This is about a motorcycle ride, but anyone close to my age who was into dirt bikes knows who Super Hunky is. This is one of his stories, and the sentiment fits mountain bikes too.




THE ALL-ALONE RIDE

By Rick Sieman/June 1972/Dirt Bike
(Notes: Yeah, I know it's stupid to go riding alone, but sometimes it's the right thing to do.)


“Onward Christian soldiers … dum dedum dum … marching as to war … dum dum dum … with the cross of …” went the clock radio.

Oh, no! Five o'clock al­ready. I fumbled my hand over near the small end table and clicked it off, knocking my glasses on the floor in the process. It was cold, and the covers felt warm. Sleep was still uppermost in my mind; it would be soooo easy to just fade off and not get up. Comfort. Warmth. Snug.

“ …the most authentic set of books in the world and it's waiting just for you; just send a $5 contri­bution to …”

Oooh man. That automatic waker-upper has got to go. I instantly regretted the day I had purchased that foul instrument. The only way to turn it off perma­nently was to get out of bed and flip the switch on the back.

I always set the radio to a reli­gious station for a Sunday morning wake-up. Music I can sleep through. Preachers and choir singing get me up every time—no matter how sleepy.

It didn't seem too cold—until my bare feet made contact with the bathroom floor. Shiver and shudder time. Well, might as well get my head straight. Hot water on the face did wonders and the possibility of facing the day seemed brighter. Two cups of hot coffee later, I was ready to head out to the garage and start loading the bikes and gear up. Tom would probably be 15 minutes late, as usual. No big rush. Just a trail riding day. Take it easy and all that.

Ring. Ring. Huh? The tele­phone … whoinnahell could be calling at this hour in the morning? It was Tom, and the rasty voice on the other end of the line confirmed that he was sick as a dog. Couldn't make it, ‘cause of mucho trips to the john, cramps and all that. I said the usual “Yeah , sorry to hear that old buddy” type of thing and signed off.

What a bummer. A whole day planned and no riding partner to hit the trails with. Now what? I was now too awake to consider go­ing back to bed, and the rest of my friends had already hit the road for one race or another. And I didn't even feel like racing today anyway.

What the hell. Might as well hit the road by myself. Just for a change. Loading up went quick, and 20 minutes later, I was heading out of the city toward the desert. Things looked different somehow. Even though it was the same old road I had traveled innumerable times, I noticed things that I had never thought about before.

The freeway off-ramp signs looked clear and sharp and I found myself reading all the words:

DEVONSHIRE 1¼, SAN FERNANDO RD ½, GOLDEN STATE , etc.

Wow, I thought, those are some heavy names. Funny—I used to take them for granted, now here I am reading them like a dirty book. Ev­erything seemed cleaner, more orderly. Not much traffic, except an oc­casional biker hauling bikes just like me. Some waved, some didn't. The sun started to peak over the horizon and everything got pink and warm looking.

I passed Denny's Restaurant and their tasteless, neon-flashing “EAT” sign. A lot of familiar trucks were out front, meaning that a lot of fa­miliar faces were inside eating those pasty, undersized pancakes.

After another hour-plus of driving, I parked, unloaded and fired the bike up and let it idle smoothly, leaning against the El Ca­mino. After taking a few singles out of my wallet, I cleverly hid it under the floor mat. Why is it that all dirt riders hide their wallets under the floor mat?

Let's see now. Plug tool, spare plug, safety wire, master link, pliers and a small crescent wrench. That ought to cover just about anything short of splitting the cases.

After everything was checked over and the tank topped up, I put the bike in gear and motored off in no particular direction or hurry. Just wander. The bike was running clean and lazy.

I climbed a mild hill, then rode down the other side and headed for a mountain, maybe 20 miles away. Not a big mountain—a climb­able mountain. Nearly an hour later, I was at its base. I had climbed it before, so it was really no stranger.

Now the question: should I try to make a run at it? It was a tough one and a little on the dan­gerous side, and I was alone. One little endo and I might end up as buzzard food. Oh well, you only live once, the old saying goes.

I snicked the bike in gear and picked a line. Just a taste of throttle and ease that old clutch out. First gear, then second … let the r's build up, then a shift to third and dial it on. Halfway up, the engine started to strain and lug down; a trip to second brought it back up on the power band. Everything worked fine and the machine churned cleanly to­ward the crest. Right before the top, I had to go to low gear and threw a perfectly bitchin' rooster tail as I crested the hill.

What a fantastic feeling! A perfect climb with no mistakes. Just pure old neat.

I shut the engine off and propped the bike up on the sidestand. A little fishing around in the shirt pock­ets rewarded me with a few bent smokes. A wooden stove match fired one up, and I took a good hit. Far out! I felt like a Marlboro commercial, sitting up on top of a moun­tain looking out over the incredible desert. It was awesome. As far as I could see, the earth just rolled on until it melted into the sky.

Too bad someone isn't here to share this with, I thought. Things like this should be shared with a friend. But then I realized that if I had been out riding with a friend, I never would have stopped like this and really looked at what was around. We would have raced on by and ignored everything.

The feeling that I had would not exist if someone else was present. The all-alone feeling and the listening and the looking simply would not have taken place. I really don't know whether I enjoyed the feeling or not, but it did happen. And it's something that you will never forget.

Try it. Try an all-alone ride and see what you feel like on top of your own personal hill. Looking out over your own personal world.

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Thus, if we are to understand the world, we should live somewhere between judgement and amazement — Alfredo Lopez Austin