"That's Gonna Leave a Mark..."

Who knew Bill was gonna be so damn fast!?!? Watching the ass end of his Kermit-green KLX250S disappear down the trail -- flicking away the muddy clods he just roosted across my chest -- I realize he might have been blowing smoke up my exhaust pipe when he gave me that whole song and dance about not having been on a dirtbike trail in 30 years. Who do you think you're kiddin', buddy?

Still, I don't think I'll have too much trouble keeping up with him; if nothing else, I know the trail better than he does. I know where I can push it a bit and make up some time. You crest this hill -- not too fast now, 'cause there's a hard right-hander on the other side and it's really hard to turn with your front wheel in the air, not to mention that everything is still wet from that snowstorm we had a week or so ago -- then slide through the left-hander past the big sweet-smelling cedar into a tight section beneath the trees. The trail splits there, in the gloom under the naked winter oaks, only to rejoin again after a hundred feet or so. The left fork is shorter and faster. Bill doesn't know that, though. If he takes the right, I'll definitely have an edge; maybe make up a bit of the time I lost when I let him shoot off ahead of me, not realizing he was going to be so friggin' fast!

There's only one problem: the sun hasn't been under here in ages. That's not just shadow darkening the trail ... that's sticky red gumbo mud! I'm coming in way too fast, sliding the rear end of the CRF in order to square off the turn into the left fork, but the front end is suddenly sliding too. This isn't good. Traction abandons me as that slimy syrup I herewith dub "Oklahoma Red, vintage 2006," stamps null and void on my Pirelli 321's. Knobbies? Where? It seems I'm now on slicks made of rubber colored to match the bricks in my house.

The ground comes up and smacks me a good one. The right foot peg of my CRF delivers a hardy "this'll be a pretty purple color tomorrow" jab to my calf muscle. I slide ten feet or so, plowing a deep, juicy furrow. At least the mud makes for a nice soft landing. My first thought as I'm slopping to a halt, getting peppered by the mud spraying from the still-spinning rear wheel of my prone motorcycle, bubbles burping up around me like the gaseous emanations in some fetid swamp, is this: "At least Bill didn't see me crash, so I'll be spared that embarrassment!"

Then I wipe the mud from my goggles and sit up to find that Bill is likewise just rising from a mud bath. He and his Kawasaki are just 20 yards away, oozing ever deeper into a muddy furrow of their own. We spot each other at the exact same moment and burst into hysterical laughter.

And that's just one brief glimpse into the fun Bill and I, along with a half dozen other friends, as well as at least a hundred other dirtriders, had at CrossTimbers Offroad Park this past Sunday. The event was the Oklahoma Dirt Riders' annual Toys for Tots Poker Run, and if you missed it, feel free to stop reading now and give yourself a good solid kick in the seat of your motocross pants. You missed not only the opportunity for some great riding, but the chance to help out for a worthy cause. Mark it on your calendar for next year now, so you don't forget.

Kids of all ages participated in the Toys for Tots Poker Run ... on bikes large ...

...and small.

Participants ranged in age from dinosaurs like Bill and myself to a little kid perched on the tank of his father's bike. My favorites, of course, are the little guys just getting started on their PeeWee 50's. My face is split by the biggest grin watching those little guys twist the throttle and rocket off with a roostertail and a boisterous "Yeehaa!"

Dirt bikes of every popular brand were to be found in abundance, carving ruts in the soupy Oklahoma Red. There were minibikes. And ATVs. And even a few dualsports.

A rider's card gets punched at one of the checkpoints on the trails. The event is organized and run by volunteers. This happens to be my riding buddy Ed. Nice work, Ed!

A rider drawing his poker hand at the final checkpoint. I drew two pair, Kings over Threes with an Ace kicker, but I was too busy riding and having fun to even hear if I won anything.

The entrance fee was one toy (they filled a very large pickup bed with them!) or a cash donation, and prizes were awarded for things like the best and worst poker hands. Mostly, though, everyone was there to have a good time. Our prize was enjoying the beautiful sunny day on our motos and knowing Santa would pay a visit to kids that might otherwise get nothing for Christmas.

As for Bill and me and that particularly slimy stretch of CrossTimbers trail ... well, neither of us had a camera at the scene of the great gumbo mudslide ... so, technically, without photographic evidence, it never happened. Right?