he felt everything was going according to plan… Did he just wink at the ground? There was weeping in the background, and I wanted to hit some one in order to hide my own fear and clear my head. Having infused my incorporeal being into a lousy Italian-built motorcycle helmet visor made this impossible. Death is not for the weak of heart.

Meantime, Roman lay on the ground where he had been left and debated about turning around. He was obviously delirious, or there would have been no debate. His ankle began to swell, cracking the plastic of his motorcycle boots. Riders took photos, and bets. Keith rode in circles in the snow, trying to get it to come after him, but no – it just lay there, coldly. The snow was trying to get off on the “but I’m only 3 inches thick!” ticket, but most of the riders weren’t buying it.

There was some whispering, then suddenly Craig was on all fours behind Laine, and Mike caught him from in front with a roundhouse kick, sending him sprawling over Craig’s back. “This is completely psycho!” yelled Agnitch, staring wildly down at him. “You’re a sadist, and this snow is your demon in a pentagram, you freak!”. He was one of two riders with touring tires, and now he was screaming at MacTague through rapidly freezing tears. “You’re going to hell, you evil man, and I am getting out of here, NOW!”

Phil Wren, already down three times in 5 miles, joined him. He looked down at MacTague, supine and whimpering in the muddy snow. “Why, Laine?” he asked. The look of betrayal on his face was crushing. I nearly fled Laine’s visor in empathic melancholy. Wren is a veteran of every VCDSRS ride thus far. He sucked in his lower lip, turned away, hopped up on his F and began to ride slowly back downhill.

A chorus of voices began to harmonize; everybody was heading back. Roman was flogging himself with a 3-lined whip for it, but “Yes,” he cursed, “I must go back, I’ve lost a leg, but – damn it man, I’ve got a wife! I’m going to be a FATHER!”

The attrition was high. Consider the entire history of the ride: Seventeen people signed on for this three-hour tour. Only hours before the Moment of Truth, three death-cheating, drugged up LA-B-V veterans with KTM EXC’s and automatic weapons on Touratech bar mounts were backing off in trepidation; “What? Angeles National Forest in this? Sure its sunny; but – You’re crazy, man! Run like the Man is after you!”

Of seventeen, only nine showed, and that’s including MacTague. Five miles into the ride, on a big flat saddle along a cold, snowy ridge, five more riders decided to throw in the towel, and one resorted to gnawing off his own left ankle in order to escape. Jerry Hess headed back. He had seen this kind of carnage before, on DSR 01, and wanted no part of it. He had joined up thinking, “Ride 01 was a fluke, it must be better now,” but when the time came he headed out, although in his usual suave, Jedi Knight style: “You don’t need to see my identification. I’m not the rider you’re looking for. I can go on my way…"

He calmly composed a panoramic shot, before slipping away like a well-dressed agent in a lunchtime crowd of business suits.

“Move along, Jerry, take care, see ya later,” MacTague was smiling and waving. Hess and others lounged at the saddle, comfortable and confident, taking in the view – but soon to be heading back.

When the going gets hellish, the goers go to hell, and that’s just what happened. And it was a cold day there.

The Roll Call of the Faithful was short and distinguished; Terry Eannetta, Don “This is So Cool” Gordon, and Keith Carbine, The Ingénue on the HP-2 (a little poetic license re gender, there…) called MacTague’s cards and carried on up the increasingly snowy trail. “I’ll turn around when he bails,” whispered Gordon to Eannetta; “I just want to see what colour his blood is.”

Carbine was apparently still in some subtle form of shock. Like the energizer bunny, he just kept going, and going… I saw him slide out and down at, like, two miles an hour, spinning the bike around on one cylinder in the snow like a break dancer. Then he got up, got on, and passed us by like nothing had happened. I listened for his heartbeat; if the fall fazed him at all, I couldn’t tell.

Keith passed Laine, who waited for Don and Terry to come up a winding, snow-covered, north-facing incline. Keith disappeared uphill. Laine killed the engine. I could here nothing. Then the radio crackled; it was Don; “Terry is heading back down. I am going to see him on his way and then I’ll come up.”

And then there were three.

Laine opted to see where Keith had gone. We headed up the blue-white trail, around a bend or two, and saw this:

Note that there is a bushy incline on the left, a steep and bushy drop on the right, and – aside from Laine’s Dakar, there is no other bike in sight. Also note the pile of gear cleverly placed over the tire tracks...

MacTague saw pretty quick that A) Keith was undamaged; 2) Keith’s HP-2 had been run off a cliff; and C) the three of them were going to spend a little time… right, in that, cold, spot, in the middle of nowhere, hauling a four hundred pound paperweight up a 35 degree embankment. “You asshole,” he said, smiling.

Laine was actually quite pleased. There’s a danger sign for you; you roost sideways off trail into thin air – except it’s thick with oak branches – fall forty feet, and your ride leader is pleased with you.

Keith seemed more or less chipper about the situation as well.
There’s a danger sign for you; you guide a group of what seem to be reasonable guys into some beautiful territory, take it slow and careful, and all of a sudden one of them is chopping down saplings and toppling over wood rat nests with a twenty-thousand dollar pulaski.

Keith’s subconscious had grown so sick and tired of him ignoring the reality that this snow ride presented that – in a desperate attempt to whack some sense into him – it had taken over his body and steered his twenty-five thousand dollar vehicle off a freaking cliff for him – at full throttle. The roost mark in the damp earth was clear.

They were happy about this, as I have said.

Not surprisingly, no one was as happy about it as Don “This is So Cool” Gordon. When Don arrived, he immediately began spouting off phrases like “three-to-one power ratio,” and tying weird knots in Laine’s tow rope, explaining with breathless abandon how he would use “nothing more than this oak tree, and my own body weight,” to levitate Keith’s bike forty-five feet up a forty degree, snow-covered embankment of loose muddy soil and rotting oak leaves. His smile scared me.




It was utter lunacy. The thirty-thousand dollar bike had gone fifty feet down a forty-five degree snow-infested precipice of wet dirt and rotting vegetation, landing upside-down against an oak tree. I kid you not; LOOK:>>>

The fact that Keith had ridden with the bike – under serious power, as witnessed by the roosting of dirt in the track that lead off the trail into the trees – down this cliff, and had come out unharmed, reminded me of Bruce Willis in that movie where he is the only survivor of a massive, bone-crushing train wreck. But in the movie, at least the train was obliterated. Keith’s bike, we discovered, had, uh, a couple scratches on it. And the bolts holding the mirrors were a little bent. I began to wonder if he had a self-portrait hanging on his stairwell at home, which was slowly beginning to look older…

All things considered, the riders had a grand time in purgatory, hauling the bike back up the fifty-five feet to the road. The gods must finally have smiled upon them, for just as they began to tire, Henry Perales showed up to help.

Henry is a local with more than one rescue under his belt. He was happy to hop off his enduro and help with the grunt work, which went quickly, thereafter. He even offered the guys a beer, after they finally got the HP-2 topside.

Keith had been on the fence during the haul about continuing the ride – a sign that his mind was clearing and that the jarring of the fall might have shaken the possessing evil spirit from his tormented soul. Sure enough, he opted to head down with Henry, who was turning back as well; it was, after all, 12:30 – and incidentally, only 9 miles into the first 25 mile section of a full day’s ride.

And then there were two.

The creepy light had never left Laine’s eyes, and Don is, of course, Don. He shook his head as he watched Keith and Henry ride away. “Some one’s got to ride the ride,” he said. He pulled on his helmet.

Rules one through six, inclusive, when dealing with Laine on two wheels, are; “Don’t Encourage Him.” This all got started such a short time ago, only last May, when Dennis Cohea, standing in front of a sandy bush-encrusted Jawbone Canyon mountainside pockmarked by the infamous Slackjaw Mine entrance said, “Ah, sure; you can make it up that hill.” Four tries and three falls later, the hook was set, and so here he is a year later, good guy gone to blazes, MacTague dragging decent, innocent riders into this craziness and calling it healthy…

The next few miles were often beautiful:


So is the Sun. You don’t go riding into it, though. The snow increased in thickness and in ability to eliminate the possibility of traveling in the direction the tires were pointed. Laine himself began to have doubts. “What are we doing? All the sane people are in Azusa by now, throwing back coffee and ordering steak and eggs. Will I die up here? He stopped. Don pulled up beside him. “Hey, this is pretty tricky, Don, uh, just lemme know if you wanna turn back…”

“Nope. Let’s go.”

They went. It was good, Laine thought, that Keith had turned back. Keith had professed minimal off-pavement experience, and expressed the need to work on his climbing abilities. Laine had warned the riders of some steep climbing sections starting near mile 20. If they were covered with snow, he figured, he and Don would be turning around, or taking the helicopter back. If they made it across the water crossing they would reach first; would it even be passable after the recent rain?

If, again, they made it even that far: The descent from the ridge to the crossing was all on north-facing slopes. Snow that deep, it would probably be self-aware. It would know just what to do to disappear the both of them.

Or not. When they began the descent, they found the north side of the mountain so tree-covered that there was very little snow on the ground. The trees had a beautiful coating of snow on them:

The riding snuck up on them and became suddenly pleasant and fun. Then they caught a glimpse of the upcoming climb sections, on the far side of the valley: Not a drop of snow in view. Laine experienced a pang for Keith; that looked like just what he had wanted to work on. If the water crossing was still passable, Don and Laine just might complete the first (of six) unpaved section of the ride…

The snow had been held off the road by the trees, and the damp earth provided incredible traction. The branches hung low over the trail, weighted with snow:


Soon, they reached the water crossing. It was not quite as high as expected, requiring creative riding in order to make it feel challenging:

In fact, this turned out to be the shallowest crossing on the ride.

The climb began. There were, as promised, several steep sections, but they weren’t that steep; the climb was primarily a chance to warm up a little, rev up the engine now and then, and take in the gorgeous view.

In short order they reached Highway 2.

“So Cool” is a man of few words, and he knows what he wants:

Don: “Is there more dirt?”

Laine: “I can keep you in the dirt til dark.”

Don: “Let’s go.”

Of course you had to risk icy paved sliding death in order to get to the dirt. A long stretch of Highway 2, and parts of Upper Big Tujunga Canyon Road, were covered in ice:

Very good for the circulation. Riding terrain like this really gets the blood pumping.

A few short miles later came a hard right onto a short section of damp shaley fire-road. The soil was tacky and lent itself to long controlled power slides. There were still a few patches of snow:

But the water crossings were where the real action was:







Ten feet past this one was a short steep rocky uneven slope:


They had descended quite low on pavement, but now the riders began to climb again – right back up above the snow line. Either they finally got the hang of riding in snow, or the snow in this part of the mountains was easier to ride in. They made steady, easy progress along the third dirt section, which climbed and wound up the side of a range of mountains toward a high pass, often crossing snowy north faces, up from Big Tujunga Canyon to Mill Station.

A short break for food sounded good; it was almost 5 pm. But after about 5 minutes of laying on the tarmac at Mill Station, it felt too cold for sitting around. A mouthful of almonds and a few sips of water later, the Laine and Don were heading downhill, on icy pavement again, this time en route to Aliso Canyon Road. Laine was leading to the beginning of the next of 4 more sections of unpaved trail. Actually, some one else was leading.

As the riders turned right onto the highway from the south, a rider on a ’90 R100 turned left onto the highway from the north. They followed him down through a long ice patch, Laine dragging a foot now and then to get a feel for the friction of the road surface. At Aliso Canyon Road, finally below the frost level, they passed the R100 and sped downhill in the gathering gloom; the sun was near setting, behind growing cloud cover; it was 5:20 pm. Laine lead off at a sudden left into a maze of random dirt roads, all of which seemed to lead to one westward road which paralleled the base of a line of mountains immediately south. He stopped to put on another layer of clothing. He and Don discussed their options. They decided to cut off all but one more section of unpaved riding; it was just too late in the day.

While they were talking, up came a familiar shiny red R100. The riders greeted each other and chatted a bit. The fellow on the R100 was – and is – Dan Taylor. He said he was from Pasadena, and was out exploring the mountains.

“Where does this road go?”

They told him.

“Mind if I join you?”

Laine looked at the touring tires on the R100, then looked at the road. There was still a little snow. It was getting dark. Dan looked, well, a little green – but he had followed the two of them out onto this hillside…

“Sure. Come along,” Don and Laine said, just about simultaneously. Engines fired up.

This section of road was a blast. It was damp, it was snow-less. It rose, it dropped, it had berms, it had curves, it had ruts, and it had a beautiful view of the valley below. It had – another – water crossing. MacTague splashed in like a black Lab after a shotgunned snow goose, barely missing a huge submerged granite boulder without ever seeing it. On the far side, he hopped off and set up to take a photo of Don blasting through.

Don came through all smiles. They waited for Dan, who had fallen behind a bit. He came around the corner above the crossing and came to an abrupt stop. He yelled something, incomprehensible over the sound of the engine, but the sentiment was clear.

“How deep is it?” We heard, eventually.

“Not too deep. Go for it! You’ll be fine!” Don is so supportive.

“Okay… It’s just that I haven’t done this before!”

Laine took a closer look at the crossing, and pointed out a submerged granite rock worth avoiding. He suggested a line, and got in position with the camera; if this half-mad newbie psycho riding a bike he discovered in some archeological dig was going to splash down like a wing-shot duck, somebody better get it on film.

All was set. Dan road smoothly down the slope toward the water. But, very slowly…

“Faster!” Laine yelled, but Dan came to a sudden stop, just after hitting the water. Uh-oh, they thought. But he was only a few inches deep. He stabilized, got himself standing on the pegs using some weird magic balancing trick, gassed it, and accelerated the entire way through and out the other side in smooth form.


They gathered at the top of the next rise. Halleluiah! Don’t stop now…

In another half mile they came to a broad, graded road of compacted gravel. Looking west, Laine pointed into the distance.

“This road goes to that white patch down in those foothills – a strip mine – and connects with a fire road which goes to that saddle,” pointing to a dim skyline miles away, and quite a ways up. “Then the road becomes, well, sorta kinda paved. It climbs the ridge to the north, there, and then runs all the way along it westward, until it reaches Sand Canyon Road. Then we are outa here. Dinner somewhere in Santa Clarita.”

Dan wanted to know how difficult the trail was. Laine assured him that there was nothing as challenging as the water crossing.

He had forgot about the snow of course.

The road to the mine was about what you might expect; a crashing bore until you hit a soft spot, at which point it became extremely interesting for a second or two. At the mine, the road veered off, steeply, up into the hills. It was almost totally dark, but the trail was not too tricky.

Until they got to the snow. Since they were riding along the north base of the mountains, and since it was now as dark as a bad, cold dream, the snow was freezing up after a day of thaw. So the snow was thinner on the ground, because – it was ice.

It is a great plug for knobby tires, watching some poor guy who got suckered into doing the twist on icy snow in the dark on an R100 with touring tires on it. The icy snow surrounding muddy ruts under water glazed with an inch of ice was particularly challenging. Laine looked back over his shoulder after passing these sections. He would watch the dance of the following rider’s headlights. You could tell by the dance, pretty much, how things were going. When the lights stopped dancing around, and suddenly came from very close to the ground, and pointed unmoving at the bushes on the side of the road, or when – even more surprisingly – they went out, well, those were signs that things were not going well.

Laine turned around when the following lights went out, and found Don and Dan standing a safe distance away from the R100, which apparently – much as horses sometimes do – had just tried to roll over in the icy, muddy rut Dan was coaxing it past.

The bike was fine. Dan was fine – well maybe a little shook up. But there was a light in his eyes… He and Laine discussed the danger of taking the mounded center line, the risk of riding through the icy water, etc. Dan showed Laine his tracks through the turn.

“That looks perfect, Dan. I have no idea why you fell over.” It was weird. Evil snow, I tell you.

It got worse first. The climb to the saddle was upon them.

Watching Dan ride up a steep, frozen, snowy dirt trail, in the dark, on touring tires, was like watching a tail-less pony try to keep flies off its ass. He didn’t fall, but the back end of the bike would go anywhere, anywhere at all, before following the front end. Finally they stopped. Dan asked Laine if he thought he could ride the R100 up this steep section. For his sins, he accepted.

Riding Dan’s R100 up a steep, frozen, snowy dirt trail, in the dark, on touring tires, was like riding a tail-less pony that kept trying to swish flies off its ass. But it worked. Probably it worked because Dan walked along behind, steadying the rear of the bike.

So it looked like this: Don rode stoically in front, scaring off bears and tossing down breadcrumbs. Dan rode in the middle, following Don’s line. Laine rode in back, laughing a lot and wondering if God would ever forgive him, or if he would be going directly to hell without even getting to stop for dinner in Santa Clarita. When they happened on an extremely steep section, Dan would keep going until he no longer could. Then Laine would park his Dakar, hop on the R100, and ride it to the top of the steep section, with Dan stabilizing the rear end until the going got easier. Then Don and Dan would carry on while Laine went back for Dak the Daring. Then Laine would ride wheelies up the steep snowy sections with his headlight out while no one was looking.*2

As luck would have it, there were only three or four sections that required this keystone cops sort of technique. With a communal sigh of relief, the three riders finally reached the saddle.

The road from the saddle onward was more or less paved (if you have ridden Camino Cielo Road in Santa Barbara, you know what I am talking about [If you haven't, come on DSR 05.]). There was little ice and snow. Soon the ridgeline began to drop, and it finally became clear that the snow had been left behind. The guys hauled out to the left at an outside turn providing a panoramic nighttime city view from Canyon Country to Sunland, and gave thanks to whomever or whatever it was that was wild-eyed, cold-impervious and crazy enough to be out there in the frigid night air watching over them. After all was said and done, it had all been well worth saying and doing, and that felt just fine. Laine and Don insisted upon a moment of silence, in respect for all their homies in absentia who got lost or gnawed off parts of their own bodies or jumped off cliffs or just got smart and went looking for brunch along the way.

Then it was Dan’s turn to lead: The ride had returned to paved ground, and Dan knew how to get to Coco’s!

Three disheveled, wet, dirty riders drew a lot of stares, staggering snow-blind and semi-hypothermic toward a back booth at Coco’s. The little boy in the next booth had eyes like saucers. Don sat down.

“– And could you believe it, when that guy, rode his bike off that cliff?!” Laine asked Don, a little loudly; “It was madness, sheer madness! Are we going again after dinner?”

The boy’s eyes popped out of his head. His father smiled.

Thanks Keith!

Thanks to all – hope to see you all in January (– unless it snows…)



*1. Except for the part about the wheelies with the headlight off. See note 2.
*2. The Dakar headlight cannot be turned off.

DÉNOUEMENT

Everybody lived.

Roman Cooper did not actually lose his foot, as has been widely published. But it did look a little ugly for a while:

Within one hour of emailing the Intro to Ride 05, five riders had signed on. All but one are veterans of Ride 04. The first rider to respond was Keith Carbine.

The father of the boy in Coco’s bought his son one of those mini motorcycles for Christmas.

Roman Cooper really did become a father:

Quanah Theodora Cooper was born to Sari and Roman Cooper on December 22, 2006 @ 1:58 pm. She’s pretty cute (must favour her mother…).








MacTague is still at large…