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.
