BACKROADS • DECEMBER 2021
O N T H E MAR K MARK BYERS
DANCIN’ WITH MYSELF Dancing with myself, oh-oh. Dancing with myself. When there’s nothing to lose and there’s nothing to prove, Well, I’m dancing with myself. Billy Idol The sky was blue as electricity, with a sunburst in the corner of my view, complete with rays like a kid’s drawing. The temperature was perfect as an early October morning could make it for riding a motorcycle: neither hot nor cold - the porridge was just right. I was somewhere in the Shenandoah National Forest on the border between Virginia and West Virginia, riding a small, Honda dual-sport motorcycle. Blissfully, I was alone, having told my riding companions to forge ahead, wanting neither to be pushed nor compelled to chase. I just wanted to ride. And ride I did: up and down steep, rockstrewn dual-track forest trails, gravel roads, and rutted jeep paths, with an occasional stretch of asphalt for flavor. The little Honda alternately barked and burbled under power and without. Sunlight came and went, maddeningly dappling the trail, making the infernal rocks harder to see. Mostly I just heeded the old dirt rider’s adage “when in doubt, gas it” and kept the little four-stroke on a constant boil to lighten the front end and carry the front wheel over most of the transverse ledges. Rocks ranging from pebbles to bread loaves in size were scattered all over the trail, some dislodged by the riders who preceded me, like dice cast by the hand of God.
Page 5 Thanks to my companions’ desire to ride some more challenging alternative sections and to my leisurely morning departure, I had the trail to myself for long periods of time. Occasionally, I would see the headlight of one of the faster guys in my mirrors and I would stick my leg out in the universal signal to pass me. I wanted no part of an ego-fueled dirt duel that would break the magic spell I was under. Comfortingly, some of the riders passing were clad in the bright green of course marshals, whose job it was to render assistance to those in need and who made it safe for me to ride such remote and challenging terrain by myself. I rarely stopped, and then only momentarily to reset the little manual odometer. On the handlebar was a small plastic box with a five-foot-long rolled strip of paper full of instructions on how to navigate the course. “6.8 RGR (FR95A)” was all I needed to tell me that the next turn would be a right on gravel Forest Road 95A at mile 6.8 - no phone, no GPS, no lines, no lights, and damn few people. The organizer usually put a single paper arrow at major turns, but they were easy to miss and the roll chart was a real comfort. As I reached each milestone, I’d turn the little silver knob to roll the paper from one spool to the other and bring the next turn description into view. And so it went, for mile after mile after mile. Some were easy, allowing my mind to wander as I passed through the bucolic, rugged farms that dot the area. Other miles required my complete concentration to avoid coming to grief on the red and yellow dusty shoals of rocks mixed with red mountain clay. At one point, I was standing on the pegs, rolling down a 14-mile-long stretch of dual track. It wound through deeply-shaded forest, the trail clinging to the steep side of a ridge and consisting of twin ruts separated by kneehigh grass. It was narrow enough that the vegetation on the side of the trail rushed by, brushing my shoulder. Continued on Page 11
