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.

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.