"Don't run over your Wingman!"

Danny, my "brutha from a different mutha," Wingman extraordinaire -- in the parking lot, just before we left to ride the Black. Yes, he always looks that maniacal before a ride...

A couple years ago at the annual dualsport rally in Eureka Springs, I left my riding buddy Danny at a gas station, believing him to be one of the headlights strung out behind me (or at least believing that the accepted policy of watching out for the rider behind you meant that someone in the daisy chain of bikes would stop if a rider got dropped off the tail end). To this day, neither Danny nor several others who know about the incident have let me forget it, constantly subjecting me to the advice not to ever "leave my Wingman." I hear it every time we gather up for one of our group rides. And, of course, Danny's always quick to pick on me about it.

"Don't ever leave your Wingman!"

I don't think I'll be hearing that anymore. If there's one thing worse than leaving your Wingman behind ... it's running over him. Especially if you put him in the emergency room with three broken ribs.

How the hell, you might ask, did I ever manage to do that? Well, pull up a chair and let me tell you all about it. Gather 'round here in front, though, cause I can't turn my neck to the side.

You've heard of the new trail at CrossTimbers, of course: the Black Trail. Sounds ominous, doesn't it? Expert-level. Double Diamond. Make out a Last Will and Testament before you try it ... that sorta thing. Danny got it in his head that we needed to give it a go Monday afternoon after work. (Note right from the start how I'm going to place all the blame for this (mis)adventure on him.) Silly bugger didn't even want to wait until his WR450 was back together (the weekend before last, he ripped out a rear spoke on a root while we were riding the Red Trail at CrossTimbers); he was just gonna tough it out on his DR-Z400 (a much heavier, lighter-sprung machine). Madness, I tell ya! Madness!

I wanted to ride my l'il 230 for my first attempt at the Black Trail, but knew I'd get picked on for that. Against my better judgment, I went ahead and took my CRF450X, affectionately referred to as "the beast." I don't remember the context, but at some point during the day as we were discussing our chances of survival, I was dumb enough to say to Danny, "You know I'd probably ride right off the edge of the Grand Canyon behind ya, buddy." Am I nucking futs?!?! What was I thinking? Little did I know how apropos that statement would be.

Anyway, after work, I tossed the 450X in the back of the truck and headed for CrossTimbers. I got there to find the place mostly deserted, which is the norm on a weekday afternoon. I had time to unload my bike and gear up while waiting for Danny. I'm always early. Danny's always late. What else is new? Danny finally arrived, having ridden his street-legal DR-Z400 instead of hauling it. We got mounted up and hit the trails.

The new Black Trail opens up off the very back end of the Red Trail, so you have a bit of riding to do just to get out to it. At some point on the way out there, I stalled my bike and had a hard time getting it restarted. I had this trouble the weekend before last too, as if the battery was too weak to turn over the engine, but that doesn't make much sense because the battery's fairly new and I always keep it on a tender. I had to kick start it, and the 450 is a bugger to kick. I finally got it running again, though.

Aside from all the dire warnings about its difficulty, I've heard conflicting stories about the length of the Black Trail: it's 17 miles long; it's 20 miles long; it doesn't matter how long it is cause you'll die before you reach the end anyway. I honestly couldn't tell you exactly how long it is because Danny and I only saw the first quarter mile or so. The first nasty obstacle -- there to separate the men from the boys, I suppose -- is what took us out. There's a sign which we didn't pause to read at the gate for the Black Trail. Something to the effect of it being a trail for "expert riders only." Maybe we should have read it?

So, with Danny in the lead, we took off down the Black. The first section is fairly tight woods stuff. The trail's brand new, so there are no ruts, no berms. At this stage, it reminded me of the Red Trail when it was first opened. Nothing to it. I was feeling good. I was keeping up with Danny through that first section, despite the fact that he's generally a faster rider, especially in the tight stuff. The trail climbed a little rise, then plunged down into a gully. Nice dropoff, maybe 15 feet mostly straight down. I was careful not to brake or haul in the clutch, letting the motor carry me down the dropoff. Nothing to it. Almost seemed I knew what I was doing (famous last words!). Danny shot up the other side of the gully and I accelerated after him. Steep hills also still give me pause, but I was on the pegs, weight forward, and I had no trouble. We shot through a few more trees. The trail wound around and up another rise and I saw Danny, just thirty feet ahead of me, plunge down another dropoff. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. Poof!

I didn't even hesitate. There was a bit of a rise to the edge of this dropoff, so you couldn't really see anything about it until you were past the point of no return. As my front tire crossed the edge and I was shifting my weight as far back as possible to ride it out, I noticed another rider on the far bank waving. "Yeah, hey there, buddy. How's it going? Great day to be riding, eh?" My front wheel plunged down. I looked down to see where I was going.

Holy shit, this thing is like 25 or 30 feet straight effing down -- and Danny is all wadded up at the bottom!!!

I think I yelled his name. (He says I yelled "Fuck!" but I think that was actually him when he saw 250 pounds of CRF450X and 180 pounds of bahwolf coming straight down at him.) "Danny!" This was meant to be "Danny, get the fuck outta the way!" But all I had time for was his name. It's not like you can steer when you're free-falling down a 25 foot near-vertical creek bank. Danny was stretched out lengthwise right across the path at the bottom, like some Damsel in Distress tied across the proverbial railroad tracks. Dudley Do-Right is coming, buddy, but it ain't to save you from the train. He's bringing the train with him!

I don't know that he moved at all, except maybe to throw up his arms. My front tire caught him right across the upper rib cage. The bike endo'ed, tossing me head over heels. Fortunately, I missed the concrete parking lot thingamajigs laid across the creek (placed there to keep bikes from eroding the creek bottom and ultimately making the crossing impassable). I did, however, come down right on top of my head. The creek's about a foot deep here, maybe a little more. I plunged underwater and my head came to a nice solid stop on the rocky creek bottom, pummeled in good by the 180 pounds of bahwolf that I mentioned earlier. My neck was jammed down to about my asshole (the wife says my head is mostly up there anyway). I swear I'm probably an inch shorter now. I'd later discover that the force was strong enough to break the visor off my dirtbike helmet and actually bruised my head clean through the helmet. Without the helmet, I've no doubt my skull would have been fractured. It felt like I hung there a minute (that whole time dilation thing), doing a headstand in the water, watching fish swim by my submerged head, checking out their reflection in my mirrored Thor goggles, their little fish mouths O'ing "WTF, dude?" Then I fell over like a lumberjacked tree, submerging my sorry ass completely in the cold creek. I bobbed around for a second or two (I distinctly remember looking down at my toes as my boots filled with water), long enough to realize I wasn't dead anyway. Then I flopped over on my belly and pollywogged through the water to my riding buddy who still hadn't moved and was now groaning and wheezing like the wimpy kid in dodgeball who'd just caught one in the nuts. My biggest fear was that the bike might have caught him across the neck.

The rear wheel of the CRF was kinda laying up against his head and shoulder, so I grabbed it and slung it aside. Easiest I've ever moved that bike, lemme tell you. Then I knelt and asked him where he was hurt. He didn't say; he just moaned some more and kinda tried to sit up, and I convinced him to stay where he was. I asked him again where he was hurting, where the bike had hit him. He motioned to his upper ribcage. I pulled off my helmet and tossed it aside, then did the same for him.

After all the drama. We've moved Danny's bike to the other side of the creek and here I am trying to kick start my CRF450X. The Hill of Doom is behind me. Despite his pain, Danny took the time to pull out his camera and capture the moment. Remember, it's always steeper than it looks in the photo...

With the help of the rider who'd been trying to wave me off, we eventually got Danny and his bike moved to the other side of the creek. Then I pulled my bike out of the water and tried to get it started. The starter button yielded absolutely nothing, so I had to resort to kicking again. I think there must be something wrong with the starter motor itself, the switch, or the wiring -- something to sort out later. Last thing I did to the bike was install a Trailtech computer, so maybe I screwed something up in the wiring.

Danny was hurting pretty bad, but there was nothing to do but ride out of there. Several riders stopped to help, mostly leading/escorting us out (though it seemed at times they were taking us in circles -- Danny and I both commented later that we think we could have just ridden out of there faster sticking to the established trails). They led him down several obstacles that I thought were a bit much in his present condition. At one point, we had to drop into a ditch from about 8 feet up and one of the other guys rode Danny's DR-Z down for him. I was starting to hurt too, both my neck and my left wrist. Nothing too bad, though. I knew Danny was in a lot more pain. He's tough, though.

We eventually got out to the parking lot. Got both bikes loaded on my truck -- again, with the help of several other riders. Thanks to those guys for interrupting their own fun to help us out. That's the way riders are, though. Danny and I would have done the same for any of them. One time last year, in fact, we'd helped escort a guy with a broken leg back to the parking lot. Thanks though, guys, we really appreciate all the help.

I hauled Danny -- still moaning and groaning -- to an urgent care clinic. We called his wife, Kim, and got her en route. They x-rayed him at the clinic and thought it serious enough to send him on to a real emergency room, where they took some better shots of his ribs and declared three of them broken. Get ye to bed old man. Your riding days are over for a while. (Soon as Kim emails the x-rays to me, I'll see about adding them to this blog entry.)

I went home and immediately unloaded both our bikes, knowing I wouldn't be able to the next morning. Sure enough, my neck is now too sore to turn my head from side to side. It had me tossing and turning most of the night.

Worst thing? I told Danny, "Man, I had that fucking dropoff nailed! I was there. I was through it!" Scariest damn dropoff I've ever taken and I had it. If I hadn't hit him, I woulda sailed right across that creek and up the other side. I was on line. I was in control. Dammit, I had it!

"Soon as I'm better," says Danny, "we're going back."

No freakin' way! I've seen the damn thing from the other side now. Only way I went down it once was because I just plunged right over the edge without taking the time to look or think about it. There's no way I could ride over that edge again, knowing what it looks like now, knowing what happened the first time. Yeah, I'm a big fraidy-cat.

But ... "We're going back," says Danny. And I didn't see any way around that obstacle.

Danny's not sure how he crashed. He thinks he probably went over the edge, saw how steep it was, and panicked. Probably grabbed a big handful of front brake and the front slid out from under him. He says he remembers saying, "Oh shit!" Says that after his crash he remembers thinking that he maybe oughta get up and move out of the way ... just before that big red Honda came plunging down the hill at him.

I feel terrible about hitting him, of course -- even though he's told me a dozen times that there was nothing I could do. He can say that all he wants, but I sure wish I'd stopped at the edge of that dropoff and looked down first. I'm wondering if Kim is gonna let him come out to play with me after this. "You tell that Hopkins boy that you're not allowed to play with him anymore, Danny!"

Let this be a lesson to the rest of you. Never, ever, ever run over your Wingman!

Destination: Crossbar Ranch Offroad Park, Davis, Oklahoma

Sunday, 30 Sep 07. (All photos compliments of Danny and Kim Holloway, cause I was too busy trying to remain vertical!)

So James Pratt calls me one Friday evening and says, "Hey, Sunday morning, some of us are heading down to Crossbar Ranch in Davis. You wanna bring that badass new 450 of yours and come along?"

The question, of course, was rhetorical. James knows good and well it doesn't take much to get me out on one of my bikes. Crossbar Ranch? Never been there. That was reason enough to say yes. The place was supposed to be huge (6,500 acres!). It had once been a working ranch, but was now owned by the city of Davis and had just survived an attempted buyout which would have shut down the offroad park. Oklahoma dirtbikers had descended on the city council meeting in droves a month or so back. Believe it or not, the city council had listened to them and voted not to sell. Amazing!

Sunday being Danny's birthday, I thought, "What better way to spend your birthday than riding your dirtbike!" so I gave him a call. His wife Kim decided to join us. Danny and I convinced her to ride my CRF230F instead of her street-legal Suzuki DR200. The CRF's suspension is better and there are no signals and lights and whatnot to break. I don't think she ever did get comfortable on it, though. I think she was worried about throwing it down and damaging it or something. I kept telling her not to worry. I've taken about a thousand soil samples with that bike; there was no way she was gonna hurt it.

Danny would be on his WR450, and I'd be on my new CRF450X, which I'm still trying to get accustomed to. After a year and a half of wringing the snot out of the little 230, learning to ride the powerful 450 is a whole new ballgame. Riding the 450, I alternate between sheer terror and maniacal giggling. The funny thing is that the two reactions are pretty much indistinguishable from one another. Ha!

Sunday morning, the Birthday Boy swung by my place with his trailer and WR in tow. We strapped on my two Hondas -- and we were off!

Crossbar Ranch is in the heart of the Arbuckle Mountains, about 90 miles south of OKC. We arrived to find Brad, the guy who runs the place, leaving in his truck on a gas run or something. "Drive 3 miles south until you see the American flag," he said. "Park and wait for me there. I'll be right back."

So we tried to follow his directions -- honest. This place is really out in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Where the hell's that flag? A local guy in a truck passed us and we flagged him down to ask where the parking area was located. "Turn right and you'll find it." So we did. Up and down the hills ... rocks and rocks and more rocks ... bumpy two-track just barely wide enough for Danny's truck (and my arm, hanging out the window, got smacked a time or two with pine branches) ... until eventually we decided the local had played a nasty trick on us. This couldn't be the right way. There was no room to turn around the truck and trailer, but somehow Danny managed it. I thought for sure we were going to have to unhook the trailer, but Danny knows what he's doing. He had to drop the truck into 4wd, though, and hop a few boulders, but he got turned around.

We drove back to the main road and continued south, all the while expecting to find a tall pole and a big American flag snapping in the breeze. Eventually ... hell, that looks like a parking area. After all, there's even a port-a-potty. We stopped. A few minutes later, Brad comes by in his truck and starts fussing at us, wanting to know what the hell we were doing stopping when he'd given us very clear directions to drive "exactly 3 miles, no more, no less, until you see the flags!" Damn city folk, can't follow simple directions! We explained about the guy in the truck who'd sent us off on a wild goose chase. "What the hell are you doing listening to the locals?!?!" he admonished. "You'd never find your way back to civilization listening to them. It's a wonder you're not hopelessly lost right now, waiting on me to send out a search party!" He chewed us out for a few more minutes, then finally sent us on to the parking area with our tails between our legs.

Arriving, we saw two tiny American flags (the kinda flags you glue to Popsicle sticks!) flapping from a nondescript sign about the size of a postcard. Danny actually thought it'd be funny to ask the guy where the flags were. I thought Brad was gonna burst a blood vessel or something! I think this was about the time he told Danny to tell me to slow down in the parking area. We had unloaded the bikes and I was zooming back and forth across the field at a high rate of speed, popping wheelies. Just warming up my bike, doncha know. The parking area was the size of three football fields and was occupied by a whole 3 vehicles, but Barney -- which was the name Danny gave him and forever more shall he be known -- was worried I'd hit something.

Anyway, we paid our $10 each (actually, Danny paid for all three of us -- what a sweetheart to pay my way on his birthday!) and signed waivers saying we wouldn't sue if we fell off our bikes and broke a bone or something. Then Barney showed us a map of the trails. The map was pretty straightforward, but Barney commenced to scribbling all over it with a black pen, crossing out some sections of trail and adding in others. His directions were so cryptic and convoluted that we were totally lost. Going over the map and the rules, he must have told us ten times not to ride on the road. "We closed this section, so you have to turn left by the split cedar tree. Go straight until you see the cactus that looks like Jesus. You absolutely cannot ride on the road, but I mowed a section beside the road over here, so follow the mowed section, then cross the road by the big rock that looks like an elephant's ass and go past the fence post with the blue ribbon ..." and on and on. (I didn't mention that "crossing the road" would mean that we were actually on the road!).

The scribbled-upon Crossbar map, guaranteed to confuse the hell outta city folk!

Eventually, we gathered that despite its size there were really just two loops to Crossbar Ranch. The easy loop (11.5 miles, 45 minutes of riding according to Barney) and the hard loop (21.5 miles, 3 to 5 hours). We decided to try the easy loop first.

About this time Adam Pratt and Phil Templeton showed up. Seems James wasn't going to make it. Adam and Phil are both great riders. Phil used to race, and Adam ... well, Adam is graced with a lot of natural talent and the fearless bravado of youth. I've eaten both their dust at CrossTimbers before; can't even begin to hang with them on my best day.

Danny and Kim.

Danny, Kim, and I tried to get a head start on them on the easy trail, but it didn't take long at all before they blasted past us. I was running out in front of Danny and Kim, forging ahead and then stopping and waiting for them to catch up. The trail was littered with a lot of large rocks, but you could generally work your way through them, occasionally riding over the rocks for short stretches. The scenery was nice. There was a lot of cactus: prickly pear and these purple flowers that kinda reminded me of thistles, but they were hard and prickly. One smacked me a good one on the arm in passing and hurt like hell. You don't really want to fall at Crossbar, because you're guaranteed to land on something that's gonna hurt, be it rocks or cactus or rattlesnakes.

I was running the new fender packs on the 450 -- front and rear. The front was pretty stable, but I wasn't sure the rear pack would stay on the bike, even though I'd Dremel'd out some little notches in the fender for the fasteners to grab. I'd told Danny to watch the trail behind me just in case one of them separated from the bike. Sure enough, the rear pack didn't stay on. (I've since bolted it to the fender so that it can't possibly come off.) Danny thought it was pretty funny to come across the pack lying in the middle of the trail. Naturally, his camera came out: payback for me making fun of him in Mexico earlier this year when he'd lost his tool tube on the trail.

Danny finds my fender pack on the trail.

We all did good on the easy trail. I was having a blast on the 450, really opening it up through some of the wide open sections. Felt like I knew what I was doing. Little did I know how humbling the remainder of the day would be. It was time, you see, to ride the difficult loop. Kim opted to remain behind at the truck while the four of us went to see how difficult it was. I wish I'd stayed behind with her!

Kim on my CRF230F, riding like a pro.

I'd be lying if I didn't confess that the northern loop at Crossbar put an ass-whuppin' on me. I think I fell four or five times, always on the rocks. This is most definitely not an easy trail. There are a lot of steep sections that are nothing but rocks. Large rocks. The only way to climb that stuff is balls-to-the-wall, on the pegs, weight over the bars. I lacked commitment. I lacked cojones. The rocks -- let's just call them boulders -- would bounce my front end this way and that until eventually I lost all momentum. Inevitably one foot or the other would search for the ground, find nothing but air, and over I would go. Crunch! All my falls were easy tip-overs, a sure sign that you just aren't committing to the terrain.

On short stretches of rocky terrain like this, you generally have time to recover when the bike gets out of shape, but the rocks here were endless. The only way to ride it is to have big ones, maintain enough momentum to sail over that stuff. The 450 has the right stuff. It just needed a better, more experienced rider.

Every time I think I know what I'm doing on a dirtbike, a nice humbling trail like this one reminds me I've only been doing this for a couple years and that I'm a 47-year-old, out-of-shape engineer-slash-writer.

CRF on the ground. Bahwolf on his last legs. Insert all the usual business about it being much steeper than it looks and so forth.

After some of the steep climbs or treacherous downhill sections, Phil and Adam would stop and wait on Danny and me to catch up (Danny can't keep up with those two either, but mostly he was hanging back with me that day -- even helping to pick up my bike on more than one occasion). When we'd catch up, Phil (who'd ridden here before and actually helped to cut some of the trail) would assure me that the trail was gonna get a whole lot easier just around the next bend. Every time he said this, the damn trail would get harder!

Eventually, the northern trail ("red trail" on Barney's map) crossed a road. I don't even think we were halfway through the loop. Barney was there in his truck and asked us how we were doing. "Where's the shortcut outta here?" I asked. I wasn't kidding. I confessed that I was done. We'd already been on this trail for like 2 hours and it was kicking my ass. Danny looked a little disappointed, but agreed to bail out with me. Though it was against the rules, Barney let us ride on the road back to the parking area, but he insisted on leading us in his truck. 6,500 acres of emptiness, but Barney's afraid we're gonna disobey the 15 mph speed limit or something.

Me, Adam, and Phil. Adam's giving Crossbar the big thumbs up. He and Phil sailed through treacherous terrain that had me flopping about on the ground like a polliwog washed ashore.

When we rejoined Kim at the truck, we both told her she should be glad she hadn't gone with us. I told her that I wished I had stayed with her! I think she wanted to make another run at the southern loop, but once he was off his bike Danny discovered he was very sore. So sore, in fact, that I had to load the bikes on the trailer, as Danny could barely move. I think this might be in part due to a fall he took. He was walking back down a steep hill, you see, to help me when he slipped and fell on his ass. Sorry, buddy. But at least I wasn't carrying a camera and didn't take a picture of it. Ha!

Danny and his WR450.

Phil does the "I'm the King of the World!" thing while Adam wonders if I'll ever catch up.

With the bikes loaded, we got the hell outta there. On the way home, we stopped at a Mexican restaurant in Norman and I bought Danny a birthday dinner. Least I could do for my brutha-from-a-different-mutha.

We will be going back. Danny and I have already discussed it. I left something there, ya see. A bit of pride or something. I gotta go back. Maybe that trail will kick my ass again. If it does, I'll just be going back again. Eventually, I'll beat it. Count on it.

Oh, I asked Phil -- when I saw him at Clayton last weekend for the Oklahoma Dualsport Rally -- if that trail ever did get any easier. "Brian," he said, "you can be glad you quit when you did, because it only got harder." It even took down Phil and Adam before it was all said and done.

Damn.

See You At Clayton Lake State Park!

This weekend is the annual Oklahoma Dualsport Rally, hosted by James Pratt and his family at Clayton Lake State Park in southeastern Oklahoma. Always a great time!

A few last minute tweaks to the CRF450X and we're ready to go:

A RAM mount on the handlebars allows me to take my GPS, so that I can hopefully avoid getting lost -- like I did last year! I hope to eventually upgrade to one of the new Garmin Zumo GPSs, but for now my old Magellan at least lets me know where I am.

A numberplate bag gives me a bit more space for carrying tools, snacks, and schtuff (though it does hide my snarling wolf decal).

You can never have too many stickers advertising your website!

And a warning sticker to remind me the 450 is definitely NOT my 230 wouldn't hurt either, especially when I think about how many times I got thrown off at Crossbar Ranch a couple weekends ago! (That story's coming, as is the second half of the "Chicken Run" story and the 9-day ride I just came back from ... I am just really far behind on stuff right now!)

Hope to see everyone at Clayton!

Still More Tweaking of the 450X...

Check out my new weapon ... weapon of choice (with all due credit to Fat Boy Slim).

Customizing of my CRF450X continues!

To be safe on pavement (note I didn't say "legal"), I need a brake light. The CRF450X has a tail light, but it doesn't function as a brake light. I solved the problem by installing a hydraulic switch from K&S Technologies. It's a trick little bit of technology, replacing the banjo bolt on the rear brake line. Pump the brake pedal and hydraulic pressure throws the switch -- simple! Installation was easy, but I did have to bleed my brake line afterward.

Hydraulic Brake Light Switch.

Of course, the hydraulic switch has to actuate something. I bought a two stage LED light designed as a drop-in replacement for the CRF's petite little tail light (much more aesthetic than cluttering up the rear end with a huge bulb assembly). It's made by a Japanese company, Dirt Freak (like most of these things, though, I ordered it through CRFs Only). Not only is the new light assembly considerably brighter (8 hyper bright LEDs replacing the stock 4), but the LEDs are two stage, meaning they double in intensity for braking. Installation was easy ... after I figured out that the Honda goobers used black wiring for 12 VDC. Yeah, I wired it backwards the first time, 'cause everyone knows black is ground. Dweeee ... With an incandescent bulb, it wouldn't have mattered, but LEDs are forward biased, of course. (Sorry, my electrical engineering degree is showing.)

Anyway, I now have a brake light.

CRF's Only, your one stop for all things CRF. It's hard getting a free decal out of them, though...

I was having trouble muscling the 450 around at a standstill. With the 230 -- and most dirtbikes -- it's pretty easy to grab near the rear fender and hoist the ass end of the bike around, whether it's to put the bike on a stand or shove it against the wall of my overcrowded garage or to get it situated in the back of my pickemup truck. The 450's subframe doesn't extend back beneath the rear fender, though (Honda shaved off a few pounds in order to be more competitive, I'm sure), so every time I would muscle it around, it felt like I was putting too much stress on the plastic fender. Solution? The Tugger! Now I just grab the strap and heave the rear end of the bike wherever I want it. They make a strap for the front, too -- convenient for dragging your bike out of a bog, I bet! -- but I think I'm set with this one for now.

The Tugger.

The Tugger's nothing more than a nylon strap, so you could probably make your own pretty easily, but you'd need to come up with the nifty aluminum mounting hardware.

The high-tech forks on the 450 are supposed to have excess air pressure bled off periodically -- before every race, it says in the competition handbook that came with the bike. (Where this pressure comes from in a closed system is beyond me. Electronics I know, but fluid dynamics...?) Bleeding this fork pressure is kind of a pain, requiring that the front end of the bike be unloaded and a screw at the top of each fork be backed out. System Tech Racing makes these cool little push-button valves that replace the screws, rendering the operation tool-free. They even come in Honda Red.

Stock pain-in-the-butt screw for bleeding off fork pressure.

Fixed!

Needless to say, there's not a whole lot of room to carry things on a dirtbike, but I need a few key items to make tire repairs out in the boonies. I couldn't decide between the fender packs made by MSR Racing or Moose Racing, so I ordered one of each. Some people only carry a 21-inch tube; if they have a rear flat, they cram the 21-incher into their 18-inch rear tire. That's okay, but I always figure if I'm going to the trouble of changing out the tube, I don't want to have to do it all over again later to get the right size tube in there. Crammed into an 18-inch tire, the 21-inch tube's gonna have some folds in it, and I've found that tubes rub and wear along such folds. In other words, if you're smart you're not gonna leave the wrong tube in there forever. I'd rather put the right one in to begin with, which means carrying two spare tubes on the bike.

Moose Racing Fender Pack.

Buying both fender packs actually worked out rather well, as the MSR model was wider and fit the rear fender of the CRF better, whereas the Moose model was perfect for the front fender. I got lucky. Both bags seem equally well made. Only some rough trail riding will answer the question of how well they stay in place. I've seen riders lose such bags; worse, I've seen bags get tossed into wheels and chains, causing accidents. My front bag seems totally secure, but to make sure the rear stays on, I think I'm going to need to do a little Dremel work on my fender.

MSR Fender Pack.

Of course, carrying tubes is useless if you can't break down your tire. I didn't want to carry both tire irons and axle wrenches on the bike, so I opted for Blue Ridge Racing's T-7 Tire Tools in 22 and 32 millimeter sizes to fit the CRF. Wrapped in a rag so they won't rattle and drive me nuts, they fit in the MSR fender pack with the spare tube. Add a couple small wrenches for the CRF's pinch bolts and rim locks, a couple CO2 cartridges, and an inflation gizmo swiped out of my Progressive Suspension tire repair kit, and I'm set. These items also fit (with room to spare) in the MSR fender bag. (Nice thing about the MSR bag is its size. With a 21-inch heavy duty tube, the Moose bag is packed to the gills.) I'll probably toss in a patch kit as well for those truly exasperating rides with multiple flats.

BRR's nifty iron-wrench combos, CO2 cartridges from Moose Racing, and a refilling tool taken from the tire repair kit I carry on my other bikes.

Since the 450X has the magic starter button, I need a pigtail to connect my Battery Tender and keep things nicely charged. This is actually one of the first things I did to the bike, but I'm just now getting around to documenting it.

Pigtail for keeping the battery topped off.

Last item for this blog entry, I wanted to try these filter skins from PC Racing. They come in a 3-pack. Clever idea, works like a condom for your air filter. You oil these up and slip one over your air filter. Carry the backups in the ziplock baggy and when your air filter's dirty, replace the used skin with a clean one. When all three are dirty, just clean them up and prep them for the next ride. They should both extend my range and increase the life of the 450's air filter.

Filter Skins.

I'm almost done prepping the 450 to be my ultimate offroad weapon. I'd like to replace the plastic guards on the front and rear brake disks with something more substantial. And I'd really like to install a Trail Tech Computer. And maybe one of those bags that hangs on the number plate for stashing snacks, rain gear, my camera, etc. And maybe an aftermarket gas tank with a larger capacity. And maybe ... Heh heh.

CRF450X Tweaking: More Bits and Bobs

Between cleaning up my muddy gear and tearing down the BMW so that I can scour the Kansas muck from every nook and cranny, I sneak across the garage and wrench on the new CRF450X every now and again. Call it attention deficit disorder.

Here are a few more 450X bits and bobs offered up to the gods Protection and Preservation.

Before

If you saw the photo of the mud packed under the countershaft sprocket cover of my Beemer, you understand the problem I'm trying to correct here. The fragile and mostly enclosed plastic bauble above has got to go...

After

This trick bit of red-anodized aluminum ("aluminium" for you Brits) is from Hammerhead Designs. It's really billed as a case guard, more so than a sprocket cover. Its purpose is to protect your engine casing in the unlikely event of your chain letting go and whipping forward with several thousand RPMs worth of case-holing force. There's certainly no space for any crapola from Kansas to pack up here, and as long as I don't ride barefoot, I shouldn't have to worry about my sprocket and chain dicing off one of my toes.

Before

The master cylinder for the CRF's rear brake ... totally exposed.

Problem Solved!

This stout, nicely designed plate is from Works Connection. Perfect fit. Nothing short of a round from my .357 magnum is gonna get through.

Before

This cheesy white plastic thing is intended to protect the rear brake caliper. I've read in the forums at CRFs Only and Thumper Talk where it's been known to crack/break just from normal riding, let alone a get-off. Come on, Honda, you can do better...

Fixed!

Another nice piece from Works Connection to the rescue.

Stay tuned ... there'll probably be more.

CRF450X Customizing Continues...

Okay, back to fortifying the CRF450X against the rigors of the trail, my penchant for riding over my head and falling off the bike, and the cruel vendetta Mistress Fate seems to have lobbied against me.

Next order of business is those flimsy plastic things Honda insults our intelligence by calling radiator guards. Biggest problem with the stock guards is not that a rock could easily pummel right through the little plastic fins (although that's highly likely!), but that there is virtually no support against impact. The radiators essentially attach on their inboard side to the bike's downtube and the outboard side just hangs by nothing more than one small bolt attached to the shrouds, which are also plastic and offer no protection against impact. As already mentioned, I fell my very first outing on the 450X. As luck would have it, the left radiator came down on high ground (the ridge between the two deep ruts that had thrown me) such that the shroud and the radiator absorbed the brunt of the impact. The result is that my left radiator isn't exactly square anymore. It looks kinda like Hulk Hogan took it in his hands and gave it a nice twist. A decent set of guards with a third attachment point could have prevented the damage.

Stock radiator guards, if you can call them that ... just flimsy plastic.

I did some research and came to the conclusion that some of the better aftermarket guards were the ones manufactured by Flatland Racing. Also, my buddy Cricket recommended them; he's got them on his KTM 450EXC. I have lots of other friends who ride their DR-Z400's, WR450's, and so on with nothing more than the stock setup, and so far their radiators seem to be doing okay (I'm not going so far as to say their radiators aren't tweaked from get-offs, though), but I think they've just been lucky. All it takes is falling just right and you're in a world of hurt.

Installation only took about an hour, despite some fitting problems caused by my out-of-spec left radiator. I'm quite pleased with them. They seem like what should have been on the bike to begin with. (Are you listening Honda?) I really wish I had installed them before I ever took the bike offroad.

Flatland Racing radiator guards ... you can see how the guard comes back around behind the radiator and mounts to the frame of the bike, providing that all important support against impact.

Not much is getting through these puppies!

Okay, radiator problem addressed. Might have added a few more pounds to the bike, but I swear I'm going to go on a diet soon. Ha!

Next thing on the agenda is protecting the bike's brake and clutch lever ... and my hands. Can't even tell you how many times I've whacked trees in passing on the tighter trails through the woods. Without handguards, I would have surely broken several fingers by now. And the levers are usually the first things to snap in a fall.

I've been pleased with the Emgo handguards on my other bike, but I wanted to try something different on the 450, something with a bit more bling. The Acerbis (say "Ah-cher-bee") Rally II guards you see below seemed to fit the bill. Unfortunately, I didn't read the catalog description closely enough. I thought the primary guard was metal, like other guards I've used. These are 100% plastic, though. Acerbis boasts, "Lighter weight with equivalent strength!" Color me skeptical. I'm too lazy to send them back, so we'll see how well they hold up. I just can't imagine them absorbing the same impact as the aluminum guards, though. Time will tell.

Acerbis Rally II handguards ... stylin'!

Hands are a terrible thing to waste...

Since I plan to sneak around a bit (illegally) on pavement (generally just to get from one trailhead to another) I bought some cheap Acerbis mirrors so I could watch for Johnny Law coming up behind me. We'll see how well these hold up, too. They kinda fold down out of the way for offroad riding, but sometimes if they're angled just right, you can blind your buddies on the trail after you pass them. Send them crashing off into the bushes! Always great fun!

Acerbis mirror.

Last thing for this blog entry (of course there'll be more another day!) is to protect my fork seals. The CRF450X has lower guards (which really need some cool stickers to cover all that blah white plastic!) to protect its inverted forks, but there's still a lot of dirt and dust that accumulates on the fork tubes and eventually eats away at the seals. Best to go ahead and hide those babies from the environment. These are Dirt Skins. They go on easy and come in many colors, including Honda red.

Unprotected fork seals.

Dirt Skins. Kinda like safe sex.

Stay tuned. I'm not done.

If you're wondering ... Yes, I will eventually get out and ride the damn thing! First, however, the Beemer and I are off to the Flint Hills Stampede, a dualsport rally in Kansas. My buddies Danny and Chris will be going with me. Maybe we'll see you there...?

I is for Impenetrable...

Okay, so I'm busy making my new CRF450X mine; that is to say, customizing it to suit my needs. First thing is to protect my investment. Those radiators are vulnerable; in fact, I've already tweaked the left one in my very first fall -- Dammit! We'll address that weakness post haste with some radiator guards.

But first: the most vulnerable part of any offroad motorcycle (offroad vehicle for that matter) is the underbelly. Frankly, I think Honda should be ashamed for selling the damn thing with nothing more than a fragile vinyl sheet and a couple wimpy plastic wings protecting the sump. I mean this is their flagship offroader, not a bargain basement entry-level bike. This isn't protection. It's like a gazelle just rolling over for the Tiger and saying, "Go ahead, rip my stomach open and feast on my giblets, Mister Puddy-tat."

Stock skid plate, such as it is.

See what I mean?

I researched skid plates/sump guards/belly pans -- whatever you want to call them -- and decided the toughest on the market was from Works Connection. It was also the most expensive of the options I looked at, but, hey, were you listening when I said this was the most vulnerable part of an offroad bike? The guard arrived super fast from CRFs Only, a great place for all things CRF, and I installed it in less than 30 minutes. Fit and finish are excellent. Everything lined up great (not always true with aftermarket parts!).

Let me tell you, this is a damn impressive piece of hardware. Godzilla himself couldn't rip through this sucker! Yes, it probably added a few pounds to my bike, but I think it's worth it. Bring on the rocks around Clayton Lake; I'm ready!





As the CRF450X and I continue to prepare for true offroad mayhem, I'll post more. Stay tuned!

(And, yeah, I know I still owe everyone the second half of the "Chicken Run" ride report. It's coming. Promise!)

The New Soil Sampler: FAQs

So I've had a few questions via email...

First, of course, was "What about your l'il 230? Are you getting rid of it? Didn't you just mount new tires on it?"

My garage door only seems to swing one way. Bikes keep moving in, but none of them seem to be moving out. Much as I'm dreading the day, that's gonna have to change eventually, as I'm running out of garage space. For the moment, though, the CRF230F isn't going anywhere. I still enjoy riding it (it's such a great bike on the tight trails through the woods and so much fun to just wring the absolute snot out of it without having to worry about things getting out of hand) and I'd also like to keep it as a loaner and maybe for my daughter if she ever gets to be tall enough to ride it. And, yeah, I did just put new tires on it ... that was before I ran across the phenomenal deal on the 450. I actually think the Maxxis tires I just put on the 230 are better than the Dunlops that came stock on the 450 ... but, no, I'm not going to all the trouble of switching them around.

"It doesn't really look any bigger than your 230...?

Aw, come on. Check out the photo of the two of them side by side. Big difference!

"Why isn't there a wolf on the number plate?"

Fixed!

"Why didn't you bring it into your living room for the first night?"

I was too anxious to get it out and get it dirty. Once it was dirty ... well, the wife's tolerance only goes so far. Just gonna have to forgo that old tradition with this one, I guess.

"What are your first impressions of the 450?"

Massive power first of all. It comes on fast and strong from the very bottom. And this is in stock form, without me opening up the intake and exhaust, defeating all the emissions crapola, and rejetting the carb. Suspension seems great. I'll know more as I ride it more and start tweaking the settings to suit my riding style and preferences. It definitely soaks up/sails right over rough terrain that had my 230 all out of shape. Brakes are great, but coming from the crappy brakes on the 230, anything would be an improvement. Steering is fantastic, which is one of the things all the professional reviewers have said about the bike. If you can control that throttle, it inspires a lot of confidence right off the bat -- at least on wide open trails. Deep in the trees, I was sweating bullets.

"Are you rich?"

No, just tremendously, hopelessly in debt. It's the American way.

"Are you spoiled rotten?"

Oh yeah. Remember, though, he who dies with the most toys (alternately: scars) wins. I'm not even leading the race yet, but I am working on it!

Breaking it in Right!

So this morning, I made a trip to the new Honda dealership in Shawnee, OK and flat out stole a brand new CRF450X from them. Silly buggers lost money on this deal, lemme tell ya. $5,388! (MSRP is $7,200.) I still can't believe it. It's a brand spanking new 2006 model. Sure, the 2008 model will be "new and improved" when it's revealed later this month, but until the ol' bahwolf hisowndamnself figures out how to become "new and improved," further advancements in lightspeed technology are just wasted on me. Ricky Carmichael might be able to tell the difference, but not me.

The Proud New Owner of a CRF450X.

Naturally, my buddy Danny and I had to take the 450 to the trails straightaway and see just how bad I could scare myself on it. The answer: PLENTY! This thing is a beast! I'm used to wringing the absolute snot outta my little CRF230F ... Do that on the 450 and you are gonna be embedded in a tree or the nearest hillside, with more broken bones than Evil Knievel on a bad day. I've got to learn the meaning of "throttle control" all over again with this sucker.

So we rode the easy trails -- cause that's all I felt I was up for on the new bike, being as how I was having trouble keeping the front tire on the ground. Danny wasn't satisfied with that and wanted me to quit being a puss and get it out on the more difficult trails. I swear I was taking it easy, but I got cross-rutted at one point and the beast spit me off. As I'm sitting there in the dirt, waiting for Danny to figure out I'm not behind him anymore and come back and help me pick up the bike, I realize I had crashed not long ago in the exact same area, cross-rutting the CRF230F. What a dumbass! I mean, who goes out and crashes in the same place in exactly the same manner? You'd think I'd figure it out after the first time?

When Danny finally comes back after me, what does he do? Does he leap from his bike and make sure I'm all right? Pick my bike up for me? Wipe the dirt outta my teeth? No, he pulls out his damn camera and takes my picture! I swear I don't know who he learned that from -- ha! Really sad thing is, he did the exact same thing back when I cross-rutted the 230. Now he has both pictures to show to all our friends! Argh!

Anyway, nothing like breaking in the new bike right, eh?

First day and she's already on the ground! But if you're not crashing, you're not riding hard enough, right? "Danny, you're Number One!"

Look at how deep those damn ruts are!

The CRF230F just a month or so ago ... I swear it's the exact same spot.

We also had a great weekend riding together (on the street, where it's safe -- ha!) in Arkansas this past Labor Day weekend. I'll try to write something up about that in the next day or two. Danny's lovely wife Kim came with us and kept us both in line. We all had a great time.

Getting after it on the new CRF450X.

My camera-happy brutha from a different mutha. Love ya, amigo!