Can you guess what the picture is?  I didn’t think so.  It’s the stage for the Dead.  Yep, the living Dead guy’s got together for a spring tour and I got to go to four shows.  I had a chance to do six shows, but made a bad decision and didn’t jump on the opportunity.  I will never make this mistake again.  Get these guy’s near me and I’ll go.  Even if near me is eastern New York.

Albany New York,  I met my buddy Paul Clipper there for his first Dead show.   Needless to say, attending his first show he stuck out in a crowd.  I was watching for him when he came around the corner, a sea of hairy hippies between us and suddenly a shock of white hair in a polo shirt came around the corner.  “Yea, he’s mine….”

Our seats were expensive and bad, but I was not complaining, as long as I was in the door.   The show was very good, the band is playing better than ever, Jerry would be proud.  My favorite part of the Albany show was the drums.  Micky Hart had a giant set of drums he absolutely pounded on and had the whole building feeling the vibrations.

Albany was the third show of the tour and I got the feeling they were trying to flex their muscle, show that they still had a lot of rock in their band, so it was a heavy rock show.  They played Truckin and Casey Jones and many other popular tunes,  I thought it was a introduction show for new audience members.

Four day’s later we met again in Buffalo New York.  The crowd was much cleaner and more upscale.  The show was more fun for me.  They did an Eye’s of the World that was just as light and floating as any thing I’ve ever heard.  The lighting swirled around on the crowd and was truly magical.

Chicago May 4th.  This show was added to the tour late.  The show was not sold out but the people there were all serious Dead Heads and the boy’s pulled out all the stops.  Obscure tunes known only by serisous Dead aficinados,   Phil sang Pride of Cookamonga and it was s hoot.

Then for the start of the second set, they drug out a bunch of acoustic instruments.  They all crowded up in one little corner of the stage.  Bill sat behind what looked to be a little kids drum set.  The big drum did not come up nearly as high as his knee.  A tiny little cymbal and snare drum.  He sat bolt upright and played like the champion he was.  Micky Hart sat on a ply wood box and played it with his hands, rocking it back and forth for different sound.   Warren and Bobby played what looked like little monkey guitars.  The piano was set to saloon style and they flat tore it up!  I was laughing my butt off, it was ridiculous but still good.  They played Mexicali Blues and for those in the know, tonight was the Cinco DeMayo show.

They slowly moved back to all electric instruments, and I have to say tonight’s show was one of the best I’d ever seen.  I’ve only got around 30 shows under my belt, but I have enough to recognize true magic when I see it.  It’s like snow skiers dream of bottomless power.  Scuba diver dream of unlimited visibility, Dead Heads dream of shows like this.

May 5th, the true Cinco DeMayo, but we knew the party was last night.  Tonight’s show was sold out and the beer was flowing.  So the band matched their music to match the attitude of the crowd and they played another Truckin show.  Popular songs even the least initiated listeners would enjoy.  Flashes of brilliance and the crowd was stirred to a frenzy.  If they would have let the crowd out in this mood, they would have torn the parking lot down, so they slowed the tempo and played John Lennons “Imagine” as an encore.

The parking lot was still rowdy, see there are several different levels of parking lot people.  There are the dirty little homeless looking hippie people that move from music festival to festival selling grilled cheese sandwiches for a living.  I don’t know if they even care about the music.

Then you have the true Dead Heads and they are here for the music, any partying they do is to enhance a good situation.  Then you have the people who just want to get fucked up.  They drink too much, they smoke too much and they are fairly dangerous.

Myself, I’m here for the music but I enjoy watching the people.  The shows are all available for down load at dead.net or I use Internet Archive and they have free down loads, so I can listen to the shows I attended and relive the magic over and over.

I’m getting busy here at work, I have more to tell you, but I’ve got to run.  I’ll add to this soon, so check back.

Thanks

Charlie

Arizona winter vacation, 09.  A whole mess of us met in the Wickenburg area of Arizona last week for some fantastic riding.  Rain from the week before kept the dust down but it was sunny and warm during our stay.

Frank drives the big rig out with all the bikes and we all flew in, a perfect set up.  Camp was already set up, all we needed was SteveO to bring the fire wood and it was on!

Check out Jessies new car/bike hauler.  Nice huh?  He did a very good job on this one and for a $300 dollar car, it works nice.  AJ called him Thursday and said we were going and Jessie said, well okay, except for I’m in New Hampshire, it will take me a minute, 60 hours of driving and 8 hours of sleeping, Jessie was on the scean.

Sweet huh?

I’ll post some helmet camera footage here soon, but for now check out some of the plants that will flat ruin a trip if you were to hit one.

How would you like to slide through that on your throat?

Brush this one aside with your elbow and, well, you loose.

This one will pull your foot off the peg and poke thorns through your boot, here comes the blood.

Hit one of these just right and BOOM, worse than a cactus

Happy faces of survivors, it can really be a trecherous place to ride.

More soon.

C

This is where rocks were invented and I’m surprised the front wheel on this bike is not square.  We rode for two day’s on what they called Vintage Friendly trails.  I even got to ride a new bike and afterwards, I was beat.  I can not imagine riding a bike like this Husky or even a Hodaka around that course.

Truth be told, Hodaka was the number one brand at the event, a fact I will never understand.  There were Pentons galore, Husky’s, KTM’s, Hercules, Sachs, even a few giant four stoke singles, which to me is what Vintage is and if I were to ever get a vintage bike, it would be a Rickman framed 500 single four stroke.  Bugger the two stroke revolution, the bikes that made an impression on me are the real mens’ bike of the day.

If you ever get a chance to ride the Zink Ranch, don’t do it!  Naw, just kidding, but it is a rough and rocky place and has ruined many a man.

I’m working on an article for Trail Rider Magazine about the event so I don’t want to give all the details away here, but I loved the picture of the old Husky and wanted to share it with you.

So watch your mail box for your next issue of Trail Rider or subscribe at www.trailrider.com

Thanks

Charlie

Jimmy Lewis, cools off

I had qualified for the Grand National Championship Finals in the Vet class in Vegas.  This only proves there is something wrong with the qualifying system.  Since Endurocross is such a crap shoot, I actually had a pretty good shot at placing in the top 12.  So I booked a flight, borrowed a bike, a car, and a floor to sleep on, I was going to the finials!

Once I arrived in Vegas, I found my friend Patrick Koether from Rekluse had broken his wrist practicing for this race.  Obviously under lots of mind altering pain medications, when I asked if I could borrow his 09, 300 KTM to race, he said: “Sure.”  But then his face changed like, “What have I done?”

The bike was perfect for me, plenty of power plus the invaluable Rekluse auto clutch.  Brand new Maxxis tires and the pipe and radiator had already been bent, so I was safe there.

My race went off at 8:30 pm and that was about 11:30 pm at home, so it was an odd feeling getting geared up at that hour.  I lined up on the out side, because I want nothing to do with that tangled mess on the inside of the turn.  The gate dropped and when I got to the first turn a rider had already been hit and was ricocheting out of bounds to the right.  Eleven riders turning left, one turning right.  I just missed his rear wheel and made a mental note, one down, ten more to go.

The first log held up some more riders and when we entered the Matrix section, I was in fourth.  Sweet…..  But the riders in front of me got squirrley and I had to dodge more falling bikes and got stuck and dropped back to twelfth.   During the next lap I moved past many many riders laying on the ground and was reported as high as third place.

The course was not that technical, brutally physical yes, but not that hard to ride.  I thought I was on the podium, third place would be cool.  I cleared the Matrix again, the rock turn, the giant tires, even the giant boulder field, but then I hit a two foot tall log and didn’t clear it, the bike went up and fell back, upside down and sideways and backwards.  By the time I got it up and pointed in the right direction, I was spent.  The bike is hard enough to ride around this track, but when you have to push and carry one, well I’m too old for that.

So I went from hero to zero in just a few minutes.  I was wrecked, it is amazing how tiring just a few laps can be and I hurt for 2 days after just half a mile of riding.  The race was pure hell and I wonder why any of us do it.  But as I get further away, I rationalize it like this:  I measure how much I enjoy something by how much I think about it before and after.  So yes the race is absolute hell, but there are hours of dreaming about it before the race and hours of reliving those five minutes after the race.

See, it does look like fun

I’ll be back next year, I do pretty well, I’m not fast, but if I could string 5 laps together with out a mental melt down, I could really have a good chance at winning a trophy.  No it probably won’t be a first place, but a third is really possible, or at least that’s what I have convinced my self of.

You can find out more on the Endurocross web site, www.endurocross.com It is the greatest spectating event ever, the amateur races are free admission, plus they are the ones you want to watch, mainly because they can not do it!  The Pros make it look easy.  Here is a vidoe of the pros, and they don’t really make it look that easy!   http://promoto.tv/exfinals.html I could not find any good photos of this years event, so I had to steal a couple from the past,  Dirt Riders Jimmy Lewis will be thrilled I found the picture of him sticking his entire head under the sewage water a couple of years ago.

So get out and practice some difficult obsticals, sign up for next years amature program, it really is something to enjoy, even if the race is torture.

This article was reprinted in the Blue Ribbon Coalition magazine.

It’s the noise! From sun up to sun down it sounds like chain saws running all day long it is unbearable! The noise the noise they were chanting as I backed out of the room, there was no making nice with angry mob of senior citizens. They were worked into a frenzy and I was the target, by killing me they could stop the unbearable noise.

I had been set up, I was attending a city zoning meeting in Anderson Indiana in regards to having ht e 2001 Police and Firemen’s Games in their town at Timberline Camp Ground. See some how I got involved with the Police and Firemen to be the commissioner of the off road motorcycle sports. Police and Firemen will gather from all over the world in Indianapolis in June of 2001 for the second largest games in the world. Only the Olympic games are bigger, but the Police and Firemen will bring millions of dollars through our town. But more importantly to me is the fact that the Olympic games people are watching the P&FG very carefully analyzing what sports may be added to the Olympic roster in the future. Motor cycle racing is one of the events they are considering. So if motorcycle racing is ever going to be an Olympic sport, the time is now and the games in Indianapolis are very important to this decision.

Of course my first location choice was Stoney Lonesome but club member Paul Garlic asked the previous commissioner to never come back if I was going to be involved with the games. So we went looking for another location, this is where Toby Buck of Timberline Campground stepped up to the plate. He really tried to help and bent over backward doing every thing with in his power to get the motor cycle games into his home town. Not only would it bring a lot of money through this town but it would be something the community could be proud of, something to rally behind. We had planned on inviting the boy scouts to run the concession stand and the girl scouts to sell T shirts and the local police and Firemen would be invited to participate or help run the races. The World Police and Firemen’s Games is a good thing, Jeez if we can’t trust the Police and Firemen to visit our community, well what’s up with that?

“It’s the noise! Unbearable noise, I live 6 tenths of a mile away and the noise is unbearable” A very animated red faced man was on the verge of losing self control over the noise. They had circled around me, a crowd of at least 40 outraged citizens, flushing the chance of having a good thing happening to their town over the noise the dirt bikes make. Are you beginning to get the message here or do I need to spell it out further? “The noise is unbearable” “We don’t want you or the World games in our town because of the noise!” I honestly had old people getting right up in my face with veins popping out of their neck and foreheads rocking their heads up and down between bifocal and trifocal. Many or the people complaining about the unbearable noise actually had hearing aids! I had to back out of the room to the door then ran down the street escaping the octogenarians.

I feel sorry for Toby, he has to go back and fight these people over the right to ride bikes on his own property. He has a nice facility for camping and riding, he has a big swimming lake and White River defines one boundary, it is a beautiful place for beginner riders or family riders. But I’m afraid his lax rules on silencers may be his down fall, it’s already cost him and his town thousands of dollars. Hell he could have bought every body a new silencer and still came out ahead on the games. But the P&FG are not going in some where they are not welcomed, there are plenty of other fields in Indiana we can rent to host the games, so I continue my search for the best place to have the games. So when the day comes the Olympic committee will see we care enough to try our best and we will get in the Olympics. This is the bottom line, no one should be so petty as to cry about who gets to do what, the main objective here is to host the best event possible.

But the immediate problem is the noise, that became clear to me at this meeting, the noise. So if you are riding a bike, make sure it is quiet. A new silencer may cost you a few dollars but look what it cost the city of Anderson and Timberline Campground. We would all have more places to ride if it were not for the noise. The old saying went: Less Sound = More Ground we had better relearn this motto and teach it to the new riders too.

Can you picture yourself riding across a great plain of Africa where the ground is so smooth you don’t use 1 inch of travel for miles and miles? Can you picture your self riding up to a group of coal black men with spears and swords and feeling totally comfortable? Can you visualize in your mind when your guide tells you it will be three
I went on a motorcycle safari across the bush country of the East African country of Kenya. We flew to Nairobi, our host Fred Pinchon met us at the gate, helped us gather our luggage, then swept us away form the bustling capitol city to a beautiful ranch in the Ngong hills. and one half days of riding before you see a black top road again? If thoughts like these make you smile, the smile is a dream, a dream you can make come true.

The Ngong hills are where Isak Dinesen wrote the critically acclaimed book, “Out of Africa”. Every word she wrote is true. Topping out at around 8,000 feet above sea level, the rounded hills roll off in every direction sustaining life as they did one hundred years ago when Ms. Dinesen lived here. Sustaining life as they had one thousand years ago. From the comfort of the Whispering Thorn lodge, Zebra moved across the horizon, Ibex, Emu, Eland, Hyena, Baboon, Gerenuk, all animals living and grazing free as they have since the beginning of time. Roosters cawed their question: Is today my day? Birds form a world away flocked, wild life still means something here. Any fences were to keep wild life out, not in.

From Whispering Thorn we mounted our bikes and headed west 80 miles in a round about way. Black top turned to gravel, that led to dirt, that turned in to simple goat paths. After several hours of traveling we caught the “Road to Mosiro.” I have seen more dangerous roads and rougher roads, but the Mosiro road was special because it is a  ‘daily driver’. Giant trucks delivered Coke a Cola cigarettes, bicycle parts and cooking fat. Locals drive the road with regularity and when a mud hole develops, new trails sprout off on both sides until the road is 15 lanes wide and seems to meander with no direction. This is a secondary road on my map. Elephant poop was abundant, Zebra grazed. A huge flock of Flamingo took flight. Groups of Ostrich loped around. The Ostrich was a real experience, see we have some pretty good sized turkeys here in Indiana, but the Ostrich was taller than I am, up to 9 feet tall. The birds had a body bigger than two men could reach their arms around, 300 pounds, Four foot long legs and three toes as big as my feet! Turkeys, yea right, eat your heart out Frank Purdue. Giraffe are interesting too. I’d never seen one run, they have a ——- gait which means both left legs swing forward then both right legs. Then their knees appear to bend all directions and it looks like it’s stumbling but it’s head floats above this mess with out ever moving.

After an hour of hard riding we reached the village of Mosiro which was a grouping of about 10 mud huts and two Coca-Cola signs. That’s all there was to Mosiro, 20 miles of bad road and a few 8 foot by 10 foot huts made of sticks and mud with flat roofs. 5 feet tall inside and dark as pitch. This out post was on my Rand Mcnalley World Atlas. Mosiro is barely a wish in a map makers mind. If the map maker draws a circle in the bush and gives it a name, a town will grow.

The Owner of one of the mud huts, stood quietly wrapped in a shuka. Holding in his bony blackened hand, a 6 foot tall spear. Tucked in his twine belt was a heavy headed club. A giant Bowie knife was just barely visible under the cloth. Cheap beach flip flops were on his feet and his toes were gnarly from years with out any shoes at all. Bare foot children giggled and hid and generally stared at us like we are from Mars. “Jambo!” I’d say in my loud voice I use when I assume people don’t understand my accent. “Jambo” replied the native then asks, in perfect English: “How are you?” “Where did you come from?” and “Am I enjoying his country and would I like to come inside for a visit or dinner?” “Had I seen any Lions? Would I like to go with him to see Lions and Elephant?
So shocked by the gentleman’s eloquent welcome all I can manage is another loud “Jambo!” He probably figured I was French Canadian.

The Kenyan’s are taught English in school and every one under 40 has good skills. It was most convenient and enriching. The Kenyan people totally made this trip. People would see us stopped along the trail and run a quarter of a mile just to say ‘Jambo’ They would shake our hands and invite us home and ask where we were going and where had come from. A friendlier more welcoming people I’ve never met. If I could collect a nickel for every time I shook a Kenyan’s hand and said ‘Jambo’ I could buy a ranch  there in the Ngong hills. Yes things changed around the big cities and tourist traps, but on the back roads we were traveling, a Safari was a welcome sight and a source of great entertainment. When adults jump up and down waving at you that is a cool feeling. Children would leap and throw them selves on the ground waving and smiling. Teachers would abandon the school house to run out to greet us. Then in some of the more remote areas we scared children and adults as we rode by. One adult dropped his English bicycle and ran into the bush surrendering his possessions. All of our friendly greetings could not coax him out of hiding so we set his bike on its stand and left him alone. One group of children became so startled they fled leaving the youngest to wobble and fall repeatedly alone while the others scattered through the bush.

One day, while leading the group I rode up to a circle of men sitting under a tree playing boa. They were dressed in their ‘shuka’ a traditional Maasai out fit, which is basically a red blanket wrapped around his lean body. Each held a spear, a club and a large knife. A large ornament hung from their dangling ear lobe and beaded bracelets, necklace and head dress identified their tribe. I took of my helmet and my pack, flopped down in the dirt with them and felt more at ease than I would in my own home town. We discussed my journey, they knew my land marks and scratched their chins and looked up in their memory and retraced my route in their minds. They know the routes but can only dream about what it would be like to do that road at 50 miles an hour. Jumping ditches, laying down Mike Healey moto-cross turns for hours on end? That’s the part that makes them smile. The smile was a dream. A dream for him but it’s reality for us.
These are tribal people, Massai, is the general name for them, and then they break down into any one of a dozen smaller clans. You can tell who’s who by what color beads they wear. Their way of life has changed very little over the last thousand years. They are shepherds and move with the green grass. Cows and goats are their business. During the day, the Massai children tend the herd. During the night the adult men stand guard and at night is when there is the most danger. Simba or lion is the biggest threat. Once a lion has the taste of cow or goat or man, the Lion will strike again. The Massai warriors must hunt down this Lion and kill it. Kenya government does not allow guns so the Massai are armed with traditional weapons, a spear, a club and a big knife. The knife, by law, must be hidden from view. Living side by side with the lion, they are not as intimidated as we are, they consider the lion a nuisance, like a stray dog. Massai and Lion live side by side, but when necessary, the Massai hunt the Lion fearlessly.

The Massai do not hunt for food, that’s why there are wild animals, they leave the wild animals for the lion. If the Massai killed all the wild animals, the lion would come after  the Massai. If you study the way of the Massai you can see both the past and the future. From bustling Mosiro our local guide, Julius, led us through tall grass along animal paths for several more miles before we came to a clearing by the Ewasso Ngiro river. Our support truck was already there and had our tents set up. A kitchen built and chef Joseck was dressed in his white coat with ascot and hat. For day after day Joseck prepared meals for ten people or more with only one burner and no refrigeration. The food was local style, lamb, beef, goat, chicken. Along with a big pot of rice or potatoes. Fresh avocado salad and deep fried pineapple, no one went hungry.

Julius, a resident of Mosiro, arranged Massai warriors to guard the camp from lions. They built 5 smoldering camp fires around the camp and 5 more kerosene lanterns marked the perimeter. These men were the real McCoy, lion tamers by profession. I asked them if they knew Sigfried and Roy….Their efforts were not just symbolic either. 25 feet from camp was a trail that led to the muddy bank of the river. Fresh lion tracks. Big fresh lion tracks. Nearly as large as my hand and twice as deep as I could stomp my own print. These cats would weigh 400 pounds. 25 feet from camp. I crowed like the rooster “Is tonight my night?” Darkness fell on our camp like an anvil. It’s circle of safety shrunk and the Lion tracks grew in my imagination. We were 100 miles from the nearest telephone, then 5,000 miles from some one to answer the phone. Who would I call? The Massai Warriors is who you call. The Massai warriors stayed up all night stirring their fires and making “man” noises, keeping any cats aware of the commotion and not let our camp startle a cat seeking a sip of water.

I watch the locals, if they are calm and happy, I’m calm and happy. When the locals get nervous, I get nervous. Our guys were laid back and chewing goat ribs. Talk has turned to lions, I must relate some stories. I can’t go to Africa with out some good lion stories now can I? Our tour was roughly following the Mombassa-Uganda rail road line. Known as the “Lunatic Line”, the rail road “From no where, to utterly nowhere.” Back in 1898 when they were building the rail road they had trouble with some cats. These big cats got the ‘taste of man’. This is very bad. Conditions on the rail road were harsh and 90% of the workers died. Bodies were not properly buried and this is where these two particular cats got “The taste of man.” In all 140 men were taken. Every trick known was used to protect the men but the big cats still snagged men every night. Terrified workers would build 10 foot tall fences out of thorn bushes, encircle their camp and set up guards all night and the lions would still. Go over. Snag a man, throw him over the fence and before he hit the ground the lion was dragging him off in to the bush. True story. No exaggeration, just facts. Too many written accounts, how could I make it any scarier than the truth? Oh, the crunching of bones was easily heard from the men left in the cage called camp. Gun fire did not scare the cat’s away either. Man eaters of Tsavo, most famous lions in the world. Nine foot six inches nose to tail. Now on display in the Chicago Field Museum. And we are riding dirt bikes right through their back yard. What do you think of that. Yes I was a little apprehensive when I read the story, but curiosity got the better of me, I threw caution to the wind and put my trust in the experience of the Massai warriors. Safe bet, I felt totally secure the entire trip. Lions are afraid of man, so unless you startle one, or corner one, you are pretty safe. Locals calm and happy? I’m calm and happy. From Mosiro we headed east, following endless miles of dirt road. At one point or guide said it would be 3 more days before we saw a black top road again. Can you visualize that in your mind? 3 days of hard riding, 100 miles a day and not one hard surfaced road? Following game traces from village to village staying completely clear of the tourist route. We visited another Massai camp and we were the second group of white people they had ever seen. They welcomed us and invited us in to their homes.

The next day we got a tour of the school and were warmly welcomed by the school superintendent and the town chief. Eloquent speeches were made with deep thanks for us visiting them. The town chief wore white plastic shoes with no laces and a tan over  coat with the end of one sleeve burnt off. He was as proud and sincere as he could be. I have never been as welcomed. Even at my own mothers; “Close the door!” Greets me.The students sat quietly at their desks and asked questions about where we were from. I drew a crude map of the world and tried to show them the USA, France, Kenya. “How long did it take to get here?” They knew George W. Bush and Monica Lewenski, thanks Bill.

We were riding Suzuki Dr 350s, there were 6 riders and our guide. A Toyota Land Cruiser followed our route. Driven by a guest it was a super way for non-riders to enjoy the same tour the bikes were getting. The Doctor and mechanic rode along in the truck. Taeo our official Safari mechanic had tire changes down to 6 day standards, this is a skill I admire. East Africa is an unforgiving place to learn to ride a dirt bike and a couple of guy’s in our group had no dirt experience. Now Carl adapted quickly and had few problems switching from his 1100 Suzuki to the DR. But Pierre didn’t fare so well, he over shot a turn early in the first day and broke his collar bone. Daktari Ndoro accompanied Pierre to the hospital, through x-rays, helped Pierre get into a figure eight  brace and took Pierre to the air port. KLM moved him to First Class and pampered him home to his own doctor. It was the very finest care possible. Also included in our tour package was ‘Flying Doctors Insurance’. Had our Doctor suspected the injuries to be life threatening, “Flying Doctors” could be radioed and you would be flown to the Nairobi hospital. I only relate these stories so you can see how well prepared our guide was in case of emergency. The riding was not overly dangerous nor difficult. I would compare it to Nevada. Pierre’s accident was due to rider error. Then first thing the second morning poor Marcel dropped his bike and it landed on his little finger and split it open like a hot dog. Daktari cleaned the wound and stitched him up. Marcel didn’t get any novocaine either either. Bad dude that Marcel is, he continued the Safari in the truck but he went down fighting. Danger and accidents are a part of life. Our guide was well prepared, the rest is up to you.

Day after day we strapped on our boots and headed off across vast rolling landscape. Where ever we stopped, with in moments a Massai would appear and welcome us. One time we were stopped waiting for the truck to catch up so we could help it cross a creek. One of us noticed there was no body around. Our guide said with a very straight face; “This must be a very dangerous spot.” Then smiled. Our group had two trucks. One a 1978 Land Rover. The other was a late model Toyota Land Cruiser. The Land Rover was the true Safari truck. 4 wheel drive with 2 extra spare tires. Winch, jack, sand ladders, over sized tow cable. Tools galore. Then they would strap on a luxury amount of camping gear. Then Gasoline for both trucks and all bikes. It was weighted down. Alnoor the Land Rover captain took great pride in the truck and all it’s possessions arriving safe. I can’t tell you how many passengers were in the truck, but every village it seemed like some one new jumped on board. They were all hard workers and their first question would be, “Are you having a good Safari?” A guest drove the Toyota Land Cruiser. This truck was a little lighter duty than the old Land Rover It followed every bit of trail we rode. Bouncing along and really covering ground, just like a rally car champion. He was a happy customer

Safari’s are big business in Kenya and there is competition for the good jobs. Every one on our Safari had experience at their jobs and a good Safari was their goal. My favorite situation would be when our group of 6 bikes and 2 trucks would cross a tourist route and we would stop for a Coke. Mini van after min van went bouncing by on the high way. When one would stop its weary travelers would walk around our bikes and smile. The smile was a dream. A dream for them reality for us. We crossed the tourist route and were back in the bush. Back on the bikes. Every other night we spent in lodges or hotels, they varied from first class at the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Another place we stayed were little huts modeled after traditional Massai village. Remember the huts Pappilon lived in on Devil’s Island? These huts reminded us of them. One night we stayed in a giant house all made of natural materials. Thatch roof, crooked poles laced together with living trees to make a frame work. Mosquito netting was all the walls we had.

Camping was the best. One night we spent near Tsavo. Volcanic hills popped out of the landscape every 8 to 30 miles apart. We camped at the base of one of these hills. Local knowledge backs the camp against the rocks to reduce the perimeter needing watched. High above us on the rocks stood World War One gun emplacements. From where we were, German organized troops attacked and tried to break the rail road 40 miles to the north. While at this camp the natives got nervous. Natives nervous? I’m nervous. We had disturbed an ant hill and they were swarming out and going to attack our dinner table. The natives kept, repeating: “This is very bad.” “We have angered the Siafu ants, this is very bad.” We moved the table 20 feet away and our brush with danger was over. These ants have been known to eat a horse to the bone over night if they should trap him in his stall. What if they get the ‘taste of man’? There were a couple more adventures with the wild life.

Game drives were taken at dusk as the animals come out of hiding. The group went out in the Land Cruiser. I stayed behind to explore the rocks. While they were out an angry Elephant charged the truck. John was standing up through the sun roof trying to steady the 350mm lens when the Elephant and driver took flight. John couldn’t get the shot but they all came back with huge stories. You could tell by their excitement some thing really exciting had happened. There was more. Late the same night, a lion visited camp. He let out a little grunt and a growl, testing to see if the motor cycles could be startled, but Lazaro our keeper, scared the lion off armed with a short pointed stick. Lazaro was a great hero the next morning. He modestly smiled. The smile was a dream. A dream of actually hunting Lions. Motorcycle people are the greatest.

On the night we spent at the base of Kilimanjaro we shared the dining room with a  German climbing party. Our table was laughing and cutting up in 3 languages. The Germans were deadly serious. Their guide was giving a speech which I could not understand. But I think he was going over the procedure when some one dies on the mountain. It was great, the Germans sat white faced with mouths open scared to death of what might happen. The Dirt Bike guy’s just laughed and carried on like the children we really are. Quite a contrast and more than one German wanted to join our group.Kilimanjaro is quite the mountain. It is just over 19,000 feet tall but what makes it so hard to climb is the base elevation is at about 4,000 feet. So to climb it you are faced with 15,000 feet of climbing. It is only a couple of hundred miles from the equator so base elevation can be quite hot. But with altitude conditions deteriorate quickly and the top is always under snow and ice. We could see Kilimanjaro for 3 days while riding, it commands the horizon.

I’m getting to the end of this article and it makes me sad. I had really started to enjoy myself and it’s time to go home. I can tell you are disappointed too, the smile is gone off your face. Okay, I’ll go on. The ultimate destination of our whole adventure was Funzi Island. Addled by the immense sea scape of bush land, Funzi Island meant the end. I dreaded Funzi Island. I liked riding in the bush. I didn’t want it to stop. The bush did not stop, it rolled on for lifetimes of adventure. My trip was rolling to an end but the bush went on with out me. Just as my mood grew the darkest, things changed. The road bent down hill as we approached the coast. Palm trees appeared and the off shore wind pulled their tops towards the sea. Signs advertising beach stuff, like fishing and scuba and restaurants and hotels and marine repair and net mending. The air smelled like sea water too. Closer and closer we got, every bend I expected to see the ocean. Finally we broke through the last stand of palm trees and their stretched before us was the Indian Ocean. Pure white sand beaches bent to horizons. A coral reef off shore made the water appear minty green along the coast then plunge in to darkness in the deep blue sea. Suddenly I was tired of riding bikes and I wanted to play in the water. I was tired of my boots and sick of my sweaty helmet. I wanted to swim and wash the red dirt from my skin. What a perfect ending to a perfect trip. Change environments. I know, 30 minutes ago I never wanted to stop riding in the bush. But now I’m done and there is a new frontier to explore. Funzi Island was the best. We parked the bikes and boarded a dhow (long skinny boat) and it zipped us to the Funzi beach. The mangroves resembled Florida, but where we would park trailer homes, Funzi men had built huts out of natural material. Twisted branches laced with living trees made the frame work and palm frond thatch made a roof. Mosquito netting was the only walls. Guacamole and chips were delivered to my couch and I had found paradise. Who needs a dirt bike when they got a hammock like Funzi has. I’m smiling at these thoughts. I could ramble on and on about Africa but I’ll never be able to stack up the words to fully capture the true Africa. Hemmingway tried, Isak Dinesen tried in Out of Africa. Beryl Markham does the very best job in her book, West With The Night. I recommend reading this moving account of her life above Africa. Markham gave me the insight to throw up my hands in defeat when it comes to capturing Africa in words or film. Too big, can’t be done, give up gracefully. My trip is one little sliver of what Africa is. Like a lightning bolt across the bush I went. Africa is still waiting.

You need to experience it your self, here’s how: Visit http://www.motorbike-safari.com/ This is the web site of our guide and tour operator, Frederic Poincon. He has a first class operation and I recommend every part of it. You will find all the details on his web site, please check it out and check out the prices too. The tour is a very good value. The riding is excellent, we rode about 100 miles each day, and it took all day. So when you go on a long trip like this comfortable gear is a must, On top of every safety pad in the Acerbis catalog, I used a Moose Gore Tex jacket for the higher elevations where the temperature was cool. I switched Moose Sahara gear at lower altitude. Buy the best boot available, you wind up wearing them from sun up till sun down, you had better be comfortable. Go with good riding skills. East Africa is not the place to learn how to ride a dirt bike. Practice in Nevada with Nevada Motorcycle Adventures. Matt will teach you good riding habits, reasonably near a hospital. Every precaution was taken for our safety. Accidents do happen but our guide had taken every step to insure a safe Safari. The crew was totally dedicated. The most wonderful part of this journey was the Kenyan people. They were so kind and nice. I want to help the people of Kenya, some of them are very poor. Team Mooch has started a shoe drive to send shoes to the villages we visited. You can get more information on Africa and the Mooch shoe drive on www.teammooch.com Also you will want to visit the Tsavo Man Eating Lion page at: http://www.lionlmb.org/gandd.html this is a interesting story. By all means seek out Beryl Markham’s book; West With The Night. But don’t let the Lions scare you, that’s the part of the trip that still makes me smile. That smile is a dream about being back in Africa, where things are as they should be, ruled by the King of Beasts.

Suggested reading:
http://www.motorbike-safari.com/
“Snows of Kilimanjaro” by Ernest Hemingway
“West with the Night” by Beryl Markham