Issue # 246 Going Nowhere
Written by John Fuller   
Tuesday, 09 December 2008
Here in Victoria, BC, long, rainless weeks this summer have left the bush on lower Vancouver Island dry, brittle and so dusty that a simple foot-scuff will send a plume of grit into the air, impairing vision and clogging exposed mechanical bits. This was the situation as my riding group and I readied for a recent dualsport ride.
My KTM530 was running tops when Steve and his Aprilia RXV5.5 tried to out-accelerate me up the on-ramp, but his Italian machine was unable to pull any distance on my Austrian beauty. Arriving at the Spencer Road Shell meeting spot, EXC525-mounted Watershed Ed Andrew relaxed with Dege and Mike, two more EXC owners. With their tanks already filled, the boys were leaning on their bikes in the sun, confident that nothing could ruin the day.
I began the job of trail boss by warning everybody of conditions and asking for their cooperation in the heavy dust and over the long distances that were to be traveled this day. Only one member of the group was missing, Mace Porcher, because he was still in the process of pulling his dualsport from storage. But his plan was to join us somewhere between here and our final destination, which  was to be Port Renfrew, a small town a couple hundred kilometres away from Victoria. It was to be a bush trip that we had not yet done this season.
When he finally did catch up with us, or rather us with him, Mace was smiling and sipping coffee in Mill Bay, just north of Victoria. His Honda XRL250 was idling in the parking lot, missing an occasional old-fuel beat. A java boost and our now complete group of six ventured to the end of the suburban road and off into the foliage in search of adventure on motorcycles. Who would have thought Mace would be the first to tempt disaster by driving directly into a nearby mudpit instead of choosing the hundreds of trails around it?
In poor Mace’s defence, it was midsummer and the bog had concealed its identity by appearing dry and safe—until the little XR rolled into its clutches. It took four grown men to drag the now vertical Honda out of the bog and a cardiologist to restart Mace’s exploded heart. Before long though, we were back on track.
Cowboy Bob Larter was, as always, more excited than a three-year-old on a minibike, and even though his over-muscled V-Twin Aprilia was a handful off-road compared to the KTM EXCs, he repeatedly insisted that he would not be passed  this day. His denial continued even while staring at his broken $150 tail light that Dege had run into while pushing and trying to pass the Cowboy.
Some riders finesse a machine, flow with it, and only occasionally flatten a tire, while many others appear to recklessly bash over terrain and puncture tires despite running high pressures and heavy tubes. This day it was Steve’s turn.
By the time we found a wrench that would fit the big Aprilia axle nut and replaced the rear tube with a spare front it was well into the afternoon and we had to re-evaluate our destination. Port Renfrew was now out of the question and even Skutz Falls seemed too far. We decided to go through the river up the mountain to Jarvis Lake and into the town of Sooke, west of Victoria, for a spot of food at Mom’s Café.
But the usual series of washouts to Jarvis was far more intense than any of us could remember. Though teamwork was at its finest with everyone pitching in to get the bikes through ravines and washouts, we were all hot and stressed as we inched up the mountain. Cowboy did his part by screaming riding instructions from the other side, seemingly unaffected by the broken, scratched, and dented bits on his bike. Street gearing, less aggressive tires, more clothing and ornaments such as lights, mirrors and gauges made the extreme terrain much harder to conquer than had we been on our dedicated off-road bikes. I was the first to crack, having fallen twice and becoming trapped under my bike. Remembering that the worst was yet to come, I retreated like a scolded dog back down the trail to the last logging road. We all agreed enough punishment had been administered this day and we were ready to surrender to the easy trails back to the coffee shop. There was, we concluded, no need to tell anyone that we had failed.
But, there was to be no let-up as Dege was soon on my tail prompting me to get hard on the gas and charge the rough log-strewn trail. This measure gained me only seconds—the engine harmonics from Dege’s bike were not losing volume.
When we finally stopped to celebrate our awesome riding skills and wait for the group, Dege discovered that his brake pads had simply vanished from the caliper. He had no front brakes whatsoever. I had to backtrack for some time before I deduced the last two riders, Mace and Mike, had taken a wrong turn and ended up far behind the group.
It was now late afternoon and though we had not gone far all day we were beat. This adventure never stopped; it would not stop.
Eddie and Dege could hear only a faint, barely audible cry coming through the trees—it sounded like a call for help. Could it be Mike, who had yet to show at the trail’s end, in some sort of trouble? Eddie started his bike and began slowly backtracking down the two-track trail, searching the sides for a source to the eerie sound. Was it a bird or was someone actually needing help? Eddie could not believe his eyes when he saw the accident scene, even though we were in the middle of a forest it was plain to see the trauma. Mike was lying face-down on the ground, one leg in the air and the other trapped under his bike in a submission hold that would make an Ultimate fighter proud. He used the last of his energy to motion to Eddie to pull the bike off his back and then miraculously stood upright with only an assortment of bumps and bruises and a story of how he had cartwheeled twice on the bike before becoming trapped by it.
Later, we sat eating our fish and chips, shaking our heads in disbelief. How could so many things have happened in such a short period of time? We had hoped for a ride of several hundred kilometres but ended up never leaving our local area. Who knows? Perhaps it was for the best. 
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