Dirt Biking Las Vegas Style
So what is it you do that makes you feel alive? One person may enjoy bowling a great game, or perhaps a salesman lands that big deal. Others love meeting and talking to people. Hiking can be a time one feels closest to God, and fully alive. The Little Woman finishes a quilt, shows it to me, and it's easy to see she's doing what God wired her to do.
Dirt biking does it for me. Last Saturday Kevin, Mark, Bob and I went for a long ride. We explored new trails, found an abandoned cabin, and rode like heroes for a bit.
I struggle with insecurities riding with my buds. Kevin just won the season championship in his age division. Bob and Mark are no slouches, either. I hate to make them wait.
Speaking of wait, here's an example of dirt bikers' 'love language.'
"We'll ride up the big wash, go right up the trail, stay toward the red rocks, and meet you at the saddle." That's love language for, "We're not going to wait for you. See you at the saddle."
We found new trails, truly amazing as we have tread this area for more than a decade. Surprise, red clay soil, and it feels like we're in Utah. We came upon a ruin, a stone cabin in disrepair. So many spots in the desert exude loss and despair, broken dreams. Mark posed with a beer can. Right. That's how we roll! We continued, riding over mud, dampness, and dust. Patches of snow dot the landscape.
Once in awhile, during a ride, it happens; you ride like a hero. Fortunately, Saturday blessed us with the moment. Kevin rode first, zipping along a dual track dirt road.
The challenge catching up with a fast person is you must first ride faster than him, and do it in his dust. I screwed up my courage and went for it, finally pulling beside him and into clean air.
Then we turned it on.
We flew up the trail side by side, yelling into our helmets and smiling like 8 year olds at an ice cream truck. Racing trails like this requires faith in your buddy, and Kevin kept me confident as we raced faster, 50, 60, 70 miles an hour, our handlebars almost touching, the forks absorbing the bumps. A dip approached, and we both slowed, then jumped out of it, Kevin slightly ahead and higher. I throttled up and we slid right into a sweeper turn. I must trust Kevin on right turns, and he trusts me on lefts. And we both simply know that Mark and Bob follow, riding like idiots too.
Bonus time. The group rode a single track section through Pinion Pine, and blew through the area, sliding into turns and blasting out of them. For another few moments, we are free, riding loose and fast, confidently blasting through the high desert. We were all champions that day.