Where Legends Begin

    ​The summer between seventh and eighth grade, was filled with adventure, excitement and wanderlust.  I went camping, fishing, hiking, and even managed to kick a few things off my bucket list.  One weekend, in particular, shines above the rest; it was the weekend in the Big Hole Valley that I learned to ride a motorcycle.  I had left my hometown of Anaconda, MT on a Friday afternoon, with my friends Brandon and Dakota, as well as Brandon’s dad, Craig.  Craig had known my parents for a few years and Brandon and I bonded over BB guns.  Dakota, our mutual friend and four-wheeler owner, was allowed to tag along.  We loaded up our food and supplies, including Brandon’s 1976 Honda XL 100 motorcycle and Dakota’s four-wheeler.  Packed to the limit in an old white Chevy, we hit the road, destined for adventure, but unsure of what might lie ahead. ​We reached our camping spot at the far end of the Dickey Bridge Campground and discovered that we were right on the river and the beginning of the dirt trail system that winds around the area.  We unloaded the vehicles and began to set up our tent and sleeping gear.  Soon after, we had a fire and the three of us set out to find things to burn.  We quickly came upon a stand of willow trees and immediately we whipped open our knives and began to slice and saw.  After careful selection of our willow, roasting sticks, we began to discuss the best way to harvest and sharpen our new spears.  Talks of cutting technique, blade design and girls, ensued.  Brandon had recently been given a new Kershaw knife that was razor sharp; he discovered its true potential when a slip sliced open his thumb, almost to the bone.  After a few moments of panic and attempts to stop the bleeding, we headed for the camp. Craig decided that we needed to get to the hospital right away but this meant a half-hour drive and leaving all our gear behind.  We asked some of our camp neighbors to watch over our stuff for a few hours and they agreed.  We began the blood-soaked ride back to civilization, occasionally removing the towel to inspect the blade’s handiwork.   Upon our arrival at the hospital, Brandon was looked over and it was decided that a few stitches were in order.  Fueled by equal parts boredom and mischief, Dakota and I decided to try some coffee in the waiting room.  Our first sip of the bitter-black drink left our lips pursed and burnt.  We scrambled for the garbage to remove the abomination from our mouths and thusly decided that more sugar and creamer was in order.  Nine packets of sugar and five creamers later, the devil's nectar was palatable.  Four or five cups of sugar-laden goodness later, Brandon had his stitches and we were ready to roll.  Craig had wanted to spend the night in town but Brandon, stubborn as a bull, decided that we were going back to camp, regardless of the cost.  Once more we piled into the old, white, Chevy and set sail for adventure in the Big Hole Valley.   ​We arrived back at camp late that night and having not eaten since lunch, we inhaled a half dozen chili-dogs, a bag Cool Ranch Doritos and roasted up some s’mores, to cap the evening.  After our fine dessert we climbed in our tents and called it a day.  What a day it was: we burned things, cut down trees and fingers, and even saw a kid crash his bicycle into a tree.  Little did I know that the next sunrise would bring the greatest adventure of my young life.  It would be the starting point of a life lived on the edge of death, flirting with disaster would become commonplace and the crashes, bruises and broken-bikes that would follow, would be beacons of my adolescence.   We rose early and began to plan our day, which involved bacon, motorcycles and little else.  Since Brandon could not ride his motorcycle with a sliced thumb, he had to ride on Dakota’s four-wheeler.  This meant that I got the motorcycle all to myself.  As I walked around the blaze orange beauty, I admired the scratches and dents, the shine of the exhaust and fresh grips upon the bars.  This old girl had seen here fair share of battles with hills, trees, rocks and rookie riders.  This was my Genesis, the beginning of a life on two wheels.  I knew that this was the turning point in my life; from this point on I was a motorcycle rider.  Craig offered to teach me a thing or two about riding as I had never driven a motorcycle with a clutch before.  After only a two-minute eternity, I was allowed to kick the beast over and begin my rite of passage.  I twisted the throttle and all one-hundred cubic centimeters roared, I grabbed the clutch lever and prepared for take-off.  My feet were planted, one on the ground, the other on the foot-peg; my eyes on the roads that lay before me and all the adventure that waited for me in the mountains.  I released the clutch, ever so slowly and the bike began to lurch forward. “Smooth and steady,” I recalled Craig’s words as I began to move faster.  With the clutch now fully released, I began to twist the throttle farther and farther.  As the revs climbed I grabbed for the clutch again and lifted up on the shifter with my left foot.  Second gear was a new beginning, third a revelation and then, as I reached for fourth, a dog leapt into the road, right in front me!  Cursed creature! ​Not one to let my newfound freedom be taken, I swerved and was surprised at how easy the bike was to keep upright. After a loud, “GETOUTTAHERE!” I offered the sole of my boot as a threat of what was to come if this flea-riddled mongrel dared to interrupt my awakening again.  Never again did he bother me, the message was clear. I was a motorcycle-riding, trail-taming, dust-devil-making machine.  With each successful pass on the dirt road, I grew more daring.  Thirty, forty, nearly fifty miles per hour, I had nearly discovered the limit of this particular machine.  My fellow campers however, were not as impressed, they issued paltry warnings; they were worried about trivial things like the safety of their children and their cursed unchained creatures.   Having found the limits of the dirt road, I set out to conquer the elaborate network of trails.  Stumps, roots, branches and small mammals created a whole new list of obstacles and adventures.  Unabated by Creation’s greatest threats, I pressed onwards and upwards, climbing new trails and discovering worlds beyond my wildest dreams.  As I bumped and bounced over the roots of the mighty pines, I felt the tingle of adventure.  Feelings of satisfaction and accomplishment flooded every fiber of my being.  At the crest of every trail, I stopped to survey my domain, another hill had submitted to my teenage glory.  No rock, root or rut could withstand the onslaught of this old orange Honda.  I was Steve McQueen, the king of cool. The world was my oyster, and no power or principality could dream of stopping me, or so I thought.  Craig yelled for us when it was time for dinner, and my adventure was placed on pause. I waited impatiently for my next chance to claim my victory over the mountains and trails of Southwest Montana. ​That weekend I learned something more than how to ride a motorcycle. I learned how easy freedom was to find and just how lucky I was to live in the mountains.  Since then I have ridden many more miles, found new trails, and discovered what it feels like to take a tumble off a bridge.  My bumps, bruises, cuts and burns are battle scars of a young life well lived.  The sights, sounds, smells, and people I have encountered on motorcycles are some of my favorite memories.  The joys and pains of motorcycle repairs after a solid crash and the burn of tired legs when one forgets to check the gas before setting out are cherished friends to me.  No one can take this freedom from me or tell me where I can go. A motorcycle is so much more than just a pile of metal and rubber; it’s a tool of discovery, a vessel of freedom, and machine that brings both terror and elation to those who straddle it.  It has shaped countries and decided battles, brought men together under a common banner and torn people to pieces.  The bashed knuckles and bruised egos are a small price to pay when one gets the throttle open; bills, homework, responsibilities can be forgotten in an instant on the open road.  These brief moments of freedom in its truest form, these small vacations from reality are why we ride.  Anyone who has ridden a motorcycle has found a new, previously unseen slice of life.  Where troubles vanish, cares blur with the passing scenery and for a few minutes, all is in order.  The open road is place of wonder, excitement, fear and faith, and the best seat is on a bike.