by Paul Berglund
I highly recommend you wear full protective gear when you are riding your motorcycle. Maintain your bike and be prepared for whatever you may encounter out there on the road. Have a good attitude, because you can’t always know what will happen. The following events are true and may be offensive to sensitive readers.
The Curry Incident
It was mid-morning in Western Tennessee. A group of us were on leg one of the The Trans-America Trail. (http://www.transamtrail.com) This routed us through remote, rural places. The goal was to take only trails and dirt roads all the way to the Pacific Ocean. We were riding in formation past what would have been beautiful scenery if not for all the garbage strewn about. The ditches were clogged with litter and trash. We saw this throughout the deep South. Like the contents of cars, trucks, even houses had been ejected out by the side of the road. It was quite sad. It made me think about the 1970s TV commercial with the crying Indian.
Then my guts began to rumble. I knew I had to “take a rest stop”, but I thought it could wait till we got to the next town and stopped for gas. I motored on, only slightly concerned. The road wound down a narrow wooded valley. We passed a waterfall. The locals had used the scenic pull out as a dumping point. Garbage and house hold items were piled high at the foot of the falls. One of the prettiest spots we had come across in Tennessee and it had been so spoiled. We wondered who could do that?
When we got the bottom of the valley, our fearless leader pulled over. While the group gathered around like old women to gossip, and complain about the trash, I walked through the trees to the fast flowing stream. Not much garbage here, but the sound and sight of the rushing water made me have to pee. Peeing outside becomes a necessity on the T.A.T. Most men welcome the opportunity in fact and here, the land had ben so violated by it’s caretakers, I felt that recycling some Dr. Pepper back to nature was acceptable.
I started to implement my plan, but as soon as I relaxed “number one” sphincter my “number two” sphincter took this as a green light and jumped to Def-Con 1. The launch had begun. All boosters were firing, only the docking clamps were straining to hold the onslaught back. I tucked my business back in and zipped my pants as I ran back to the bike. I was hoping to make it to my tank bag and retrieve my “Poop In The Woods Kit” and return to stream side before the fury was unleashed. I must have looked like Quasimodo running sprint laps between the woods and my bike. I was beyond caring about what my fellow bikers thought at this point. I grabbed the kit and turned to the woods.
I ran, hunched and cramping back to the stream. Once there my pants were down with great speed and I hoped, great precision. Squatting there all hell burst forth from my behind. Last nights supper, this mornings breakfast and the sins of the Confederacy shot out with great vigor. My eyes where watering from the sprint, the strain and the jubilation that I had made it. Thankfully, the noise of the stream drowned out the sound and the fury of what was unleashed that day. When the volcano fell silent, it was with great relief that I saw that my pants remained chaste. I deployed my kit, and soon all was well. I was triumphant.
When I walked out of the woods the whole gang was looking at me with great curiosity. I stoically returned my kit to the tank bag. With concern, one asked “is every thing all right?”
Reluctantly I told them what had just happened. We were a band of brothers. Surly they must have found themselves in similar situations. Perhaps it was the shock of my ordeal in such an idilic nature setting that blinded them to the hellish trauma that had just transpired. I silently waited for the hugs and condolences that would surely be offered. None were given.
Our fearless leader’s eyes narrowed. ”Did you bury it?” He asked. I was taken aback. I hadn’t thought of that. I was just happy to have survived. Now our leader was grading me on style and etiquette. “No.” I stammered. In my defense I gestured to some of the piles of garbage near by. “I didn’t think it was necessary.” I hadn’t added greatly to the mess. “It just looks like someone dumped a plate of curry on the ground.”
Mental note, bring a shovel when going on expedition.
The Trail Mix Fiasco
Leg two of the T.A.T. found us in Colorado. It was a beautiful sunny day and the landscape was trash free. We had pulled into a gas station for an unscheduled stop. One of the gang was running low on gas and had waved us in. My gas tank held just over six gallons of gas, so I pulled my bike to the side and waited for Mr. Tiny Tank to fill up. We looked over our bikes and checked for low tires or loose straps. I drank some water and watched a large orange cat walk over to check us out.
Amongst our number was a large and brutish man. He rode a late 90s Suzuki DR 350 that, tragically, came from the factory with an awful Malibu Barbie paint scheme. And yet, he always seamed to be hungry. He disappeared into the gas station in search of food. He came out with a large ziplock bag and a big grin. “They sell trail mix in bulk in there.” He wanted to share his new found treasure. I held out my hand. What came out of the bag looked like any other trail mix. Raisins, nuts, twigs and berries, nothing out of the ordinary, but it all had a dusting of “flavoring” on it. I popped it in my mouth. The taste was beyond horrible.
I have crashed my bike in a swamp and spit out much better tasting swamp mulch than this so called trail mix. Again my eyes were watering. I walked over to a garbage can and spit it out. The whole gang was now staring at me once more. I calmly asked one of them to “hand me that cat”. “What do you want the cat for?” Mr Tiny Tank asked.
“I want to lick it’s ass so I can get this taste out of my mouth.”
Note to self, bring chewing gum.