Words

Pieces of a dream...

Exciting things happing at the BOTT shop. Read the story here.

Tales from a more than fortunate DIRTBIKE bum

As I lay on a cold and dirty concrete floor going in and out of sleep, my stomach cramping from a nasty bought of Portuguese airport pub food revenge, I was not at all the least bit bummed out. I had just had the most un-real experience of going as fast as I dared on a 2016 KTM 500 for five straight days through Dakar rally stages, great big Saharan sand dunes, and some amazing Moroccan countryside. I believe that the moto gods created Morocco as a utopian dirtbike paradise. I knew my trip was going to be good when we arrived at the Moto Aventures home base and upon the briefing of our ten rider group, Johnny, our African Clint Eastwood like leader informed me that due to his injury from his last Sideburn tour was not going to be able to guide us and instead I was to be the guide. Fucking shit I thought, we are all going to die. Luckily Johnny has been running Moto Aventure tours for over 20 years and like a Mcgyver /Crocidile Dundee, he always knows exactly what to do. He had given every bike a nice GPS device and was going to follow us in a Range Rover to pick up the broken bodies and bent mangled motorcycles. So I was given the freedumb to ride as fast and far as I wanted to the next fuel stop or hotel. Wherever the GPS took me Sweet! So we all fueled up on Sans Plomb ((Unleaded) Green handle)) and made sure everybody’s GoPro was dialed in and took off out into the desert. The first vehicle I saw was an army tank. After identifying it as such I stopped riding directly at it. For the first few days I struggled with my role of guide/ group ambassador. My desert racing background has left me as scared of dust as a cat is of a full bathtub. I tried to ride a subdued pace but some of my fellow Colorado buddies seemed to want to ride hard to keep up with me. One of them severely dislocated his thumb but managed to ride the whole trip with a mangled and swollen hamburger paw. I finally decided that my dust would not be anybody else’s problem and just opened it up and hammered down pretending I was actually riding a Dakar rally. We would meet up at scenic spots were I could peel away from my inner desert racer and take in the amazing scenery. We met up for provided lunch (Usually stewed and roasted meats with vegitables served in ceramic ant hill looking baking pots called Tanduri). We laughed and some teased me about my stupid speeds. We enjoyed stories of each other’s moments of greatness. It was a fun social trip but on a whole it was very personal and something I enjoyed mostly solo. Day three and four were spent mostly riding sand dunes. Some dunes were over 300 meters high. The wind was blowing and conditions were not ideal but it was like nothing I have ever done on a dirtbike. Johnny our guide had to saddle up and show us how to ride dunes as one could get very hurt or lost in the massive out of this world landscape. Johnny, the former Dakar racer, mounted with only work boots and no helmet thoroughly impressed me with his skills. It was very apparent that he had a lot of experience riding. After the dunes we spent a night in a bivouac. The wind howled through the camel hair tents and filled everything we owned with sand. This was probably my favorite part of the whole trip. The clean hotels with their fancy pools and Jacuzzi tubs were nice but the organic conditions of the bivouac made me feel less of a tourist and more at home. The riding was challenging and most of it very fast with plenty of danger. By the 5th day our group had two broken wrists, one dislocated thumb, and one badly blown up knee. I fared well with my desert racing experience but the universe keeps it’s balance so on my flight home I had a 20 hr layover in Lisbon which I mostly spent violently excreting my guts out and curled up on concrete floors. The yin and the yang. I had more fun in Morocco than I think one dirtbike bum should ever expect to have in a lifetime but I sure hope to make it back to the moto off road Mecca again!

Captain's log - clean pinch one wiper

Where does happiness come from and where does it go when it dies.
Is America really the most sad place in the world.
I bought a Goldwing today. I got home and shaved off my beard. Sahara pictures by Teagan. Ali Baba lives.

Keeping my head above the water

I took a little trip down memory lane on this blog looking for an old picture. I found it. I also found that I have changed a lot over the last ... fuck! - A lot of years have gone by. Of course I changed and damned if I have not shown signs of growing up. Damn. I don't want to grow up and get square but I am starting to find myself carrying out the most mundane of lame tasks from time to time. If i don't fertilize the lawn who will and that damn rabbit needs to get the hell out of my lawn. I have been filling holes, patching fences, and even spending good money on decoy owls and fake wind chime eye balls and shit. What the hell is getting into me. Ten years ago I would be drinking beer with that bunny. maybe even sharing some mushrooms with it and learning about the universe. Don't get me wrong, I am not complaining one bit about my role in this system; I think I am living the dream. most of the time anyhow. I am one lucky bastard to hitch up with my best friend who happens to knock my dirty socks clean off. I have not had a boss for five years now and I think I would rather die than go back into that kind of incarseration. What I am getting at here is something deep inside. Some kind of struggle to fight the power that is mini vans, nightly news show watchers, and conformist shit eating sheep telling me how to live my life. Thank fuck for my motorcycles and my tools that allow me to enjoy them. When ever I feel beat down by the pigs that are all around, salvation is never far. I get in the fucking van. Or I build the engine. turn a few wrenches and make a few bucks. Buy some tires or a plane ticket or what ever it is that us free people can buy with this stupid form of currency that harnesses us like a mule. I look at how many great things have come about in my life because of motorcycles and I just want to rub it in the face of all the preaching teachers who told me to accept metiocraty as not only acceptable but honorable. I know from here I can only get older and slower but I will put my own head in a vise and crank it until my skull goes pop if I don't continue to follow my childhood dreams and learn something new everyday that can help me achieve moto-nirvana. Peace.  

Hero, Fitness role model, All around good guy

Support

Kriega has made a limited run of  BOTTPOWER Pikes Peak edition quality bags. All profits go to fund our effort on the hill this year. KICK ASS!!! Go to http://kriega.com today!