You arrive at the parking area you are surprised to see a dozen other
riggs. To your dismay they are all unloading quads. You change in
the open while it precipitates a rain/snow mix. You set out on your
loop with a warm bike and dry gloves.

One mile later….. You stop to remove your foggy dripping lenses.
You warm your wet hands near an exhaust header crusted with the color
of dark rust and steaming with the scent of fresh baked mud pie.
You’ve done well just to keep the bike upright with all the diagonally
downed limbs due to the wind storm that ripped limbs loose the week
earlier. You press on.

Now you’ve aclamated to the conditions. You are used to the way the back
of your bike would rather go left or right rather than push you
forward while accelerating. You’ve selected the wrong line through
deep puddles on more than one occasion. At least the quart of water
in each boot has warmed to match your body temperature. A few times
you have flashed back to when this route was dry, to a time when
applying the brakes would actually cause your bike to slow. Those
thoughts quickly dissappear as you descend down a hill like the Plinko
disk released from the hand of a Price is Right contestant.

You’ve gone nowhere slowly. On the north sides of high hills you
encounter picturesque scenes of drooping evergreen and white topping.
This bleached out beauty is overshadowed by the reality of the terrain
it blankets. Rocks, ruts, roots and more diagonal branches push your
front end around like a bully held back 4 grades at recess. At this
point you envy the quads you saw earlier. Four tires in contact with
the ground would have kept you from leaving that streaking snow angel
you created on the side of a logging road back when you got a cocky
and thought riding on snow wasn’t so difficult.

On your way back to the parking area you have a five mile stretch of
gravel to conquer. You are in a hurry to get out of the weather but
speed is your enemy. The faster you travel the more wind flows
through the new holes you have torn in you best “waterproof” gear.
You crouch over your tank chin near the bar pad. One lifeless claw
clutches the throttle, the other changes position from your crotch to
the rear of your seat savoring the windless locations. Your focus is
directed at dodging the pot holes and not thinking about your face
from the nose down (you can’t feel it anyway).

Back at your rig you get a sample of what life will be like when you
are old. Stiff and weak you load up and peel off your gear. As your
key turns the heat in your cab is set to the maximum and the cd begins
playing where it left off. Once your core temperature returns to
normal you know that even a day like that is better than fighting the crowds at the Home Depot trying to scratch one “to do” off the infinate “honey do” list.

1/09/08

Ben Baucum

The clock strikes 7:00 and my alarm screams at me to get up. Three
seconds later the worn out snooze button is blindly depressed. This
step is repeated several times before my bare feet touch the shag of
my carpet. Despite my distaste for early rising I’m on time and
reasonable ready the start of the 2008 Hangover Scrambles held at
Washougal MX park. Prearations actually started for me at
Thanksgiving. That is when I started stepping up my intake. Consuming
hundreds and even thousands of calories more than I could burn in a
day. My already impressive love handles merged into a full blown
muffin top thanks to all the hommade treats, edible vendor gifts and
general office junk food. To preserve this new form of body shape I
made sure to be as inactive as possible. I haddn’t been on a serious
ride since the last week in October. I attempted to get the feel back
the Saturday before the race when I went to Hindsite’s indoor
facility. I got a late start and put in four 8 minute (yellow flag
filled) motos before a poor dude imitated a lawn dart, fracturing his
femur in the process.

10:30ish. Nearly 300 riders line up in rows for the 40+, 250Am and
OpenAm. I sit comfortably nestled in the middle. Warmed by the
exhaust of pistons pushed by a mix of pump, premix and race gas.
While listening to the instructions provided by the race organizer I
studied the competition. I half admired the bling of knobs adorned
with studs and wondering where they would have the edge.

40+ started the first wave. One participant gloated that this was one
of the perks of being old among a few other not so wise comments.
Once they left and the smell of Old Spice and beef jerkey cleared is
was our turn. A dead engine start with both hands held up in the air.
I got a great jump and was 5th into the first turn. A minute later I
picked off two more.

After clearing the first grass section we ran into a 40+ mess in the
wooded area. Bottlenecks that look and flowed like the DMV at lunch
time. I did my best to keep momentum and pick the most open lane, but
made a time consuming mistake trying to sweep around the outside of a
rider who fell into me. Fortunately I held the clutch in and helped
his bike off mine with my left foot.

With the first lap complete I had a good dose of arm pump with a touch
of frozen fingertips. The second lap went well. I was still wearing
my goggles and was enjoying every second. The course was muddy, but
it wasn’t hard to find traction. Bottlenecks still plagued the woods
and a few ruts started to develope. The MX section seemed to be the
most difficult. The wet loam made it feel like I was riding an XR100
in sand.

Third lap and still having a good time. That was until I chose the
wrong rut in the woods and encountered a stalled rider. He was on a
KTM four stroke and wearing blue gear. His pegs were stuck inside the
wall of the rut and he told me I better back out after his rear tire
spun mud over my goggs. I felt like riding his bike out for him, and
and probably should have for it would have saved me time and energy.
I literally placed my heavy, mud caked bike in neutral and pushed it
backwards up a small slope while several dozen riders passed us. I
was frustrated that I lost so many positions and my goggs but not
completely discouraged.

I did my best to make up positions on the fourth lap. Still enjoying
myself and concentrating on getting better through all of the flat
turns. The woods were a mess. Brown shallow
hills were sprinkled with red, yellow, orange, green and blue machines
and their flailing piolots. I witnessed riders headed the opposite
direction on the MX portion. Finding a flat spot to build momentum up
over what would normally be a fourth gear table top. Rear tires left
marks on the dirt surface like snaking fingertips through chocolate
icing. My front tire caught traction in an area I didn’t want it to
and I fell in front of the most spectators who have ever watched me
ride. There must have been 14. I’m sure they heard all the colorful
things I call myself when I do stupid things.

The final lap was more mud wrestling than dirt bike riding. Alternate
routes for bottlenecks opened up everywhere. Even though the course
was at it’s roughest I couldn’t believe how much traction their was to
be found. The final bottleneck was at the finishing point where I
observed strange things. Pooped racers covered in roost funneling
through the gate at a pace less than a slow walk. All smiles and
jokes until a spot opened up and a surge of competitive mud monsters
vying for the best possible position.

In all the race was great experience. It was my first Hangover event,
on the first day of the new year and the first day since Thanksgiving
where I burned more calories than I consumed. This year’s resolution is to stay in the same size gear as last year.

1/08/08

Ben Baucum

Todd and I headed down to Salem early Saturday morning carrying no
more anxiety than an average ride with friends. I had slept well the
night before. My bike was running and all of my limbs functioned
properly. In fact my only worry was that my pre registration money
had arrived before I would. Concern crept into my mind as I entered
the arena. A starting gate with slots for eight. My gaping eyes
caught sight of rocks, a kiddy pool, boulders, sand, tractor tires and
logs ranging in shapes from firewood, telephone poles to Spotted Owl
homes. I walked away with a strategy. Don’t wreck and don’t let the
bike die.

Practice was harsh. Carnage everywhere. Riders over the bars in the
boulder patch. Flailing legs countering for balance through the 4
foot forest of arbavida. Stalled pilots everywhere kicking confused
machines wanting to shift out of first. I don’t have any memory of
being more exhausted in such a short period of time. Spectators could
be heard cheering and cringing over the impressive spectacle. Two
laps complete and I killed my bike twice and wrecked once. So much for sticking
to my strategy.

The three lap qualifier left me with arm pump so severe I couldn’t
crush a taco shell. Thankfully I had plenty of time to recover.
Watching the pros run through the same course was impressive. Geoff
Aaron was strategically smooth picking the terrain apart with his two
wheel drive machine. In complete contrast Chris Johnson blasted and
blipped his RM with insane speed.

The main was tough. I raced the first lap after a dissapointing start, then did my best to survive
the rest. The pro main was awesome. They battled each other rather
than the heinous elements of the torture track. I truly appreciated
the skill displayed in front of me from the comfort of the arena
seats. My forearms still swollen the size of Oprah’s thighs barely able to grip my beverage.

Thanks to Gary Buyer for coordinating such an incredible event.

3/30/08

Ben Baucum

Monday, and the warmest forecasted day of the year. Temps were expected to
be in the mid 90′s. I cut out of work at noon and met Rick at my house for
a trip to the coast range. After loading up we headed to Jones Creek, a
place we had been to before, but never put in a decent loop. We arrived at
the staging area about an hour after departure Special thanks to the
termites and rust holding Rick’s trailer together. Our bikes wouldn’t have
made it without your help.

Rick was concerned about his lack in conditioning, being that he had only
ridden a few times since August. I was shocked by his comment because I
knew he had been fishing and golfing a lot during the winter (the secret
training regimen of many of the world’s top athletes). I broke a sweat
putting on my gear, which lead to my concern. Had I brought enough water?
I had ridden all winter, including the week before, where it was 65 and
raining, hydration was never an issue.

I don’t recall the name of the first trail we took, but I gave it my own
title, “Rock Vomit” a quad wide strip that mirrored a tributary of the
Wilson River. I consider the trail to be fast, but you have to pass over
what looks like a fresh battleground full of loose rock and stick
casualties. Near the top I took a right instead of a left, turned around
then followed Rick. It had been dry all week and a cloudy substance I hadn’t
seen for months had developed in place of mud. The name escapes me it has
been so long. Oh, yes. I remember now. Dust.

Once through Rock Vomit we headed down another trail I don’t know the name
of either (I guess you can tell who carries the map). I’ll call it “Brake
Check.” It was narrow, sometimes steep, sometimes rutted and had some of
the same rock and stick devastation as the first path we took. It was also
relatively long and all down hill. The most notable feature was an old
fence that ran over the top of a hog’s back on the left of the trail. The
rusted barbed wire leaned over the only bike worthy line at neck level and
made for an attention getting manmade obstacle. At the bottom we rested and
sucked down water by a creek. Rick messed with his trip computer and I was
coping with the sweat burning my eyes.

The next few trails didn’t have much elevation change and allowed for
greater speed/cooling. They allowed multiple line choices through a
sprinkling of shallow ruts and sweepers. I was caught off guard by a deeply
implanted rock that couldn’t be avoided. I saw, planned for and hit it, but
didn’t expect to do a Superman/Donkey Kick.

The trail after that was all about elevation change. It was a narrow
stretch that ran over a ridgeline that branched and regrouped several times.
Fun! I kept taking the worst line possible and Rick followed. I told him
later that I wasn’t doing it on purpose. My ears must have popped a dozen
times ascending and descending the varied terrain. We popped out near the
river, crossed the highway and into the Jordan Creek area.

We blazed up the first Jeep wide trail savoring all that tacky traction. At
the top we rested and talked about how bad the heat felt. I had finished
the contents of my hydration system and pulled out my supplemental water
container that I had so wisely packed. After a couple rationed sips I set
it on a level surface and was probably telling an exaggerated version of how
fast I was really going, when my flailing hand tipped the bottle and its
essential contents to the ground. Crap! If this incident wasn’t a factor
in determining the distance of our loop the next significant trail tipped
the scale.

Pumpkin Patch. Ahhh, Pumpkin Patch. Oregon’s version of Idaho’s Sawtooth
Mountains. No pumpkins, just rocks, side hill and tight spots. I knew it
was going to get physical so I tried to remain smooth. Things went well
until about half way when I didn’t duck low enough for an overhanging tree
(I swear it dropped 4 inches when I was a foot away). Smack! I stopped,
made a grunt and looked to see if I made the tree shake. Nothing, but I got
an instant headache and a sore neck. Rick was all over me shortly after
that and I am pretty sure I held him up in some spots. After a while I
heard nothing. Before we hit the next trail I examined my head for
fractures, again nothing. It turns out that Rick had hit his head on the
same tree, we compared bark marks left on our helmets and shot down Stick in
the Nose.

Back across the river we treaded through a long section of seat high ferns.
It was a posted trail, but not visible to the human eye. We ran the reverse
order of the “Elevation Changer” and swapped bikes for a while. When that
was through Rick bitched about my RM’s rear shock being too soft. I praised
the handling of his KX, and bitched about his grips being too big for my
feminine hands. Then we both bitched about how no one makes easy to install
hand guards.

Riders in the truck and bikes in the decomposing plywood box on wheels. The
sun set at our backs as we cruised home for dinner. A great ride complete.

Ben Baucum

Decision 2008 Diamond Mill. A ride that started as a last ditch backup plan. Our trio headed out of the parking area (Darwinism’s playground) to explore trails that had recently shed inches and feet of snow. Our reward for losing an hour of sleep was clear skies
and single track with decent grip. Conditions were so nice that I stopped to remove my jacket on a downhill that looked like a waterfall of loose rock and baseball bat size branches. One moment after resuming my decent I heard/felt a knock on my frame. A stick spun off my right foot. The next moment I could taste sweet sizzling steam boiling off my headpipe. Precious Prestone poured the color of Predator blood. My hopes of having a great ride vanished with the contents of my right radiator.

After verbally venting my frustration I coasted the rest of the wayback to the main road and was towed behind Aaron’s orange thumper. Riding pal Shawn “The Entertainer” privided human amusment with twospills, including one visor cracking Pete Rose slide over the bars and onto a rock patch.

On the road and in cell service range my first call was to the dealer to price a new radiator. $317 and at least five days out. Steep considering I have every bolt on protector for that area. The radiator was torn at the downtube where the hose connects from the water pump. I called a radiator repair shop that next Monday. Less than a mile away from home and repaired for less than $50 I was a happy rider. Three hard rides later and it still retains water like a pregnant woman’s feet.

3/27/08

Ben Baucum

Several warm and dry consectutive days triggered thoughts in all
northwestern off road riders. The weekend’s forecast was something it
hadn’t been in months. High temps in the 60s and zero chance of the
wet stuff. E-mails were passed around by fellow riders about where
we’d be taking our trip. Goldendale was our intended destination, but
those plans were trashed because the track’s soil was ice at night and
melted into a mush the consistancy of wet concrete. Out of nowhere an
e-mail arrived at my inbox with a recent photo of two sport bikes
perched next to the Jordan Creek Trail sign. In the backgound of the
shot, perfect dirt. We were saved.

The group of seven met up for some quality dining at the Log Cabin
Restaurant on a bright and cold Saturday morning. After a fine meal
and intellectually stimulating conversation we rolled over the pass of
highway 6. From that elevation it was evident that we’d encounter one
of winter’s wicked weapons. The white mess that came from the sky was
at least two feet deep and taking cover from the suns rays under
evergreen arms.

Three of the seven were road racing guys who all strattled 250F
enduros. KTM had a strong presence as well with two 450 enduros and
one 300 with a push starter (lady button). All were ready for the
trail with the exception of one poor fellow on a WR 250F that wouldn’t
start. After attempting a bump start tow of over a mile he decided to
let the rest of us go and catch up with him on our return loop.

Finally riding. Ugh, it was tough. We hadn’t been in the woods for
the majority of the winter. I had been riding, but only indoor tracks
and leaving the comfort of 2nd gear and groomed soil made my front end
squeemish. It took a while to get things under control. I wasn’t
alone. I witnessed the crossover skills of road racers handling
gnarly water crossings. Not pretty. Diehard spirit with no loss of
temper even with when water flows over boots. Very impressive.

Like all trails in the Oregon coastal range we ended up climbing.
With the increase in altitude, a proportionate amount of snow covered
up the beautiful dirt. We rode until the drifts were too deep to
enjoy. Third gear, throttle wide open, feet paddling through the
frozen precip and moving forward slower than a drift boat in the
middle of Sand Lake. Disgusted, we headed back to the staging area.

We decided to cross the highway and hit the trails on the Diamond Mill
side with low expectations. Our group dropped in size from six to
five. The WR we had left behind got started and its energetic piolot
replaced the two road racers that called it a day. Just like we
feared, Diamond Mill had snow covering much of the trail system. We
hunted around for decent dirt like a broke smoker searching through
the sands of a public ash tray. I knew we had hit rock bottom when I
found myself using the lines left by a snowmobile and occasionally
lost my front fender under the crusty surface of white.

On our way back we gambled on a snow covered trail that seemed to head
south. To our disbelief it was incredible. It had a bit of
everything. Speed sections, tight woods, a hill climb, lots of log
crossing and a gigantic g out. On the verge of being lost and on
reserve we motored back to our trucks in good spirits. A great day to
be in the dirt.

2/17/08

Ben Baucum

11,000 feet of rock.
a goats trail leads to the top.
Expectations of extreme heat
Instead, days with wet feet.
Rain that fell just like at home,
Sawtooth policy, “no bolder left alone.”
Mountain lakes cool and clear,
Waist high rocks sharp like spear.
Motors sputtered and tires chunking,
Twos a smoking and fours a thumping.
Switchbacks, side-hills, boulders to snare,
At mountains peak we gasp for air.
Views of range so clear and gagged,
Control hands left blistered and ragged.
Miles logged on tacky soil,
To the single track, you must remain loyal.
For if you stray at all,
OTE, and a pesky fall.
Some of us fell victim,
Losing to a rock face playing chicken.
Long days followed by soak in hot spring,
8% urine… I’m sure that it’s clean.
Round the campfire under cloud of stars,
Swapping tales of time behind bars.
In a circle Brazil nuts are passed
Liquored coconut instead of a glass.
At night we fall to sleep at ease
The bear doesn’t want us, just our cheese.

Browns Camp is the most well known riding area in northwestern Oregon. It seemed like whenever I explained to someone that I had gone riding over the weekend, they assumed it was at this location. In my years of living and riding I had only driven past it en route to somewhere else.

Often I overheard bikers speak of it. “Yeah, I broke this at Browns Camp,” I’d hear at a bike shop while standing in line to pick up a replacement part. Then while gassing up at Chevron before a ride, I’d be asked, “Going to Browns Camp?” For fear of starting a lame conversation that would take time away from my ride, I’d simply nod and go about filling up my bike. Always Browns Camp this, Browns Camp that.

All this hype worked its way into the various stages of my conscious mind. I would think to myself, “I need to ride Browns Camp.” The order kept repeating in my head like the voices heard by Iowa farmer, Ray Kinsella in Field of Dreams. It was time to obey my own voices.

Some reliable sources told me that the trail was more notorious than famous. I’d heard it described as: rutted, muddy, slick, thrashed and crowded. I wanted to experience it myself.

A trio of us headed west after work on a Tuesday. It was exceptionally warm for early June and had not rained in weeks. My companions, both veterans of the loops we were about to venture through, didn’t promise me anything spectacular, only that because of its close proximity we’d have the most daylight. From Portland, Browns Camp is the closest place to ride. Off work at 5:00 and riding by 6:00 ― I was happy, but not all grins.

Browns Camp’s popularity gave it some unpleasant characteristics. Ruts! Ruts everywhere (my sources were correct). The ruts were so deep I expected to see a row of traffic cones and guys wearing orange reflective vest, directing me to the best line. The trails are as wide as a two-lane highway and had 20 different trenches to choose from. Fortunately it was dry and our tires didn’t encounter the Swamp Thing that lies at the bottom of these vast grooves during the wet seasons.

The match, us versus the ruts, started out even. But things got worse when the ruts’ sidekicks, roots and rock, joined in the competition. The three-in-the-ring combination kept our speed down. Picking a good line through the many ruts kept our eyes busy. One wrong choice and I’d have to hope that my bike would be wide enough to stick into the sides of the huge crevice, keeping my tires from touching down in China. Like with most riding conditions we eventually grew accustom, and started to dice with each other a bit. But then another enemy decided to attack – dust.

The thickly wooded area held out the wind and prevented the dust from leaving the trail. Many times we found ourselves braking on a straight section, blind to what lie six feet beneath our faces. The dust, ruts, root and rock made a formidable combination.

As the sun dropped below the coastal range of mountains to the west, our ride came to a close. We had a decent experience and got home in time for the last part of 2 Wheel Tuesday. In my mouth I could still taste the grit of the rock-hard clay surface that kicked up in to my teeth. In my nose, every hair was coated with the same dirt that blinded my vision from the many hidden obstacles.

Dust-caked sinuses aside, I now understand why Browns Camp is so popular ― it’s close and easy to ride over. From just about anywhere in the Portland area you can leave your house and be riding in an hour. You don’t have to be an expert to stay on the trail. The trails are wide enough to accommodate a triple trailer sideways and the only threatening obstacles are man-made. It is perhaps, the perfect place for the parking lot rider who is looking for more of a challenge, or the family who wants to ride together and doesn’t want to encounter anything too steep. But for the serious rider, Browns Camp offers little more than a “how to” guide for riding ruts.

Not so early on a pleasant Sunday. A trio of bikes pulled by a Volkswagon van slithered through the winding path to the west side of the Tillamook forest. The trio of riders, myself, Thor and his father Pete, are on a mission of national significance. To celebrate the relationship between a father and son by way of a pleasant rip through the woods. I fit in as an observing assistant (urr, yeah).

We unloaded our bikes directly east of Barney Reservor. Their two KTM’s had been sandwiching my Yamaha on the drive like some freakish colored Oreo, orange and blue do don’t go well together (sorry Gators).

The trails closest to the van were chewed stretches of dirt that wrapped around shallow hills and young evergreens. I felt like a one bean morracca falling down an uneven stairway, bouncing off anything organic to try to maintain some kind of rhythm. Like a good little trail it smoothed itself out to where we could pick up the pace and the two corners of our mouths. Unfortunately, like all good things, some logging company decided to wipe out the top of our trail. Rather than make our way back, we chose to trip our way through the piles of downed trees. Ever wonder why bike riding over a burn pile isn’t an Olympic sport? Answer: Because it sucks! It was most like log rolling, only with no water and uphill.

After we caught our breath and extracted all of the sticks from our spokes we pressed on to more great trails. The southeastern side of the Tillamook forest is more rolling than jagged. The trails are easier to ride but the soil is clayish. It had rained a fair amount Wensday and so their were some wet patches, but for the most part things were dry. There was a particularly rutted section that lay in high valley. I was trying to pick different lines than Pete who was closest in front of me. He went right into a deep rut. I went left into a shallow canyon. At the bottom was six inches of mud. It was too narrow deep and narrow to allow my bikes frame to slip through. I was stuck. I stood back took off my helmet to evaluate my situation. My rear seat is level with the ground, my tires are buried to the axle in a pasty mess of mud and even if I wanted to ride it out I can’t get to my kick starter. I had no choice but to pull it out. I attempted a number of holds and strategies, but finally I discovered the correct technique for extracting approximately 300 pounds of mud and bike. Squatting low and facing the rear fender I first pulled the rear end up and out to the flattest side, One hundred times easier than any other method. Second, I slipped in front of the bike in the rut and pulled like hell on the front rim. The second half of this technique requires less skill and more time at the gym.

I flung mud for miles after the canyon incident over an impressive mix of tight and speedy trails. We were blessed with a clear warm day and great views of the northern Willamette Valley. Our tires bit and slipped over the varying terrain keeping us focused on the everchanging conditions that were presented.

Like any good trip, we got a little lost. Oh, I meant we went exploring. We didn’t have any trouble finding our way back and we found some more trails. Of these virgins was a good sized hill that you needed a good run on a dry day to get apex.

The day ended for us at 4:00. Fifty some miles of good riding meant plenty of talk about what had happened while no one was looking, and explaining what was really going on if someone else had seen. Then somehow, as it frequently does, we digressed into memories of school-time skirmishes and the lessons learned from them. Dirt bike riding and story telling, the best Fathers Day yet. Ooh, I need to call my dad.