In late November of 2009, Capen, 35, decided it was high time he acted on his dream of finding the treasure that’s rumored to be hidden in Arizona’s aptly named Superstition Wilderness Area. He drove south from Denver, planning to spend a month exploring the mountains east of Phoenix. After setting up camp, he climbed to the 4,892-foot pinnacle of Tortilla Mountain and left a note in a metal canister: “Jesse Capen was here. Dec 4, 2009.” It was his last message to the world.

Designated in 1939, the Superstition Wilderness Area now encompasses 160,200 acres of craggy desert. The dry land is crisscrossed with trails, but much of the region is impassible. The rough and steep nature of the terrain allows treasure hunters to dream that the “Dutchman’s” legendary gold is lodged away in some apparently inaccessible crevice–despite the tens of thousands of people who have searched for it.

The legends of treasure are numerous and exceedingly intricate. In one version, the treasure is a cache of gold and silver crosses, candelabras, and chalices that dates back to 1764, when the Spanish crown is expelling the Jesuits from the Americas. Feeling vindictive about getting kicked out of their missions, the Jesuits gather the valuables from  the churches in New Spain’s vast northern territories. Instead of handing these sacred treasures over to the enemy king, they take a mule train to the Superstition Mountains where they hide the loot in a cave near a rock spire.

The next legend is slightly more plausible. In 1840 an aristocratic Mexican family named Peralta develops rich gold mines in the Superstition Mountains. Their activities anger a band of Apaches, who warn the Peraltas to stay out of their sacred lands or face the wrath of the God of Thunder. The Peralta party ignores the Apache threat. The Apaches are pissed and send riders to gather a larger force. When the Peralta party packs up to transport their gold back home to Sonora, the Apache warriors ambush and massacre the Mexicans. The warriors then bury the gold and hide the entrance to the mine. (You can read a detailed version of this legend here.)

Years later, a man called Dr. Thorne supposedly befriends the same Apaches. After he cures a sick chieftain, the tribe rewards him by leading him, blindfolded, to a gold mine. They invite him to take as much gold as he can carry away.

None of these stories have been convincingly verified.

Things get a bit more concrete in 1863 when the famous “Dutchman” enters the story. The man in question was actually a German immigrant named Jacob Waltz, who arrived in the United States around 1839 and was lured west by the California gold rush. He prospected in California but never struck it rich, and headed to Arizona in 1863. He was one of the first pioneer prospectors in Arizona’s Bradshaw Mountains and eventually filed a homestead claim on the banks of the Salt River. Although he farmed the land, he continued hunting for gold in the mountains. He died in Phoenix in 1891, in the care of his friend Julia Thomas, an African American baker.

That’s all verifiable. But from here the story descends into a snarl of speculation. One-hundred-and-thirty years of speculation, in fact. According to most versions of the story, Waltz was a salty white-whiskered codger who would travel into the Superstition Mountains each year and return to town with gold nuggets of unusually high quality. These he would spend on drinking binges.

In one version of the story, Waltz has a prospecting partner named Weisman. Weisman winds up dead and Waltz claims the man was murdered by the ubiquitous Apaches, but locals speculate that Waltz murdered Weisman to protect the secret location of the lost Peralta mine or a hidden cache of Apache gold. Waltz refuses to answer any questions. Many people attempt to tail him into the wilderness, but the wily old bastard evades them all.

Back to the facts: In 1891, Waltz fell ill, likely from pneumonia. On his deathbed, he told Julia Thomas the location of the gold, but his directions were cryptic. Thomas became the first of hundreds of people who would squander their lives hunting for the treasure.

As I mentioned, the story has many versions, and the entire cast of characters is huge — with Waltz’s various friends and neighbors (and their descendants) feuding over maps and clues and the cache of gold that Waltz supposedly stashed under his bed before he died. Then come more recent developments, like the mysterious and probably phony Peralta stone tablets, which supposedly hold the key to the mystery. I’m not qualified to tell that convoluted tale. If you’re interested, you’ll need to look to the folks who’ve devoted lifetimes of study and speculation to the case.

Which brings me to my point. What really interests me is not so much the legend itself — but rather its eternal allure. Three years after bellhop Jesse Capen set out on his treasure hunt, his skeleton was found in a crevice in the Superstition Mountains. But Capen was not the lone victim. Scores of people have died or been murdered while hunting for Waltz’s treasure.

Adolph Ruth is one of the most famous victims. Like Waltz, Ruth was a German immigrant who had gold fever. Unlike Waltz, Ruth was an elderly veterinarian and ill-suited for roughing it. He was 78 when he set off into the mountains with an old map that was purported to show the Peralta mine. In June of 1931, Ruth set up camp in West Boulder Canyon, near Willow Springs. He never returned to civilization. Six months later his skull was discovered in a ravine. Although it seems likely that Ruth died of natural causes, his disappearance spawned the pervasive conspiracy theory that he was murdered for the map. This story was picked up be periodicals and, ironically, helped popularize the legend of the mine.

After that they came in hoards. The obsession with the treasure spawned several formal societies of “Dutch hunters,” including the famous Dons of Arizona, which formed in 1931 and began hosting annual treasure hunts–replete with barbecues and pageants and guests costumed like Spanish aristocrats. Dons of Arizona membership rolls include Barry Goldwater and Harry S. Truman.

But Dutch hunting wasn’t all fun and games. In 1956 a feud erupted between two camps of prospectors who had claims near the stone spire known as Weaver’s Needle. According to Dutchman scholar Tom Kollenborn, the feud began when prospector  Ed Piper arrived on the scene and began squabbling with Celeste Maria Arva Jones, an opera singer from Los Angeles who claimed to have divine visions that had led her on a hunt for the Jesuit treasure. She’d staked her claim six years before Piper’s arrival, had the habit of carrying a sawed-off shotgun, and was not to be trifled with. She allegedly hired a man named Robert St. Marie to settle things with Ed Piper.

Piper instead shot and killed St. Marie, but claimed that St. Marie had attacked him. Piper successfully plead self-defense, and returned to the mountains, where he continued battling with Jones. Eventually the Forest Service got exasperated and kicked everyone out. At that point, Jones disappears from the historical record.

Murders aside, the accidental death toll has been fairly steady since the beginning. Historian Tom Kollenborn estimates that between 50 and 70 people died in the the Superstition Wilderness during the 20th Century. The 21st Century has seen a slight uptick, with an average of about one death a year. Naturally there’s speculation about an ancient Apache curse, but the real cause is probably a tad more mundane. The terrain is notoriously rough and hot. Many of the missing hunters went into the desert alone and under-prepared. A significant number were elderly or out of shape.

Less explicable is the level of obsession. Death seems to feed it. In addition to the legends of treasure, there are now legends and conspiracy theories that spiral from the lives and deaths of countless treasure hunters. One-hundred-and-thirty years after Waltz’s deathbed proclamation, Dutch hunter forums hum with activity. Dutch hunters trade maps and clues. Dutch hunters hold reunions in the Superstition Mountains, where they spin conspiracy theories and argue about the exact dimensions of the floor plan of Julia Thomas’s bakery.

Is greed a factor? Of course. Who hasn’t dreamed of striking it rich? But there’s obviously more to it. The treasure of the Lost Dutchman Mine speaks to the heart that won’t surrender to the mundane. This obsession is so very American: born of a romantic belief in the adventure as redemption, fueled by childhood daydreams that refuse to die, kept alive by the same delusional optimism that spurred westward expansion and forged the country we know today — hidden gold and all.

The post One Great American Mystery: The Tale of the Lost Dutchman Mine appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

We began training with the Wolfman bags and were immediately impressed by their good looks, versatility, and thoughtful design. They easily swallowed up heaps of gear, and between their inner bag and outer closing everything remained nicely dry and clean. As far as security, sure they’re less secure than a metal case but they don’t live up to the negative hype of being like Kleenex. All the folds and clasps for waterproofing also make getting into them unintuitive for the uninitiated and the toughness of the material makes knifing them a bit more complicated and intense than the casual sneak thief is up for. Cue the rare anecdotes of lone bikers, but thieves prey on easy targets and there are simpler scores than a bundle of snaps and webbing. They are really only under threat if left unattended for decent stretches of time, and then they are so simple to remove from your bike and carry with you that there’s no reason to leave them behind. Overall, I was not expecting to be as impressed as I was with the Wolfman bags.

In the other camp we have SW-MOTECH’s TRAX ADVENTURE panniers. These classic hard panniers have been around the world more times than a rock band roadie, and tend to survive the trip with far fewer leaks afterwards. The model we tested were a gigantic 45L. We never filled them up for our two day race through the Mojave, but would doubtless find a use for every inch during longer voyages. We loved the black finish on ours, and the water-tight gasket provided peace of mind through puddles and rain. Speaking of peace of mind, it’s difficult to fault the security of hard luggage. Not only do the lids lock close, but the cases themselves are also locked to the bike through the same key. Should you wish or need to remove them (as we did several times during the race for particularly treacherous or difficult sections), you need simply unlock them from the SW-MOTECH luggage rack and lift them off with a simple tug. This process is even simpler than the buckles and loops used by the soft luggage. After campaigning through the desert with these, I completely understand why hard panniers are the choice of world travelers.

Head to head, it’s difficult to fault either hard or soft luggage. this is why this argument among adventure riders is so perpetual. Generally, most chalk up their decision to riding style or aesthetic preferences but we aren’t going to cop out like that. We’re here to deliver an honest and irrevocable verdict damnit! A battle to the death then…

The price battle easily goes to Wolfman. You can pick up a pair of soft panniers for the price of just one hard pannier. Capacity goes to the SW-MOTECH trunks, with optional capacities of 37L or 45L handily beating Wolfman’s max of 33L. Shrinking violets these metal cases are not, but you’ll never be wanting for space on a long journey. Security feels like a draw. It would take only marginally more time and a marginally more qualified thief to defeat SW-MOTECH’s locks or connectors as it would for someone to slash into your unlocked soft bags. Vigilance, situational awareness, and common sense are always going to be the most important factors here. Weatherproofing sees a slight edge for hard cases, but it’s mostly mental. We just trust aluminum and rubber gaskets more than multiple layers of technical fabric. That said, we’ve never found water in any of our Wolfman bags. Weight goes to soft luggage, with both of Wolfman’s bags weighing about 10lbs, or equal to just one of the TRAX cases.

As far as crash-worthiness, things get a little more complicated. There were multiple crashes during The Bet where the hard cases hit the ground first, both protecting the bike and making it easier to stand back up. In addition, the sheer girth of the 45L boxes we tested meant our soft pink bodies were sheltered from the bike falling on top of us during hard falls. And all that was great until we ran one of the hard panniers into a boulder with horrific consequences.

Not only did it cause a crash, nor did it just rip the pannier off the bike, but it also deformed both the box and the rack it was attached to. So there was the bike in the middle of the desert with a ruined case and no way to reattach it. The only decision was to hide it among the rocks and abandon it until the race was over a Home Depot trip could be made to procure all manner of bolts and spacers to BS something together. Even then, the lid had to be duct-taped  down since it no longer fit the non-square box. Not only would soft luggage have simply deformed and deflected the blow, but I doubt it would even have caused the bike to crash. In any event, Wolfman’s bags wouldn’t have ripped off and left me in a very bad situation. The moral of the story is if you’re going to have many small crashes (as we did), then hard luggage is your jam. If you’re going to have occasional major collisions (as we do), and would rather ruin what you’re carrying than your pannier and racks, then go with soft luggage.

After trying both and testing them to their limits (and beyond obviously), the final analysis has to come down on the side of hard panniers. The SW-MOTECH TRAX ADVENTURE luggage is a workhorse this is the choice of many hardcore adventurers for good reason. They are tough, durable, secure, attractive, and simple to take on and off. If you prefer to use your bike for commuting and milk runs, soft panniers are a better choice for you. But if you’re going to do literally anything other than ride around town, hard luggage is the way to go. They come out on top in just about every area, and we’ll be sticking with them from now on.

The post Hard Vs Soft Panniers – The Final Battle appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

All good things must come to an end. Unfortunately, this isn’t true of all bad things. This was the thought that kept running through my head as I spent two hours attempting to extricate my bike from a small pit that was barely bigger than my bike itself. But we’ll get back to that…

A full year has gone into this gentlemen’s bet between Gary and I. We bought dual sport bikes, learned how to ride them in dirt (and Gary learned how to ride a bike period, as this was his first), we upgraded to BMW 650 adventure bikes, outfitted them for overland motorcycling with equipment, and then learned how to ride the fully laden beasts offroad. However, we weren’t in lockstep on all points. Indeed, because of our personalities, our strategies and tactics diverged almost immediately upon kicking off The Bet. Gary is a “learner” and likes to read about equipment or techniques before trying them. During the course of this year, this generally meant he was much slower to attempt new skills or difficult situations during our offroad training. But once he had done the homework on it, he would generally crush that skill with no problems. I am more of a “doer” who (violently) hurls himself against new situations and obstacles to learn. Sometimes this meant I gathered skills and experience faster than Gary, sometimes it meant a broken bike or body.

I was also much more willing to allow for broken bike parts, though, as I’m more mechanically inclined than my opponent. In fact, just a few weeks ago he happened upon me out in the garage practicing a tire tube change in case I got a flat. I was struggling mightily (because I was doing it wrong…); he took one look at the sprawl of parts and tubes and decided he wanted no part of it. He declared that it was “unrealistic” to expect to successfully get the morbidly obese bike up on its center stand, remove the rear axle, and change a tube while in the wild of the desert. He decided to risk it instead.

One thing we agreed on was meticulously planning our individual routes on Google Earth and creating rally pace notes to guide us on our two day solo journeys across the desert from LA to Las Vegas. A quick reminder of the rules: we each had 100 miles to get out of LA, and then we had to be off any kind of paved road. After that, we each had 30 miles of paved road to use as we wished to get gas or avoid obstacles. Riding was only allowed between 6am and 8pm, and we could rejoin roads within 10 miles of our destination – The Bellagio Hotel. And so it was that we packed what supplies we each thought we’d need, set up our secret routes, and headed out of LA at 7 AM on Friday the 26th of August 2016 – one year from when The Bet started.

For me, the race stared on an almost immediate wrong turn – literally. Gary and I rode together through town and onto the first freeway. Then, at the first freeway interchange he thought we were both taking, I made sure he was in front of me and ducked back off the off-ramp at the last second leaving him careening towards his offroad starting point and me towards mine. It was 20 miles after this, when I was feeling ever-so-smug about fooling him about my route that I absentmindedly merged onto the correct freeway but heading the wrong direction. Instead of seeing the San Gabriel Mountains, I started seeing signs for the beach and the very freeway I had left Gary at. Pulling over and consulting my map, I found I had indeed travelled 30 minutes back towards the coast. After being so diligent at marking my rally notes with the direction of every dirt trail and path I was going to take, I neglected to mark the direction of the freeways. An hour wasted just getting to the mountains that denote the end of Las Angeles and the beginning of our offroad portion.

Finally off the tarmac, progress proceeded smoothly… at least for a while. The BMW acted with aplomb even fully loaded. There were a few sections of my dirt path that were unexpectedly fenced off and I had to use about a mile of my 30-mile allowance to get around and back to dirt, but other than that it was smooth sailing. As civilization faded more and more behind me, I finally encountered the sight that signaled my secret plan – railroad tracks. You see, rather than pick through the spider web of dirt trails and single tracks that crisscross the desert like Gary would be forced to, I had an alternative plan. A good friend of mine pointed out that all railroad lines have truck-wide access roads running alongside them that are smooth as butter at least as far as dirt roads go. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s a rail line that goes directly from LA to Las Vegas. This was my masterstroke that meant even with my wasted hour, I’d still finish ahead of my rival. In fact, I was so confident in my route that I booked the Vegas hotel room a night early because according to my math, I would get there in one day instead of two.

So I came to the first railroad track and immediately attempted to go for it. And I got stuck. Rails, it turns out, are the perfect height to stop my back tire from finding purchase. Gingerly, I backed the bike off the tracks and realized that a major assumption I had made – one that would have been easily testable at any point of the year leading up to this – was dead wrong. I would be stuck on one side of the tracks or another until a pre-built crossing point came up. Undeterred, I progressed forward on my access road for a few minutes when a train came charging down the tracks. That is to say, less than 10 minutes after I had gotten my bike stuck trying to cross the track a seventy billion ton train came down that line at 60mph. So much for the second assumption that the line would be quiet. In fact, I had trains coming along every 15-30 minutes. This became especially “fun” an hour later when I had my first one through four of 14 total crashes.

The rail line had come to a ravine and my access road disappeared or split off where I didn’t see to follow. There was plenty of room on the basalt rocks surrounding the rails for me to get to the other side of this cut in the hill, and I successfully did so. But then following this section, the rail was built atop a tiny culvert that was meant to carry storm water under the line. The culvert was no more than 10 feet long and there was barely enough room for my tires and feet to scoot by on an aggressive angle, but if I slipped I would have fallen 10 feet down into the culvert. Rather than risk it, I decided to ride down the steep side of the culvert then gun it back up the other side. This was a terrible idea.

Fall #1 of the trip came just going down into the little valley no wider than my bike. Fall #2 came after I spotted my access trail off to the right, but blocked by a sandy berm that offered my tires no grip. Fall #3 came after I turned the bike sideways and attempted my original idea up the other side back to the tracks – again no grip was on hand and it was offensively steep. It was midday, 100 degrees according to the forecast, and I was wresting a 400 lb+ bike in full Klim motorcycle gear for about an hour while trains tore by at about head height. Needless to say the headache I felt come on was a bad sign of heat stroke and I needed to take a break. I tore off all my gear, grabbed my gallon jug of water, and crawled into the water pipe for shade and contemplated if and how I was going to get out of this increasingly hopeless situation. The emergency beacon on my chest was ever-tempting as there were only three ways out of this culvert, and I had failed at all of them.

After an attempted rest inside the shaded water pipe – trains going by four feet directly OVER you are even more disturbing than trains going by eight feet beside you – and a good drink of a liter or so of water I had a plan. Firstly, I took the lid off my SW-Motech pannier. Then using it as a shovel, I smoothed out the sandy berm leading back to the dirt road. Then on this ramp I had created, I scattered the railroad’s rocks. Finally, I collected all the scrap wood I could find and laid this on top of the rocks and tamped it all down by walking over it. I had built myself a road to freedom (hopefully), but if it didn’t work my race was likely over and lost. I removed the panniers for added lightness, picked my tire tracks, and fired the bike back up. A train came by to bear witness and I gunned it towards my ramp. My bike scooted up the improvised road, destroying it in its wake, but nevertheless depositing me back onto my trusty dirt road. Never does victory tasted so sweet than when it is snatched from the jaws of an emergency rescue team.

After reattaching my luggage and traveling on for some time, I realized I was suddenly in a race. With an hour lost on LA’s freeways and at least 2 hours lost in the world’s smallest and cruelest valley, there was no way I could get to Vegas before the agreed-upon sunset curfew forced me off my bike. And as this trip had already taught me, the going even on my access trail was anything but easy. In my mind, Gary and I were now neck-and-neck. Suddenly the tent and sleeping bag I brought just to fool Gary were very necessary.

The rest of that day had decent speeds, undeniably beautiful views of the Mojave, trestle bridge crossings, and a few more falls. I had been ingesting Clif bars all day and on my last fall I decided to partake in another and read the nutritional facts. Huge mistake number three (or four; who’s counting?) dawned on me as I realized I had only taken in 1,500 calories all day and would need my last two bars to get me to at least midday tomorrow and the only gas stop of the second day. This lack of energy hit hard as the sun began to set at 7 PM and I encountered my fifth sand patch of the day and crashed a few more times. Although it would be soft for my sleeping bag, I refused to let it beat me or to start my day tomorrow stuck in this horrible excuse for substrate. I pushed on and out, finding solace on the rocks of the train track, and rode on half-blind with hunger and fading light. Finally, at 7:45 PM, just 15 minutes before curfew, I spotted a secluded and solidly grounded spot to camp and preceded to hangrily set up my tent for a night in desert.

This is a massive tale already, so I split it up into two parts. 
Go take a break, get some coffee, then catch the finale here. 

The post The Bet – Overland Motorcycling Pt 7 appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

Having started the race on around four hours of not very solid sleep, not eating enough, and generally beating the hell out of my body for 12 hours, I slept like a sack of wet dirt. I slept so well in fact, that I didn’t wake up until 7 AM – an hour after sunrise and the riding curfew ended. Mistake number four, and another hour lost. This day brought much of the same – breathtaking scenery, sand, decent speed, not decent crashes – and was overall proving to be much more difficult than I had imagined. After my last fuel stop, and another protein bar taken in, I was headed towards my last 43 miles until civilization and the finish line.

It was this stretch, this final stretch, where I really had fun. The dirt roads were excellent and allowed for 50 and even 60 mph in spurts, but moreover they were fun roads that the BMW could lean and buck with. 10 miles down, then 20, then finally 30 miles were consumed rapidly. With only five miles until re-entering tarmac, my final disaster struck. It was 3 PM, I was still low on calories, and I was mentally worn down from all the fast offroad riding and the impending end of the race. In the middle of wide-open track, with flat space surrounding me, I hit the only boulder around, smashed off my right-side pannier, spun the bike around and crashed hard. I was beside myself with fury and rather than attempt to fix anything decided to press on. I rode that fury through the last three miles of dirt, harnessed it on the Las Vegas freeway to zero in on The Bellagio at not-quite legal speeds, and finally felt it leave me, now more drained than before, as I approached the check-in counter at 4 PM, not sure what my fortune would be.

The helpful check-in girl didn’t bat an eye at this disheveled human with wild hair, a dirt-colored face, strange technical clothing that squeaked with every movement, and more mud and dust than the marble palace of the Bellagio had likely seen in some time. At first she couldn’t find the reservation – only natural since it was for the day before. And when she found it, her puzzled look didn’t go away. She looked up, and with a fake customer service smile informed me that someone else had already checked into the room.

I had lost.

Gary had checked in at noon; four hours ago, or exactly the amount of time I had lost because of my many and various mistakes. Crushed, I collected my key and squeaked my way through the tourists and their casino to ride the elevator up towards the victor. For 23 floors I debated what I would, what I could say to Gary. Stepping off the elevator, the dread closed in and I made my way towards our room. Resigned, I flung the door open, reached out my arms, and belted out “Congratulations to the Better Man. You deserve it.” At this, he was very confused. With a quizzical smile, he asked me, “Why, did you get disqualified too?” Much confusion abounded. “Did you get my text? I disqualified myself.” I was too off balance to know how to react, but slowly it dawned on me that I had won. I HAD WON! After all the pain, and misery, and effort, I had won.

Over a much-deserved steak dinner that night (after the greatest shower man has ever known), Gary relayed his story to me: He too had a secret plan to follow access roads (power lines for him) that would see him finishing in a single day as well. However, an hour into his offroading time, he ran afoul of a nail and got a flat rear tire – the very situation he had declined to train for. To his credit, he somehow rode that flat tire in sand for 15 miles (that’s basically hard mode) into town. Then he had to be towed 20 miles into a slightly more real town to have the tube replaced. Hours lost, he had to then ride those 20 miles back to his offroad route. This unexpected detour guaranteed he would go over his 30 mile paved road allotment for the race and sunk him completely. He spent the rest of that day offroading on his trail (like a champ), and then stayed at a hotel that night. The second day, he woke up and took the freeway the remaining 30 miles into Vegas since he had already lost, and that is how he got there four hours before I did.

This was a year in training, capped by two very hard days for both of us. The race was significantly harder that I thought it was going to be, and that’s what made it excellent. We both know that the race taught us a lot – in skills, experience, and broken parts. But the biggest thing it taught me was that I want more of these overland motorcycling adventures.

A huge thank you to all the sponsors of The Bet: Klim, SW-Motech, Twisted Throttle, Wolfman Luggage, and REV! IT.

We’ll have video of this adventure coming soon…

The post The Bet – Overland Motorcycling Pt 8 appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

There is no more time left to prepare. No more scheming, plotting, or psychological warfare can occur. The race begins in less than 24 hours now. All the equipment and parts have arrived, tire changes and roadside repairs have been practiced, now all that is left is to be punched in the face by the reality that is the Mojave Desert.

For a year now my competitor Gary and I have prepared for this. Five rear tubes, 20+ crashes and countless mistakes later, we are hopefully wiser and somewhat prepared for the two day solo trek through the desert. Neither of us should be anywhere near the other competitor as we have independently chosen our routes and we are starting roughly 50 miles apart. With no GPS allowed, each of us will have to memorize, chart, and follow our own route on paper maps and rally notes. Water, food, and camping supplies will have to be packed in. Same for spares and tools should anything go wrong.

The winner will be crowned the Better Man because he will have had to navigate the desert, deal with the eventual problems, and do it all at a quick pace. There will be no do-over of this bet and at no point will another “who’s the Better Man?” challenge be accepted between us. This is for life.

Speaking of life, it has occurred to me that there are some strange incentives to this bet. This is not a case of “the best revenge is a life well lived.” Say that I win (because if I don’t I’m moving to Europe forever), then the best thing I could do to shove it in Gary’s face would be to ruin my life. Let me explain – If I become a trillionaire who own modeling agencies, private jet companies, and an opium farm while Gary becomes Asst Kennel Cleaner at the local animal shelter, then obviously I truly am the Better Man and I really didn’t need the title to rub it in. And if we both become trillionaires then the title is just an asterisk to denote between equals. No, the best thing to do after I win is to become a syphilis-riddled street shambler who yells at seagulls and attempts to trade his shoes for a can of Four Loko at the corner store near my cardboard dream home. Only THEN will calling up Rich Gary every day to remind him that I’m the better man have any actual sting to it. So I guess that’s my plan.

As I prepare to buy my final supplies of water and food, I’m filled with competing emotions. I have a deep lust to be out in the middle of the desert, completely alone for hours in every direction, and soaking in the beauty of it. However, I am also aware that it is going to be 100 degrees in the middle of the Mojave and surely not all of my planning will go off without a hitch. Things will go wrong, as they always do. In a race it is difficult to “enjoy the journey” in those times and remember that you are making memories. I will have a stopwatch in my head for two days and will only relax after I have checked into the hotel with a time stamp of my arrival. I will attempt to appreciate the journey as mush as possible, but in the end this is a race through the Thunderdome that is the Mojave Desert – where two men will enter, but only one Better Man will leave.

Click here for Part 7, the final installment and the the big race!

The post The Bet – Overland Motorcycling Pt 6 appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

Offroading and adventure riding is different beast. Sure, you’re only going 30mph down that dirt road, but you’re falling often and when you do you’re regularly greeted by sharp rocks and happy little trees that make you not so happy. When I first got my dualsport bike for training I immediately donned some old combat boots and a no-name discount armored jacked who’s zipper didn’t even last the 6mos I was training with that bike. Once I upgraded to the “big” BMW adventure bike it was time to get serious about donning real protection for my squishy bits.

Luckily, true adventure wear is a small world and Klim was the natural choice. They have the most experience with this type of gear, they’ve outfitted plenty of well-publicized expeditions, and their staff has been crazy friendly with helping us get just what we need for our planned adventures. I picked up a full Badlands suit for both myself and my competitor/nemesis (we’re twinners!) and I gotta say: I get it now. I get why people wear this stuff. Where before I cast a sideways glance at getting all suited up for a ride, once it’s on you it becomes clear that ultra-modern moto wear is much better than leather and denim for staying cool and comfortable while in the saddle for hours. The Klim Badlands just works. It’s got strategic vents to keep you cool, zippers and straps to keep you dry when it rains, and is full of fun little features like medical info pockets and zippers built to be used with chunky gloves on.

I spent a 9 hour trip through 90-100 degree heat in my Badlands and never really worked up a sweat. With all the vents open, and at speed, I was totally comfortable. The lightweight materials also make moving around in the suit easy and immediate. You don’t realize how much leather and thick denim slow you down and mute your senses until you try something different. Did it get hot when I was standing in traffic getting to gas stations? Yes. Show me any kind of real moto wear that doesn’t do that. The Badlands suit is full of armored sections with the coolest kinetic material you’ve ever seen. Normally it’s pliant and flexible, but once it encounters a sufficiently hard impact it stiffens up 100-fold to protect you. This means you can easily move around in Klim’s suits, but they still protect you in a crash.

Crashes is something I’ve had plenty of in my Badlands. Offroad training on my BMW has not been kind to any of my equipment, but I’ve yet to do anything to my suit other than make it dirty. No rips, tears, burns, or even scuffs have materialized on my kit – and not for lack of trying. Probably my favorite feature is the built in pocket for a drinking bladder right on your back panel. This means not external Kamelback to make your back sweat, and one less piece of equipment to keep track of.

I can’t believe they’ve converted me to a full on motorcycle suit guy, but Klim has done it. I still wouldn’t don it to commute to work or run to the shops, but if I’m touching freeways to go camping or go on a long tour, I’ll be sporting my Klim Badlands and I’ll be quite happy about it. Plus, it looks pro as hell!

The post Gear for The Bet: Klim Badlands Suit appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

Making sure your sweet whip is ready for the open road can be divided into two parts: Checking your car and packing supplies.

Checking Your Car

Your car won’t take care of you if you don’t take of it. Make sure your jalopy has plenty of oil, coolant, and other fluids. Check your tire pressures, not forgetting your spare tire if you have one. If not, filling your tires with Fix-a-Flat ooze can mean the difference between being stranded and limping into town. Lastly It’s not the worst idea to pick up a spare quart of oil or bottle of coolant to take with you just in case.

Packing Supplies

Speaking of just in case, you’ll also want to make sure you have tools you’ll need should something go wrong. Here, your best bet is a travel tool kit sold at any AutoZone, augmented with any special tools your car needs. Tire pressure gauges are cheap and a godsend when you need one, as are spare fuses. If an accident should occur, you’ll be thankful you have an emergency tool with a seatbelt cutter and window breaker. And of course, duct tape is never a bad idea.

This summer you can successfully cross any state or nation if you show your car a little love before sending it into battle. Any AutoZone around can have you prepped up with all these items, and we’ve even got a $5 off coupon for you. You depend on your vehicle to get you to where you are going, and it depends on you to take good care of it.

This post is brought to you by AutoZone; the opinions are all mine.

The post How to prep for your summer road trip appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

This post is supposed to be about flaunting my new gear and talking about our new sponsors for The Bet – Klim, Wolfman Lugguage, and SW-MOTECH. It’s not though. I was planning on taking you through all the stuffs they’ve sent me to review and give you guys my honest opinions on them. That’s not going to happen today. I was going to relay to you the first time I took the Sertao offroad and how it went. Instead I’m going to give you a tale of disaster, agony, and a pinch of fun and redemption at the end.

I could start this tale of woe at the beginning with me burning my fingers on the exhaust pipe as a kind of prelude to the shitty day ahead. Or we could pull a Memento and go backwards with me discovering as I finally arrived home that I’ve broken off one the GoPros I affixed to the bike to capture some sick shots for you guys. But both of those are weak, everyday pains that can’t elevate a story to the level of fiasco. Instead, let’s skip to the middle and the real meat of the story.

First, let’s set the scene: I’m taking a 4 day trip to Southern Utah to practice my offroad skills on the fat BMW before my final contest in August against Gary. To prep for that trip, lose this bike’s dirt virginity (don’t Google it), and as discussed to test out the new gear I just got I was going to to drive an hour north of Los Angeles to Hungry Valley – a “State Vehicular Recreational Area” or offroad park for short – and spend an hour or two on the dirt, grab those aforementioned sweet GoPro shots, then call it day. Easy really. My day clearly did not go that way (thanks foreshadowing!).

I installed my Wolfman tank bag after some trial and error, got all geared up in spiffy new Klim Badlands jacket and pants, and finally,yes, burnt my fingers on the exhaust attempting to adjust the gear shift lever for my new adventure boots. Not to fear though, we’re still having a good time. After mounting some GoPros on the SW-MOTECH crashbars it was time to hit the road and take the longest freeway journey I’ve ever done on a bike, then get my first taste of dirt on the Sertao. Now this was the first time I’ve been on the Beemer tangling with freeway traffic while also wearing legit head-to-toe protective gear and a helmet designed for speed. Normally I just jump on the freeway for a mile or so and wear jeans, a jacket of dubious construction, and my offroad helmet and goggles; it’s not a pleasant experience. But in the Badlands gear and a proper adventure touring helmet, I yelled to myself, “OKAY! I get it now!” That really happened – the onramp from the 10 to the 405 at about 12:20pm on Saturday if you want to check the tapes. But yes, I get how you could eat up states on an adventure bike and not want to gouge your eyes out with a soldering iron after 50 miles. I was so insulated, protected, and comfortable that it was a totally new experience and made the LA freeways livable. That said, I have no idea why people who just commute on surface streets get all suited up and prepare for battle with full adventure gear. It’s such a major piece of equipment and real to-do to put it all on, it truly is overkill if you’re popping out to buy milk.

An hour after my exclamation of joy, and a generally really pleasant ride all the way, I arrived in a wave of triumph and excitement at the small town of Gorman, California that housed the Hungry Valley park. Now let me detail exactly what happened in what order to you: I pulled up to the ranger shack at the entrance, turned off my bike, had pleasant conversation over the exchange of paper money for a day pass receipt, started my bike, travelled about a mile into the part to an open set up area with shade and tables, parked my bike, turned it off, and dismounted to get all my gear ready and carbo load before my dirt fun. GoPros ready, cured meats and Olive Oil Triscuits ingested, helmet and gloves back on and now it’s time to get going. I insert the key the normal (and very colorful and animated) startup sequence does not appear. Instead of my MPH needle swinging around and all my lights coming on, I just get a dot matrix message saying “IGN OFF” Okaaaaaaaay. I go for the starter button and get nothing. Turning the key off and on gives me nothing except now “IGN OFF” appears when the bike is totally off. My bike is, to all appearances, dead.

No problem though! Since we live in the future, all the worlds information and help is always at hand with our handy mobile telephone machines. But there’s no service in Hungry Valley. It’s a dead zone. Shit. But not so dead that one solitary text message came through while I was panicking, as if to provide a totally false sense of hope. Bastards. I kept attempting to look up what “IGN OFF” and sending texts and calls for help, but nothing was getting through. Just to spice things up and keep my game of Sherlock from coming to any conclusions, the dashboard’s behavior kept changing. Suddenly the needle would swing around but no lights would come up, or cryptic numbers would display with no rhyme or reason. Yet every time I tried the started button, everything went blank and dead. I was going to have to try and solve this like a person from the past – by talking to strangers…

In a giant dirt farm populated with 4Wheelers, dirt bikes, and quads I was lucky to have another adventure bike pull into the same rest area as me. I sought out my fellow overland motorcycling addict and asked for a jump while eschewing into the confusing chain of events as quickly as possible lest he think I’m soft in the head, or worse, a poser. His crew had a jump pack that we hooked up and the bike fired right up. We even killed the bike and started it again just to make sure I could ride. I thanked them profusely, then tucked tail and started back home without ever even touching dirt yet. I wasn’t going to take the chance of being stranded out there again with no service and a temperamental bike. I waived to the park ranger who had only checked me in 20min ago, and got back to the main road and the to the near civilization of a McDonald’s parking lot. I pulled over, bike still running, to make a few calls and texts to let my peeps know I was in trouble and there was an above 60% chance I was going to need a ride from the middle of nowhere at some point in the next 2 hours. Done stressing everyone out, I engaged first and rolled on the throttle to pull away and the bike died. Because of course it did.

While cursing up enough of a storm to make a sailor blush, I ran to the auto shop next door to Mc’s and asked them for a jump. I figured that, while it was very stupid to put a questionable machine onto the freeway and spend an hour going 80+, the onramp was literally 50ft away and the engine would/could power everything once it was held at revs. I’m not a smart man. Second jump complete and bike successfully restarted, this time I couldn’t even get out of a 10ft driveway before it died from the stress of being alive. It was clear this bike was going nowhere. My only hope now was my arch nemesis in The Bet and the whole reason I’m on this stupid German machine in the middle of desert nowhere – Gary.

Oh the humiliation. The groveling that had to take place. The promises of free meals and upscale whiskey were numerous to get him to consider either renting a trailer or buying a new battery then coming up an hour each way to rescue me, his competitor, a day before his birthday. Pleading completed and a deal struck, I hung up and started to disassemble my bike so I could tell him exactly what tools he would need to bring to replace the battery. As I was doing that, a tow truck arrived with a dead SUV at the mechanics shop I was stranded at. Once he was had offloaded the dead Lincoln Navigator and family, I approached his Hulk Hogan mustache and asked if he knew of anywhere in this one horse town to buy a motorcycle battery. Much to my surprise, he relayed that there was a moto shop at the next freeway exit just up the road, then suggested I look them up on my phone. It was at this exact moment that I felt like an idiot for not using my future machine first. I found the shop, called and confirmed they had a battery for me, and then navigated the distance to see that it was about an hour walk. Haha screw you Gary! I’m solving this one myself!

You know how tow truck drivers pack a .357 magnum and are some of the meanest humans in existence? Well when I walked back to Hulkamania to thank him and tell him I was hoofing it to the shop, he told me jump in his cab and said he’d give me a lift there! The Hulkster turned out to be an angel. After I stashed my helmet and heavy jacket near the dead bike, I got in the truck and we chatted about different bikes we’ve owned during the trip to the moto store where he dropped me off with  smile and wave. Now it was just a matter of buying a new battery and getting back to the bike. And, of course, hoping that the problem was the battery and not the alternator/stator…

Walking the mile back along a frontage road in 94 weather while wearing new (read: not broken in) moto boots and heavy adventure pants was not fun. I threw my thumb out for the first 4 cars to drive by, but the road was so deserted I gave up hope and figured I may as well get a tan while I’m hoofing it. I ditched my shirt – effectively giving up all hope for a ride since no sane person would give a shirtless dude a ride – stuffed it haphazardly in a pocket, and started the trek uphill. Of course it was an uphill climb for the first half of my walk, why wouldn’t it be? And of course upon finally getting to the “peak” of road did I notice that my shirt had fallen out of my pants and was somewhere back down the hill, so I got to do it all over again. Regardless, I sweated my ass off for an hour in those damn pants and stiff boots and arrived back at my stranded bike.

With nothing missing off the bike and my hidden clothes and helmet still there, I set to work on replacing the battery. This was pretty quick work but it did give me time to think through my next course of action. Do I A) be a smart human and immediately take the hour trip home so I don’t possibly get stranded out here again, or B) refuse to not at least do a touch of offroading to make all this misery worth it? B, of course. Why even ask? I put the bike together, fired her up, and pointed right back into the offroad park to reclaim a tablespoon of dignity for myself.

And you know what? I had a blast. I mean, I dropped the bike pretty much immediately so that cherry is popped as well, and this bike is a hundred pounds fatter than the bike I started The Bet with, but it was great to be back on the dirt and learning about what this bike is capable of. I was shocked at how capable the Sertao is, and can clearly see why the Beemer adventure bikes are the choice for conquering the world’s terrain. There were several instances of me rounding a blind corner to find myself in a very difficult or technical situation, and each time the GS ate it up with no problem. The bike is a too easy to get going fast, and too difficult to slow down in emergencies, but overall I was carving up single track mountain trails with ease within 5 minutes. Of course there were more butt-puckering moments and one more crash (there’s that lost GoPro right there), and the looming fear that I was running on battery power and my bike would die at any moment, but I had my fun and reminded myself why it was all worth it. After an hour the fear became overwhelming, along with my very tired body, and I scooted back to LA. I arrived back at FactoryTwoFour HQ without incident, and other than discovering the missing GoPro all was well.

My 4 day trip to Southern Utah is in less than a week, so I’ve only got a few days to figure out if it was indeed a bum battery or if I have a more major problem. I’m sure it will all work out for me, nothing ever goes wrong in my life…

Click here for Part 6 and the final preparation before the big race!

The post The Bet – Overland Motorcycling Pt 5 appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

In the immortal words of the great philosophers of our time – shit just got real. Half way into our year long overland motorcycling competition and the kid gloves have come off. Where my opponent Gary and I originally planned weekend excursions, practiced, and even wrenched on our machines together, now there is frosty silence and secrecy. I can’t say that thoughts of sabotage have crossed either of our minds, but I can’t not say it either.

What brought us to this point of fierce competition was the mutual decision that our current bikes, while great for learning off-road and overland motorcycling, were insufficient for both The Bet and our shared commitment to tackle long distance trips after our little wager is settled. What Gerber Baby and I had was an enduro and dirk bike respectively. What we needed was full-bore adventure bikes.

This lust and need brought us both to each buying a clean example of the BMW 650GS Sertao for the rest of The Bet. The GS series of BMW adventure bikes is world renowned for their ability to go anywhere and conquer all continents – and their ubiquity means we can still likely get them serviced in the middle of wild Africa or India when we tackle those trips (next year!). The 650 is the best possible blend of high horsepower and on-road speed with (relatively) lightweight and off-road maneuverability. And the Sertao edition is when BMW offered a more off-road centric version of the 650GS. Lastly, we decided to get matching bikes because 1) it’s super cute to be twinners, 2) repairs and emergencies become easier to handle, and 3) identical bikes level the playing field and return The Bet to a contest of skill above all else. In other words, I anticipate whining from Gary (at all times) and I’m going to refuse him any possible ammunition that I can.

So just like the beginning of this whole stupid adventure, Gerb and I picked up our new bikes within a few days of each other – and immediately started planning modifications and additions. And because we are now in The Realness of hard competition, we are no longer sharing research and ideas about panniers, lighting systems, and riding gear choices. There is frosty silence as we change spark plugs or shop online for gear. This silence will continue until the obnoxious screams of celebration from one of us takes over in mid-August.

Click here for Part 5 and our trial run for LA-to-Vegas that is a total disaster...

The post The Bet – Overland Motorcycling Pt 4 appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

With a town this size and all the best spots hopelessly spread out, you need a chariot capable of getting in and out of tight situations, one that carries ample speed to get you to and fro, and has the right amount of je ne sais qua to fit in from Beverly Hills down to the barrio. Enter the CLA AMG we’ve got for the weekend. This 2014 Mercedes is bathed in brilliant Jupiter Red to announce your arrival to anyone that can see it, and has an addictive exhaust bark to relay the message to all those who don’t. This thing is so LA it probably has an agent. With the right steed in hand, we’re off to capture the magic of this city in one action-packed weekend.

LA’s series of neighborhoods are microcosms unto themselves. Each is formed around some racial, ethnic, economic, or spiritual commonality. These groups and areas are ever-shifting and morphing, making LA truly unknowable. But we’re still gonna try our damnedest this weekend!

The city takes up the area between the San Gabriel Mountains in the East all the way to the ocean 40+ miles to the West. When most of us picture LA, the image is one of palm trees and sandy beaches. It’s certainly not a bad image. Locals call the area pictured in this mental image the West Side, and it is where FactoryTwoFour has set up our base camp. Venice Beach is still a neighborhood of lingering ill-repute for being on the sketchier side of ‘hoods, but it is in fact heavily gentrified and getting more so every day. It is still brimming with character though, and we’re glad to call it home for the weekend.

After arriving, jettisoning our luggage, and freshening up our first stop is the Venice Board Walk and the beach. ‘Natch. Rounding the corner onto the boardwalk is like leaving the United States and entering Tijuana if it was run by a pot smoking street artist Willy Wonka. It is a truly wonderful place full of strange and frightening sights and sounds. Marijuana dispensaries every 50ft or so, homeless people dressed up as mountain men wearing roller blades, or tacky t-shirts with inappropriate messages or cleverly re-worked corporate logos – all this can be yours and much much more on the Venice Board Walk.

Just steps away, the beach offers us needed respite from the crazies and the tourists. It’s always 70 degrees here. Always. But it’s still LA, so the water is neither clear nor particularly clean. Swim on, we certainly did, but take a shower afterward.

On to lunch and Abbot Kinney – a street recently declared The Coolest Block in America by GQ Magazine. Abbot Kinney is a simple stretch of asphalt less than a mile long flanked on either side by upscale boutiques and holier-than-thou restaurants and bars. Several top chefs have outposts here, but our destination is Chop Daddy’s. This unpretentious BBQ joint offers up killer grub to the hipsters of Venice without falling victim to their ways. No dried flowers in whimsical vases, no strange food pairings or unpronounceable ingredients. Just damn good BBQ sandwiches and fried pickles. Get on it.

Now it’s back in the righteous CLA and up to Santa Monica. This town is akin to Venice’s older, responsible brother. The strange and unique are not welcome here. It is a very safe and predictable place. And very boring. Santa Monica is the outpost of the Old White Person. If worldwide chain restaurants and brands are your thing, and you enjoy paying $16 for an “artisan cupcake,” you’ll fit right in. What Santa Monica has that is of interest to us is a world-class farmer’s market. Chefs from across the city descend on the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market to grab the freshest produce to bring back to their Michelin-starred restaurants. And of course to talk some shop with their chef buddies who they invariably run into. Hosted on the 3rd Street Promenade ever Wednesday and Saturday, there is no better place to pick up the freshest California fruit, OR find a very fresh Californian date to join you for dinner. Browse around, try a sample of the best strawberries you’ll ever eat. Grab a fresh baguette and some flowers. Just don’t be surprised if you start fighting over the last bunch of spinach with Chef Sang Yoon.

Pro tip: avoid the Santa Monica Pier. It’s an overcrowded tourist trap brimming with lame carnival rides, terrible food, and worse street vendors hawking shot glasses and neon-colored visors. Everyone goes to the pier because they think its a must-see Westside attraction. Don’t be everyone. You can see it plenty well from the great bluffs overlooking the ocean, and there you will avoid being bunched in with fat mid-westerners who sweat too much and shower too little.

So after samples the local ware and partaking in all the good and bad the Westside of Los Angeles has to offer, it’s time for…………….a nap. But after that, it’s time for dinner! Why yes, our city excursions do revolve around food stuffing our faces. What of it?

Tonight we’re rocketing in our svelte Mercedes to A-Frame, Roy Choi’s joint in Culver City that is on our go-to list for LA. The atmosphere is fresh, the beautiful people are right, and the plates of Korean-American mashups are wholly unique anywhere in the world. We pig out on perfectly crisp Beer Can Chicken, seaweed covered popcorn, sublime duck, Asian ribs, and one of our party even hogged the enormous burger all to themselves. And you know we didn’t leave without getting the epic pound cake churro. Damn good.

Since Chef Choi’s just treated us so well, we’re off to cap our first day in Los Angeles at his Abbot Kinney bar The Brig. It’s small, modern, and incredibly loud when a band is shoe-horned in there, but there’s a pool table in the back and more beautiful people to be enjoyed. After hustling a group off the billiards table, we camped out on it for the rest of night, getting tipsy on Manhattens and reflecting on the adventures behind us and those still in front of us. When we call it a night, our minds are filled with the big day ahead. Tomorrow, we stretch the CLA AMG’s legs in the Malibu Canyons…

Read part two of our Los Angeles Adventure here!

The post 72 Hours in Los Angeles Pt 1 appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.