Rule #1: NEVER RIDE ALONE.
Rule #2: LOW ON GAS? TURN AROUND.
Rule #3: NEVER LEAVE A MARKED TRAIL
I learned these rules the hard way in 1994 and 1995, and even though it all
turned out okay, it could have been a disaster. Let me explain:
In 1994, after a year of working at my first job in Kankakee, Illinois, I had accrued
a couple weeks of vacation and decided to take off a full week and do something
fun. What better way to vacate than dirt biking in Michigan? Over the years I had
heard that Michigan had a great off-road trail system and was a dirt biker's
paradise. So I carefully planned my trip, called the Department of Natural
Resources to get maps, and prepared my RMX250 for several days of riding.
At that time I had only been seriously dirt biking for less than a year and hadn't
developed a network of buddies to ride with. The internet was not as developed
as it is today, so hooking up with people to ride with was difficult. I had ridden
alone many times in the woods on one of my dad's farms and never had any
trouble, so how different would it be to ride alone in Michigan? Besides, all of the
trails were marked and I would have maps if for some reason I got lost.
Undeterred by the danger, I packed my truck and drove 8 hours from Momence,
Illinois to Atlanta, Michigan. When I began trail riding the next day, I couldn't
believe what I was seeing. Miles upon miles of trails, beautiful scenery, and lots
of sandy soil. The first day I rode nearly 100 miles and the next day moved on to
another trail system near Black Lake. That day I rode about 70 miles and
learned Rule #2 (hang on, the Rule #1 story is coming): If you don't know how
much farther the trail goes on and it's time to go back for gas, TURN AROUND. I
didn't, convinced that the trail would eventually wind its way back around like the
map showed. The map was correct, but I would have needed to ride another 20
miles and the gas tank would have been bone dry before then. At that point I
broke Rule #3: NEVER LEAVE A MARKED TRAIL. The map showed the country
roads and I had a pretty good idea of where my truck was parked, so I got off the
trail and started riding dirt roads. But my map reading skills were sharp as a
hammer and within a few minutes I was completely lost.
Fortunately there is another special rule that doesn't necessarily apply to dirt
biking, and it goes something like this: when you are lost and ask three people
for help, even if none of them know exactly where you're going, between the three
sets of directions you should be able to glean enough correct information to get
where you need to be. The first guy I talked to gave me a lengthy set of
instructions on how to get back to my truck, of which I immediately forgot about
90% of what he said. Fortunately I remembered his directions to a country store
that had a gas pump. On the way there it started pouring rain and I hung out in
the country store for awhile and received another set of directions. After gassing
up and pouring in half a bottle of 2-cycle oil, I headed back on the highway in the
driving rain and tried my best to remember all that the nice lady in the store had
told me. Again, I got lost. The third person that I talked to was another nice lady
working behind the bar at a camping resort. I was quite a sight in a full set of
riding gear and soaking wet. The lady sent me in the right direction and I was
able to pick up the trail and ride back to my truck (still pouring rain). On the way
back, I encountered a young couple on mountain bikes who were every bit as
soaked as I was.
Despite being lost and alone, I still had not learned Rule #1. My two-day riding
adventure in Michigan was so fun that I decided to do it again the following
summer. Except this time, I decided to explore the Upper Peninsula. By way of
Wisconsin and a two-day stay at the summer home of my brother-in-law's aunt
and uncle, I drove into the UP from the west and rode a couple hours after
waiting for rain to pass. The next day was record-setting hot and I started riding
a trail system that was about as far from civilization as I had ever been. About 45
minutes into the ride I caught something on my left boot and felt a pain like I had
never experienced before. Apparently my foot was dangling under the gear
shifter, just low enough for a tree stump to bend the foot in a way for which it
wasn't designed. I knew it had to be broken, so I just turned around and started
riding back to the truck. No crash, never stopped riding. Problem was, my truck
was probably 10 miles away and after a few minutes of rough riding in first gear
(at least it felt rough with a broken foot), I decided to break Rule #3. Much of
Michigan's trail system is located on land that is logged, so there are plenty of
logging roads crisscrossing the trails. I figured that I could make better time and
be more comfortable on a logging road, and eventually it had to cross a main
road where I could hopefully get directions back to my truck (and to the nearest
hospital).
Sure enough, the logging road intersected a county road and I conveniently blew
through the intersection and dumped over the bike while trying to get turned back
around. Talk about pain. At least it was my left foot that hurt and I could still start
up the engine. But righting the bike was just another in a string of painful
moments that would continue for a long while. Just as I approached the
intersection again, a big Dodge pickup truck came roaring by with a large
RV-type trailer in tow and a canoe strapped to the truck. I capitalized on this
opportunity and sped along to try to catch the attention of the driver. Keep in mind
that I couldn't shift gears with my left foot, so I was shifting with my right foot.
Left-side gear shifter and right foot doing the shifting...don't try that at home, folks.
I caught up to the truck, frantically waved my arms, and it slowly came to a stop.
A middle-aged couple stepped out of the truck and there began as incredible an
experience with two Good Samaritans as anyone could imagine. Lloyd and
Delores Fitzpatrick were just beginning a short vacation that was to include
camping and canoeing when our paths crossed. After convincing them that my
foot was broken, I borrowed Lloyd's knife and attempted to slice away the seams
of my boot to relieve some pressure of the swelling. While I did that, they
decided that the trip to the hospital in Newberry (about 20 miles south and the
Fitzpatrick's home town) would be easier if the camper was disconnected from
the truck. As they backed the trailer into an opening in the woods, another couple
pulled up in a little car and offered to help. I never did get their names, but the
old guy let me borrow his knife, which was much sharper. But before letting me
use it, he attempted to "help" me pull off the boot. Basically he grabbed the end
of it and started yanking before I even realized what was going on. It's a good
thing he hadn't yet given me his knife, because I probably would have used it to
cut off both of his hands. Believe me, the yanking didn't last long.
By the time the back seam of my boot was completely cut off, Lloyd and Delores
were back and ready to load me into their truck and head to Newberry. They
watched as I pulled my foot out the back end of the boot. First thing I noticed is
that my foot had an unnatural shape around the big toe. The next thing I noticed
was blood on my sock. Not good. Lloyd and the other guy parked my motorcycle
out in the woods somewhere and we took off in the pickup truck. At that point I
didn't much care what happened to my motorcycle or my truck...I just wanted the
pain to go away. By some miracle we took the same road to Newberry by which I
had parked my truck and I pointed it out to the Fitzpatrick's.
About 30 minutes later we arrived at the Newberry hospital, and I use that term
loosely. They were set up to take X-rays and stitch up cuts, but that was about it.
I actually felt embarrassed to be there and as they wheeled me into the ER in a
wheelchair, I was prepared to hear a bunch of abuse from the doctors and
nurses (as a kid, I had a doctor who called them "Suicycles" and gave me sh*t at
every opportunity for risking my life). Turned out that nobody much cared that I
got hurt on a dirt bike. The radiologist was glad that I had been riding the same
trails that she used for mountain biking, "keeping them clear" as she put it.
The X-rays showed two breaks in the metatarsals and a dislocated big toe that
had popped far enough out of its joint to puncture the skin, causing some
bleeding. That was too much for the Newberry hospital to handle, so they called
a specialist in Sault Ste. Marie, about 60 miles northeast. O.K., slight
problem...how was I going to get to Sault Ste. Marie, get back to Newberry, get to
my truck, get to my motorcycle and load it up with a broken foot? Answer: Lloyd
and Delores Fitzpatrick.
Here was the plan:
1. Delores would go home and get her car and drive me to the orthopedic
specialist in Sault Ste. Marie.
2. Lloyd would get a friend and drive back to my truck, have one of them take my
truck back to the woods and load up the motorcycle, then go back to Newberry
where Lloyd would drive my truck to Sault Ste. Marie and meet up with me and
Delores.
Now, what kind of people would spend the better part of their day helping a
stranger in this way? Guess that's how they are in Michigan. I had chosen to get
hurt in a part of the world where people still help each other.
Back to the story. The nice doctor in Sault Ste. Marie inflicted much pain but
saved my riding pants from the cutters. He kept asking questions about where I
was from and what I did for a living. I just wanted him to do his business and let
me get out of there. When he found out I was an ag lender, he started talking
about the rough time the local cherry farmers were having that year, all the while
twisting my foot, pushing on the broken bones, and generally causing nearly
unbearable suffering. He finally got my toe back in place, sewed up the cut,
wrapped on the cast, and let me leave. Delores took me to a Hardees drive-thru
and I ate my first meal in about 10 hours. She helped me get set up in the
Bambi Motel, not exactly a 5-star hotel but the cheapest rates in town. Lloyd
eventually showed up with my truck but wouldn't take any money for all their
trouble, not even for gas. Awesome people.
The next day I had to file a police report for some reason (stupid health
insurance), then I drove straight back to the farm from there. In a lifetime, 8
hours isn't too significant, but those hours in the truck felt like two lifetimes. The
important thing was that I learned Lesson #1 and had a life experience that
showed me there are good people willing to help out when someone needs
assistance. Thanks again, Lloyd and Delores.
Click here to see my achin' foot.
Rule #2: LOW ON GAS? TURN AROUND.
Rule #3: NEVER LEAVE A MARKED TRAIL
I learned these rules the hard way in 1994 and 1995, and even though it all
turned out okay, it could have been a disaster. Let me explain:
In 1994, after a year of working at my first job in Kankakee, Illinois, I had accrued
a couple weeks of vacation and decided to take off a full week and do something
fun. What better way to vacate than dirt biking in Michigan? Over the years I had
heard that Michigan had a great off-road trail system and was a dirt biker's
paradise. So I carefully planned my trip, called the Department of Natural
Resources to get maps, and prepared my RMX250 for several days of riding.
At that time I had only been seriously dirt biking for less than a year and hadn't
developed a network of buddies to ride with. The internet was not as developed
as it is today, so hooking up with people to ride with was difficult. I had ridden
alone many times in the woods on one of my dad's farms and never had any
trouble, so how different would it be to ride alone in Michigan? Besides, all of the
trails were marked and I would have maps if for some reason I got lost.
Undeterred by the danger, I packed my truck and drove 8 hours from Momence,
Illinois to Atlanta, Michigan. When I began trail riding the next day, I couldn't
believe what I was seeing. Miles upon miles of trails, beautiful scenery, and lots
of sandy soil. The first day I rode nearly 100 miles and the next day moved on to
another trail system near Black Lake. That day I rode about 70 miles and
learned Rule #2 (hang on, the Rule #1 story is coming): If you don't know how
much farther the trail goes on and it's time to go back for gas, TURN AROUND. I
didn't, convinced that the trail would eventually wind its way back around like the
map showed. The map was correct, but I would have needed to ride another 20
miles and the gas tank would have been bone dry before then. At that point I
broke Rule #3: NEVER LEAVE A MARKED TRAIL. The map showed the country
roads and I had a pretty good idea of where my truck was parked, so I got off the
trail and started riding dirt roads. But my map reading skills were sharp as a
hammer and within a few minutes I was completely lost.
Fortunately there is another special rule that doesn't necessarily apply to dirt
biking, and it goes something like this: when you are lost and ask three people
for help, even if none of them know exactly where you're going, between the three
sets of directions you should be able to glean enough correct information to get
where you need to be. The first guy I talked to gave me a lengthy set of
instructions on how to get back to my truck, of which I immediately forgot about
90% of what he said. Fortunately I remembered his directions to a country store
that had a gas pump. On the way there it started pouring rain and I hung out in
the country store for awhile and received another set of directions. After gassing
up and pouring in half a bottle of 2-cycle oil, I headed back on the highway in the
driving rain and tried my best to remember all that the nice lady in the store had
told me. Again, I got lost. The third person that I talked to was another nice lady
working behind the bar at a camping resort. I was quite a sight in a full set of
riding gear and soaking wet. The lady sent me in the right direction and I was
able to pick up the trail and ride back to my truck (still pouring rain). On the way
back, I encountered a young couple on mountain bikes who were every bit as
soaked as I was.
Despite being lost and alone, I still had not learned Rule #1. My two-day riding
adventure in Michigan was so fun that I decided to do it again the following
summer. Except this time, I decided to explore the Upper Peninsula. By way of
Wisconsin and a two-day stay at the summer home of my brother-in-law's aunt
and uncle, I drove into the UP from the west and rode a couple hours after
waiting for rain to pass. The next day was record-setting hot and I started riding
a trail system that was about as far from civilization as I had ever been. About 45
minutes into the ride I caught something on my left boot and felt a pain like I had
never experienced before. Apparently my foot was dangling under the gear
shifter, just low enough for a tree stump to bend the foot in a way for which it
wasn't designed. I knew it had to be broken, so I just turned around and started
riding back to the truck. No crash, never stopped riding. Problem was, my truck
was probably 10 miles away and after a few minutes of rough riding in first gear
(at least it felt rough with a broken foot), I decided to break Rule #3. Much of
Michigan's trail system is located on land that is logged, so there are plenty of
logging roads crisscrossing the trails. I figured that I could make better time and
be more comfortable on a logging road, and eventually it had to cross a main
road where I could hopefully get directions back to my truck (and to the nearest
hospital).
Sure enough, the logging road intersected a county road and I conveniently blew
through the intersection and dumped over the bike while trying to get turned back
around. Talk about pain. At least it was my left foot that hurt and I could still start
up the engine. But righting the bike was just another in a string of painful
moments that would continue for a long while. Just as I approached the
intersection again, a big Dodge pickup truck came roaring by with a large
RV-type trailer in tow and a canoe strapped to the truck. I capitalized on this
opportunity and sped along to try to catch the attention of the driver. Keep in mind
that I couldn't shift gears with my left foot, so I was shifting with my right foot.
Left-side gear shifter and right foot doing the shifting...don't try that at home, folks.
I caught up to the truck, frantically waved my arms, and it slowly came to a stop.
A middle-aged couple stepped out of the truck and there began as incredible an
experience with two Good Samaritans as anyone could imagine. Lloyd and
Delores Fitzpatrick were just beginning a short vacation that was to include
camping and canoeing when our paths crossed. After convincing them that my
foot was broken, I borrowed Lloyd's knife and attempted to slice away the seams
of my boot to relieve some pressure of the swelling. While I did that, they
decided that the trip to the hospital in Newberry (about 20 miles south and the
Fitzpatrick's home town) would be easier if the camper was disconnected from
the truck. As they backed the trailer into an opening in the woods, another couple
pulled up in a little car and offered to help. I never did get their names, but the
old guy let me borrow his knife, which was much sharper. But before letting me
use it, he attempted to "help" me pull off the boot. Basically he grabbed the end
of it and started yanking before I even realized what was going on. It's a good
thing he hadn't yet given me his knife, because I probably would have used it to
cut off both of his hands. Believe me, the yanking didn't last long.
By the time the back seam of my boot was completely cut off, Lloyd and Delores
were back and ready to load me into their truck and head to Newberry. They
watched as I pulled my foot out the back end of the boot. First thing I noticed is
that my foot had an unnatural shape around the big toe. The next thing I noticed
was blood on my sock. Not good. Lloyd and the other guy parked my motorcycle
out in the woods somewhere and we took off in the pickup truck. At that point I
didn't much care what happened to my motorcycle or my truck...I just wanted the
pain to go away. By some miracle we took the same road to Newberry by which I
had parked my truck and I pointed it out to the Fitzpatrick's.
About 30 minutes later we arrived at the Newberry hospital, and I use that term
loosely. They were set up to take X-rays and stitch up cuts, but that was about it.
I actually felt embarrassed to be there and as they wheeled me into the ER in a
wheelchair, I was prepared to hear a bunch of abuse from the doctors and
nurses (as a kid, I had a doctor who called them "Suicycles" and gave me sh*t at
every opportunity for risking my life). Turned out that nobody much cared that I
got hurt on a dirt bike. The radiologist was glad that I had been riding the same
trails that she used for mountain biking, "keeping them clear" as she put it.
The X-rays showed two breaks in the metatarsals and a dislocated big toe that
had popped far enough out of its joint to puncture the skin, causing some
bleeding. That was too much for the Newberry hospital to handle, so they called
a specialist in Sault Ste. Marie, about 60 miles northeast. O.K., slight
problem...how was I going to get to Sault Ste. Marie, get back to Newberry, get to
my truck, get to my motorcycle and load it up with a broken foot? Answer: Lloyd
and Delores Fitzpatrick.
Here was the plan:
1. Delores would go home and get her car and drive me to the orthopedic
specialist in Sault Ste. Marie.
2. Lloyd would get a friend and drive back to my truck, have one of them take my
truck back to the woods and load up the motorcycle, then go back to Newberry
where Lloyd would drive my truck to Sault Ste. Marie and meet up with me and
Delores.
Now, what kind of people would spend the better part of their day helping a
stranger in this way? Guess that's how they are in Michigan. I had chosen to get
hurt in a part of the world where people still help each other.
Back to the story. The nice doctor in Sault Ste. Marie inflicted much pain but
saved my riding pants from the cutters. He kept asking questions about where I
was from and what I did for a living. I just wanted him to do his business and let
me get out of there. When he found out I was an ag lender, he started talking
about the rough time the local cherry farmers were having that year, all the while
twisting my foot, pushing on the broken bones, and generally causing nearly
unbearable suffering. He finally got my toe back in place, sewed up the cut,
wrapped on the cast, and let me leave. Delores took me to a Hardees drive-thru
and I ate my first meal in about 10 hours. She helped me get set up in the
Bambi Motel, not exactly a 5-star hotel but the cheapest rates in town. Lloyd
eventually showed up with my truck but wouldn't take any money for all their
trouble, not even for gas. Awesome people.
The next day I had to file a police report for some reason (stupid health
insurance), then I drove straight back to the farm from there. In a lifetime, 8
hours isn't too significant, but those hours in the truck felt like two lifetimes. The
important thing was that I learned Lesson #1 and had a life experience that
showed me there are good people willing to help out when someone needs
assistance. Thanks again, Lloyd and Delores.
Click here to see my achin' foot.
The Rules