The next weekend my dad had me, we decided to hit the trail a second time. This time we hoped it would be less snowy. But where there's no snow, there's bound to be annoying hikers and campers, but I decided to ride it anyway. I was in need of a ride. I had just gone through one of the hardest weeks I can remember, and both me and dad were pretty torn up over grandpa's passing. So, like before, we drove up to Rollins Pass.
I forgot to warm up my dirtbike in my driveway before we left, so it was a little harder to get going. But once my engine started, I sped off up the rocky trail. It wasn't nearly as muddy and cold as before, though there were still streams and puddles of cold water here and there. It was a gusty day, but the wind wasn't cold enough to freeze my fingers around the throttle like before. In fact, halfway up the trail, I stopped to unzip my hoodie and get a long cold drink. I had to wait a few minutes for my dad to catch up before I could get access to water, but once I did, I was back on the trail, going a little slower so I wouldn't lose my dad.
The trail was busier than before, but at least it was full of people who seemed to know what they were doing. There were several large groups of enduro riders, which are stereotypically made up of 50-something-year-old, recently-retired men on very expensive KTM 690s. Judging by what I saw that day, that stereotype is very true. There were also plenty of parents riding on ATVs with their kids, lots of Jeeps, and definitely your regular dirtbike riders like myself. Dad and I were actually pretty excited. From what we heard and saw as we drove further up the trail, it was almost completely clear of snow and mud.
But, a ride isn't a ride without a little challenge or a struggle. I drifted around the bend to the steepest part of the trail. That trail was heavily shaded, and was covered in large loose rocks. A stream of water rushed across it about 500 feet from where it started, and the trail wound at least 600 yards up the mountainside. I swallowed, leaned forward, and pinned the throttle in 3rd gear. At first my dirtbike was doing great, then I started pushing with one foot, then both feet, and pretty soon my dirtbike growled and gave up, and I slammed on both brakes before gravity could get the best of us. I glanced back to see my dad carefully turning his Xterra up the same trail. He gestured me to keep going, so I just looked back up and pulled in the clutch. As I was pulled down by gravity, I attempted to kick the dirtbike back to life. The engine didn't even sputter. So, I gave up, pulled in the front brake, and threw my free hand in the air in defeat.
"You're not riding it right!" Dad shouted as he trudged up the trail towards me.
"Yeah I am! It's not me, it's the bike!" I shouted back.
"You can't blame everything on the bike!"
"I know, but this time it is the bike. It ain't me!"
My dad scowled as I got off and handed the dirtbike over to him. He attempted to start it, and he got it to ride another 20 feet up before the engine died.
"You just need to throttle it up!" Dad said, "Use the clutch!"
"No, it doesn't sound right! Plus, there's no power." I shook my head.
"Alright." Dad shrugged as he got off, "We'll just drive up the rest of the trail and let the bike rest against a tree. It might be flooded."
Gas was dripping out of the overflow straw connected to the carburetor, and dad dragged the dirtbike into the woods next to the trail. I followed him and made sure the gas valve was closed, before I slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Dad put the SUV in drive, and we slowly ascended the trail. Dad's Xterra is very reliable for what it is, but it failed to make the drive very smooth. We were violently jostled around at times, especially since Dad will often drive like he's behind the wheel of the General Lee. But Rollins Pass doesn't allow much room for bad driving and worse ideas, so Dad remained rather cautious.
We eventually made it to what Dad and I call "the twin canyons of death", since we can never get through them and they always kill our adventures. Even in June, there's at least a foot of slushy snow on the road between the two ravines. But, after thinking about it a bit, we decided to go for it. There were a few other people parked nearby, and they promised to pull us out if we got stuck. I thought this was for sure a "hold my beer" moment, and I was glad I had on some motocross gear.
Dad backed up until the dirtbike rack gently hit a tree, and then he gunned it. Our tires skidded on the gravel as we launched forth like a rocket. We hit the snow, and dad fought the steering wheel to make sure we didn't slam into either side of the rocky canyon. After fishtailing side to side, we made it to dry land. We laughed, especially when I plugged my phone into the radio and blasted the theme song from Dukes of Hazzard. We got out to survey the next snowy ravine. It was actually worse than the previous one, and only 60 feet ahead of the end of it was a steep drop-off into the woods. We both agreed it wasn't worth it, and prepared to go through the same ravine we did before.
Dad kept a lead foot down as we charged through the snow again. We came dangerously close to smashing the hood into the left side of the ravine, but dad saved it just in time, and laid on the horn so no one parked on the other side would find themselves literally like a deer in the headlights. Some pretentious Denver hikers glared at us, while the Jeep drivers on the other side hollered excitedly. Dad reported back what we saw, and the Jeep drivers agreed it wasn't a good idea to drive through the second ravine. People have tried it before, and it almost never went well.
The drive down was faster since we knew what to expect now. It was still painfully rough, but we made it down to where my dirtbike was parked in the woods. When we arrived, the scent of gas was gone, and the overflow straw was bone dry. Dad brought it back up, and I got on.
"Now, remember, keep the throttle pinned! Don't be a wuss. Pin that shit and don't look back! I'll meet you at the trailhead." Dad said as he patted the handlebars and made his way to his vehicle.
His tone was slightly patronizing, and my eyes narrowed as he walked away. I decided to use the 200 feet of the steep trail as a sort of runway. I put the dirtbike in neutral, and as I descended, I kicked down the kickstart until the engine finally roared to life. I was determined to show my dad how I could really ride.
As the steep trail ended, the powerband kicked in around a 180 degree bend. I was riding in a wheelie by the time I made the turn, and nearly plowed right into a group of dirtbikers who had congregated on the side of the trail. They stared at me as I shifted into second, and hit the potholes and rocks on the trail like I would flat land. I'm not sure if my front wheel stayed on the ground for long, but I would be surprised if it did. My legs acted like a second set of shocks as I rode down and over the holes, some of which were filled with cold mud and loose rocks. I didn't care how cold, wet, and sore my legs were becoming, and I didn't slow down even when I started to wheeze.
The cold wind eventually numbed my wet and shaking legs a little, making the soreness in my legs a little easier to cope with. For a second, I was brought back to when Clarke sent me down the mountain on a pair of skis in Breckenridge, where I had no idea what I was doing and stayed in the "pizza" position the whole way down. It would've been wonderful if my legs had gone numb from the cold that day, like they were during the ride. But I was quickly brought back to reality when I jumped over a lip in the dirt, and splashed into a large puddle of ankle-deep ice water, soaking my lower torso and everything below. I shook the water off as best I could, but didn't let myself slow down below second gear.
It didn't seem long before I was pulling off to the side at the trail head. I was shaking from adrenaline, and I felt more alive that I had in a long time. I was surprisingly warm, so I pulled my bandanna down and opened my hoodie a little more, and then relaxed on the dirtbike while I waited for my dad. I was terribly sore, but it was a satisfying pain.
About 10 minutes later, my dad pulled up and had a look of great relief on his face.
"Phew! I thought you fell off the mountain! Wow, you tore outta there like a bat outta hell!"
"That's what happens when you call me a wuss!" I grinned at my dad, my eyes still narrow under my dark goggles.
"I guess so!" Dad replied as he shook his head a bit and stepped out of the Xterra, "Oh, and by the way, you were right. It wasn't you. It was the bike. It doesn't have enough power to run above 9,000 feet. You'll need a carburetor with wider jets to ride above that. I remember that's what our mechanic said when he fixed it last."
"Oh, well, that's good to know!" I sighed as I attempted to get off my dirtbike with my stiff legs. I nearly fell, but Dad caught me by the shoulder, "A little late though."
"Yeah, well, we had fun while it lasted." Dad replied as he picked the 150 pound dirtbike off the ground and fitted it on the rack.
"True." was all I said before I got in the passenger seat and leaned back with a long, satisfying breath. I never bothered even lifting my arms to take off my gear the whole drive back.
