Dirty Dancing
San Francisco, August 2000

I’m not quite sure where or how to start writing this one. Partially because both my right shoulder and my left hand are hurting badly. Not exactly perfect conditions for using a keyboard. Some of the pain has eased over night whereas some seems to have just occurred today.

At moments I can’t quite determine which of my sides hurts more. My left arm looks like I overdid my triceps workout for the past six months and then decided to paint it blue and purple. But the right side definitely suffered more. Shoulder pain and bruises on upper arm (same paintjob as above). My hipbone feels like I should have it replaced - not to mention the red-striped baseball formerly known as “knee” plus a twisted ankle.

I am also not exactly sure whom to blame for this motorcycle mania or when exactly it all began. There are people at work who believe that of all things you could possibly do on a weekend riding in the dirt is guaranteed to be the most fun. Now - if that doesn’t quite get you excited enough to try it - they might further tell you that it is the best practice to become a better street rider.

I should also mention that since my recent review my personal file at work states: “Wants to be a motorcycle racer” right below the question: “What do you want to be doing two years from now?” This unedited outbreak of insanity might be accounted to either a) my suspicion towards American career procedures or b) the fact that I learned how to check the tire pressure on my Ducati that same day. (Hey - the question allows for a 2 year time period.) Looking back I might as well have said: “I’d like to shoot up some heroin every now and then” or: “I’d like to bungee jump off the Trump Tower if only they had one in San Francisco.” Either way - last weekend I did go dirt biking.

Saturday, 8:20 AM. I descend the front steps of my house. (Oh the sweet memory of being able to walk free of pain.) It is chilly, somewhat overcast and drizzling. [WHO’S IDEA WAS THIS AGAIN?] We’re meeting at Charlie’s who lives up on Twin Peaks. The view towards downtown is covered in dense morning fog. This is unfortunate since it only leaves the inside of his apartment for visual exploration. Bachelor’s pad doesn’t really do justice to this dilemma. The place is a condo - probably built in the late 70’s: low ceilings, fluffy carpet and a lot of dust-covered items in between. An uncountable collection of Arai helmets occupies a dust-covered shelf unit. The closet in the entry way won’t quite shut - its dark formica sliding door is trying to force a number of full body motorcycle suits to stay inside. The only piece of artwork on the wall is a severely scratched side faring of what must have been a Kawasaki so-and-so. Nice.

I am beginning to think that what is to come may not quite be on the same risk level as hiking or water-skiing. The big piano by the window seems out of context. Its top is covered with magazines. Motorcycle magazines of course. And dust. My index finger can’t help but write “TV” on the object by that name before I sit down on the piano bench to have some pancakes. The pancakes are yummy and the second batch even has fresh blueberries in them.

We leave the city about an hour later in 2 big pick-up trucks, 3 dirt bikes on the back of each. It is about a 2-hour drive to Hollister. As we’re approaching the track area, we see more trucks and more dirt bikes. It is now bright and sunny and very dusty. Beyond the gate of the ranger station sight of the female species is rare. Instead, there are dozens of alien-like creatures dressed in neon-colored outfits under skeleton shaped armor. Someone points out the tracks up on the hills and to say that I am now intimidated would put it very mildly.

We get to a parking lot. More trucks, more bikes, more dust and more aliens. Big sigh. 2 hours away from home on a sunny Saturday morning. Bigger sigh. People are handing me gear. In less than a few minutes I have morphed into an alien-like creature myself. Despite the color mismatch I do think my bright green shirt with a big Kawasaki “K” in front of my armored chest is pretty cool. And boy - it is hot.

”Why don’t you take your bike for a spin around the parking lot?” Right. There was a reason for this outfit. The bike is really small - an XR100. It barely seems to move in first. All right then - I’m riding the thing around the lot, trying to remember what Charlie told me about weight distribution and posture. As soon as I manage to shift to second in these massive and very stiff boots, I try to stand up on the thing. Elbows out, head above the handlebars. Brrmmmm. I wish I could see myself.

Enough riding in circles. A quick nod of helmets indicates we are ready to go. So am I. Brrrmmmmmm. The first part is easy. Then we get into a more forestry area. Dusty. Very dusty. I start liking the big bumps because I get to stand up on the bike. This feels so easy compared to riding my heavy and precious Ducati. Brrrrmmmmmm brrmmmmmm. I am way cool. More forest, more bumps, some turns. More turns. I am going fast. Shit. I almost didn’t get this turn. My left turns are better than my right ones. Wholly shit! Is this another one coming up? Fuck! And what about that wall of dirt behind it? Wait - do not use the front brake - fuck - I can’t find the rear brake. Shit. There is the wall - I am going in third. No way I am going to make that turn. Fuck. I will crash hard and die. Brrrm. Good-bye world. Me. The bike. Snapshot of a wall of dirt. A very unpleasant noise. Silence. [WHAT A STUPID WAY TO DIE.]

Dust. Dry mouth. If I’m dead - how come my knee hurts so badly? Where am I? More importantly - WHO am I? Someone is trying to talk to me. “Shit, are you ok?” I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a moment where that question seemed to address the given situation in an appropriate manner but this is got to be the least appropriate of all of them. OK?! I am lying in the dust with goggles and a duck-taped helmet and my body is screaming for painkillers. In fact - I am not even sure if all my limbs are still attached to my body. “Uh - my knee hurts.” “Can you get up?” Already? What is wrong with lying in the dirt for just a tiny bit longer - at least until it all makes sense again? [WHAT MAKES YOU THINK IT WILL?]

Somehow I get up and now I am truly amazed. I look down at me (I guess that’s me?). I look at the dirt wall. I look at Charlie. Apparenty I am not dead. In fact - not even close! All my body parts are still where they are supposed to be and fully functional. Of course some of them won’t operate without making me wince but how amazing is this? Within all the pain I sense a hint of euphoria. Thoughts about airplane crash survivors and how some of them feel immortal afterwards cross my mind. “You think you can make it back?” “Yeah.” (Can I please just walk?)

I get back on the bike and I feel like everybody is very concerned and watching me now. Everything hurts. I do feel like crying. Or something. I definitely don’t feel like riding this pretending-to-be-innocent bike anymore. What the fuck was I thinking?! Another right turn and I panic. Emergency stop in the dust with use of front brakes. Wrong. Another right turn and I fall again. This time I hit my hipbone. [WHAT ARE YOU DOING TRASHING YOUR BABIES’ FUTURE LIVING ROOM?] I am so done. Where is the damn parking lot?

I am the last to get back. I can see that they’ve already told the others. (Can I please go home now?) I take my helmet and the goggles off and sit down, putting my leg up. The fact that I’m shaking really bothers me - I don’t ever like to loose control. Maybe I should look at my knee to make sure it’s all right. Taking the boots and jeans off I am surprised it doesn’t look any worse. Just some scratches. No visual legacy for complaints. Meanwhile my adventures are being discussed without my participation. “You’re not done - are you?” I so wish. Not that I should be drinking and riding - but I could really use a cognac now.

I pass for the next ride and then go for an easier trail. Note: the easier ones are marked green. Blue is intermediate and black is “Don’t even go there.” This one is so much easier. Why didn’t I go here first? Not sure that it would have prevented my crash - probably just postponed.

Throughout the entire day I am not exactly sure what to make of it all. The truth is that I come from an overly protective childhood and I don’t think I’ve ever hurt myself that bad before. This is all new to me. I’ve twisted an ankle and had bruises before - but nothing like this. I don’t ski, I don’t snowboard, I don’t do e.

We ride a few more times today. I don’t shift past second gear. Later on I realize that I am learning to do tighter turns. Also - sliding on dust and gravel is fun and not freaky. But altogether I am pretty spooked and really just want to go home. At one point the trail is going down a fairly steep hill. Severe panic attack. No way I can go down there. Turn off the engine and wait. Flip my elbows like they tell you to loosen up tension in your upper body. How can I get down this hill without crashing again? I can’t even see beyond the cusp. God knows how steep this is. But then again - there is only one way back to the car and that is down this hill.

I am amazed. If I’d known I’d be doing this when I was in high school I’d been a different person. Back in the lot I skip the last ride. I am exhausted. I limb to the bathrooms to change and clean myself up a little. We get on the road by around 7ish. Sundown. Beautiful sky - the freeway packed. My favorite time of the day: top of the sky black, transitioning into darker then lighter shades of blue, dramatic fade to orange and yellow. Everything else is a black silhouette in a sea of car lights. I am so tired.

In front of my house I can sense that Noelle is not home. This truly sucks. Who am I going to bounce my thoughts off tonight? I also feel an overwhelming need for somebody to massage my sore neck while I’m soaking in the tub. Who’s going to look at me and tell me that I should be very proud of myself? I sit down on the stairs next to my apartment. The house is awfully quiet. I undo my laces and realize that now some tears are rolling down my cheeks. Sniff. This is not fair. Where is everybody? Sniff. Mum?

All right - stop that self-pity. Your choice - your fault - you deal with it. Now get your sorry ass in the bathtub. A minute later I see light in Noelle’s kitchen. Maybe God loves me after all. She hands me a peach cider and I get to tell all my adventures and show off my bruises. She does look concerned but is doing an OK job of hiding it. Not that it helps to sort out what to make of it all but it sure feels good to be home.