I bought my son a Kawasaki KLX 110 a while back and have since been sneaking my son on to neighborhood greenways, soccer fields, and other places middle age women like to scold us, to practice using the clutch. Well no more! I’ve seen the error of our ways! ( not really, it makes me feel young seeing the disdain in the eyes of a suburbanite house wife, aaaah youth). So no, I haven’t turned my back on that, but I have found a pay to play dirt bike trail close to my suburban digs.
So! Borrow a truck, load em up and ride Sally ride!
Step one: Da Truck,
“that your brother’s manly truck?”
I looked up to see her smiling face. My neighbor always found it funny that my gay brothers truck was more butch than my car. Not all my neighbors are joyless shrieking hags. This neighbor was great! I like joking with her like that, good natured
Ribbing ( until one of us goes too far and gets their house burnt down)
But enough small talk! We have dirt to dominate!
Upon opening the bed of the truck we found that the lid came off one of the many 35 gallon fryer oil jugs my brother had in the back of his truck. Let me explain, my brother picks up dirty fryer oil and distills it in a small shed tucked behind his house to use in his diesel truck and twin engined diesel boat. ( Once again… Somehow he is more butch than me. )
Anyway this was a big french fry / tater tot smelling pool of WTF we now had do deal with. Thinking quickly ( as I’m prone to do, being a brilliant man of action ) I grabbed a few shovels full of sand I had behind my house and tossed it in the bed of the truck to absorb some of the oil. I then fired up my KLR 650 and up the ramp I went.. and went and went until the 400 pound bike was through gliding in the small Alaskan beach diorama I had created in the back of my brother’s truck. Whatever, it’s in.. Next bike. The KLX 110 was not an issue at all. Ready to strap down and head out of town. Then, my fine reader, then is when our tale of struggle and minor triumph becomes a cautionary tale of trust. Never trust weather apps, weather web sites or brightly dressed television personalities. They ALL lie. It began to rain.
Everything stopped and my son and I stood for a second and looked into each others face. Rain began to run down them, we blinked slightly as more drops pelted our stunned faces. “Bahahahaha!” We had to laugh. The gods of two wheeled mayhem were playing a cruel joke on us and we got it.
We quickly set about undoing out recent labor. Struggling to find traction in the horror show of a truck bed we heaved and pulled and got the bikes back down the ramp and on the ground. Then grabbing dripping oil juggs from the now oil shiny grass and lugging them back in to the truck bed, we were ready to go.
I returned The French Fry Valdez back to my brother, started up my hatchback and we went bowling. This was followed by Chinese food and an action movie.
We got home a little late that evening, a father and son, who accomplished nothing but made a big mess. But we had a grand time doing it!
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