Trail Rider Magazine

CHeCK POINt NO TRESPASSING (Notes: Back in 1971, there were plenty of places to ride in, so we just found another spot when something close by was closed. None of us thought ahead to the current nightmare of today.) T he great yellow Dirt Bike El Camino lumbered down the road, fully loaded with three test bikes, several 5-gallon gas cans, bags full of riding gear, cameras, film, three tool boxes, a loading ramp, some assorted food, two editors, one old buddy, some cigars on the dash, three cardboard boxes full of this and that and a partridge in a pear tree. Well, not really a partridge in a pear tree. It's a wonder the damn vehicle could move at all. As this assortment of stuff wallowed towards our favorite test track, we looked down from the freeway at an open lot not too far distant. Even though was early, the area was full of activity. Mostly kids on mini-bikes and older kids on slightly bigger mounts, like very old Yammie 80s and very battered Honda 90s. They were criss-crossing, leaping, sliding, crashing, slithering, wobbling and everything else you could do on a motorcycle ��� all in different directions at the same time. Absolutely chaotic, but absolutely and obviously incredibly great fun. It made me think back to the days when I was learning to ride a dirt bike. And it made me appreciate that vacant dirt lot a great deal. Almost every rider, no matter how good, or how important he is today, started in that kind of a vacant dirt lot. When you see the pros unloading their expensive equipment from their expensive vans, to go out racing on the best tracks in the country, you can be sure they have one thing in common with all riders more than likely, they learned the basics on a ratty machine on a piece of desolate ground that nobody was using at the moment. And, like all of us at one time or another, they were threatened or thrown off that unused piece of turf, for one reason or another. The place I learned on was a little rattler than most. And the machine I learned on was the absolute rat bike of all time. Rather than embarrass the manufacturer and name names, let's just say the machine was a 250 something-or-other, that cost me more to keep in one piece than 6 Trail Rider By Rick Sieman Suzuki's advertising budget for a year. Yep, it was that bad. It wasn't a large place, but it was secluded. Protected from spying eyes on the north side by a huge mound of rotting garbage, a very distinct aroma usually hung over the place. On hot days, we tried to ride upwind. To the east, a very large plant squatted murkily, emitting copious quantities of smoke. Birds that dared to venture directly over the belching smokestacks usually fell to the ground, gasping and retching violently. A lot of the garbage on the north side was from the same factory. We knew this because occasionally their trucks would drive up and dump a load or two. The boundary of our motocross paradise, to the south, was a stream. Not too wide, it had proven itself rather deep, something we'd found out when someone's bike had inadvertently fallen in and immediately disappeared from sight, never to be found again. A certain amount of steam seemed to rise from this stream and the water was always warm and sometimes very hot. Nothing lived in it, but we didn't mind too much. We were interested in learning how to ride. The current flowed rather quickly for such a narrow stream, and seemed to emanate from the direction of the plant. We once tried to follow the stream to its source, but were greeted by a barbed wire fence and a foreboding sign. Strange things used to float by on occasion, and the sides of the banks were slippery and oily looking. Once I touched the banks, just out of curiosity, with my fingers. I didn't touch a second time. The west side of our track was flanked by a very busy eight-lane super highway. Strangely, many of the cars were probably using the plant's products in their engines. We used to lay out our motocross courses here, using what was around for markers. A rusty 50-gallon oil drum was at the far north end of the land, and the tighter you turned in there, the better the drive was out of the corner. From there, we headed south, utilizing some partially exposed pipes as whoopde-dos. They, too, came from the plant. We never found out what they carried in their bowels. After the pipe-bumps, we had to make a left-hander, or crash into the stream. This was the trickiest turn and most took it slow, not wanting to fall in that stream. After that, some fairly deep sand, then a series of ���S��� curves, clearly defined by oil derricks (long ago abandoned) sticking their stark, bleak profiles high up into the sky. Miss a turn and you just might slam a wheel into some solid, unyielding metal. Once past the artificial ���S's,��� we hurtled into a drop-a-way that might have been a river bed at one time in the past. Out of that, through a rocky patch dappled with cinders, then back towards the rusty 50gallon drum for another lap. Course of the month for us, at that time. We spent a lot of time here, just playing, learning, falling and after the riding, an occasional six-pack was split. Over the period of a few years, we had left more than a few patches of skin on the ground and many a fouled plug had been cleaned with a twig that happened to be the right size. Sure it was crummy looking, but we enjoyed it. It was the kind of place that grew on you. Especially so when it was the only place around that we knew of. Then something happened. One Saturday morning, we came up to the dirt road leading into our place, only to find a high chain link fence blocking our entrance. On the fence, was a sign that bore the words: ���ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING. Violators will be fined $500 and/or six months in prison according to Article 697 of the Municipal code of the city of ������ There was more, but we got the message. That night, in the newspapers, there was a story about how the city had closed down an area that was being abused by cycle riders. Seems we were destroying the environment and someone decided to put a stop to our evil ways. One of the august gentlemen on the panel that had worded the new ordinance bore the same name as president of that nearby plant. That night, and for a long time after that, I felt very small and helpless, indeed. If you feel that way, tear this column out and mail it to the people who just closed off your riding area. Who knows it just might get a few of them thinking. It probably won't, but maybe for a little while they might understand what they are slowly, surely killing. www.TrailRider.com

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