Just One Dirty Biker.: August 2014

Lowbrow Getdown, at Nelsons Ledges Quarry in Ohio, was a blast. A hands down blast. Maybe it was the crazy blend of hippy ravers and dirty bikers culminating at a busted ass water filled quarry in the middle of the deep Ohio forest surrounded by horse drawn carriages and bonnet wearers, but this shit was a gawd-damn blast. The long arduous journey to Cleveland the day before was all apart of the plodding toward greatness and adventure. The long anti-toll trial across the never ending Pennsylvania, into the sunset, 4 gas stops, 1 delicious diner, 1 heinous sunburn, and a rear tire that was on the verge of bursting from the embedded nail and huge tread dry cracks. I wasn’t sure what one was going to happen first, but I had to favor it a bit, and I didn’t mind.

I rolled into Cleveland around 10pm. The plan was to go to my friend Anna’s house the night before, do some riding around, and see some bars, and then the next day, head to the quarry with some of her friends. We went to some biker bar somewhere, but we left after one drink, because the kitchen had closed. We walked across the street to a spot with a ton of college kids dawning tan cargo shorts and Lebron jerseys, but at least their kitchen was open. I ordered a salad and chili in a bread bowl. Awesome! It was awesome.

The cops were out, watching the bikers come and go, so I’m glad I hadn’t had another beer before we headed back to Anna’s house. But I was exhausted after the long 500 mile ride from Brooklyn, NY to Cleveland, OH. So sleep and hydration was priority. I made a nice bed on the couch and crashed out.

The next morning we woke up, had coffee, and ran to the store for some sunblock, and ice. Anna’s friends showed up at 11ish and we all formatively headed 50 some miles down the road that I’d come in on. Looking forward to more horse drawn buggies, bonnets, and beards, I got just the dose of it as we gassed up right next to a heehawing horse and buggy. After hitting the road again, Anna saw one of her friends ride by, and pull off down a gravely road to a house on the side of the road. We decided to follow suit. Rolling up to this house and barn on this gorgeous large property, we were greeted by two guys. One whom is the head of triple 6 crew clothing and twin brother of a guy I know in Brooklyn, and the other is a mechanic, with a beautiful garage. He shared beer and water with us. And we all lounged around for a bit under

the shade.

Back on the road, a couple miles and some beautiful forest riding, and fabulously dreamy farmland, we got in line to earn entry into the campground. The Quarry had booked two large parties for the weekend. Lowbrow Getdown, and Mid Summer Samba, which was a populated concentration of patchouli, dreads, and tie-dye; three of my favorite things. So there we were, dirty bikers and hippies, all with a common bond of anti-establishment, and contrasting uniforms. But nonetheless, a sense of oneness.

It all starts with the free beer! this is why we all come to these things. The promise and allure of free cold crisp alcoholic, drunk inducing beverages, to cool the fatigue of the road, and ease the bones. I mean, I swear, that’s most of why I love heading on long trips to campouts, not just to be around a bunch of other stinky dirty bikers, but the freebees, food and drink. Minus the camping fee, of course, and nonetheless worth it.

Getting setup at the camp included me hanging my hammock between a couple of suitable trees, while others laid out their tents, and we situated our bikes around the bonfires.

Then we moseyed on down to the beach where we stripped to our skivvies and sat in the cooling water of this mystical water body. There was a steam coming off the water, it was beautiful. Hippies and bikers were sunning, and swimming, and I was letting the ladies hang out, until a lifeguard came over and told me to put a shirt on, and that you couldn’t drink on the beach, to which I protested not too much, but I should have. What is this lame ass submission. I just don’t know these Ohio laws. Last thing I’d thought was that someone would make a stink about some tittes getting some sun, especially among the specific crowd we were keeping.

But whatever. A few minutes later, someone blew the whistle, and the whole beach had to clear out, and everyone had to leave the water. Some weird mandatory mid-day swim break. Super weird. We were over it all, and headed back to the camp. The rest of it goes like this: get drunk, sit down, look at bikes, walk around, meet people whom you didn’t know you had names of folks and foreign places in common with, eat the wonderfully provided BBQ dinner, and drink some more, this time wandering around in the dark, aimlessly joining strange fires of folks you didn't know, more conversations with drunk strangers, and overhearing people talk about instagram. The drifting of eyes and energy across fireplaces, locking on to new faces, bottles of booze being passed around, musical chairs and passer outs. At some point I’d had enough of it all, and found my two suitable trees, and saddled up into my hammock. Cozy in my sleeping bag, I found rest.

I was less than welcomely woken up sometime in the all too early morning, beneath a torrential downpour. My sleeping bag getting more and more wet, the leaves of the overhanging shrub tree dripping on me, I reached my hand into my sleeping bag and grabbed the large blue tarp, and haphazardly draped it over the length of my head to toe. I had nothing of energy left to do more than feel that would suffice, and I passed back out, this time to the pounding of giant droplets on the tarp covering my face. But as drunk and happy as I was, it was music to my ears. Kinda how at every campout, as drunk and happy as I am, and then the roar of a rogue bike riding around camp while everyone is passed out, is music to my ears. vroom vroom!!!

It was sometime later morning after a good bit of sleep, the campsite was flooded, my tarp wasn’t working, and I had managed to rescue my backpack by aiming it under my hammock. Well, then that urge to pee comes over us all, that rain induced urge. That sound of rushing water urge. So I traipsed out from my shitty shelter, and tried my best to nestle myself somewhat securely in the overbearing shrub next to my hammock. There I was squatting and peeing, relaxed… and then it happened….it started running out of the wrong end, uncontrollably. I was like, this isn’t happening, oh, no. Too hungover to react, I oddly waddled around with my pants down looking for options. A car drove by, certainly seeing my ass through the sparsely sheltering shrub. I stepped full footed in my own pile, in my search for wiping power. Nothing but the broad wet leaves of the shrub plant I was trying to hid in, would do. I managed to just spent the next few minutes picking leaves, and wiping until I felt it was safe to pull my pants up and find the nearest port-a-john with some tissue paper.

Wet, hungover, shitty, and not giving a damn about anything but more adventure at this point, we headed for breakfast. A tall coffee and a grilled cheese later (provisions of the hippy campers), and I was off on a morning dewy hike around the lake. I got to see the cliffs and have a fun chat with some of the performers of our neighboring hippy campers. I snapped some sweet photos, and took in the crisp morning forest air. After returning to camp, we’d packed our bikes back up. I found my hat upside down in a puddle of mud where our campfire used to be, and we headed back to Cleveland, dodging the sparse torrents and at one point, momentarily taking shelter under the eaves at a gas station. Back in Cleveland, we went for a hearty Asian dinner, and then lounged on the couch at Anna’s until lounging was called “passed out.” I had an early wake up call, and decided that the next day would be a fine time to travel back. Sure the weather cross the upper north east was threatening rain all across the route, but I felt like I wouldn’t see much of it. Like the travel gods would break a clear way in the sky for me. So sunny it was the first thing in the morning. And I was seen off by my pals. I plodded steadily into the east. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, I started to see the sky just look as ominous as possible, growing darker and closer by the miles. I tempted my distance and time, seeing how close I could get before I felt the first drop. And then there they were, a few warning shots from the sky. I loved how good they felt on my sunburnt skin. And I knew that any moment, it was going to be buckets and I would be swimming in it. I pulled over on an exit, to put my leather jacket on. Another bike had the same idea, and came rolling up shortly after. Having only a jacket to throw on, I waved the other bike as I embarked back on the highway. And no more than 1 minute went by, that I was under that downpour. It rained so hard, I could barely see the road, there were definite layers of river underfoot, and I slowed to accommodate the rabidity of it all. My bubble shield kept fogging up, and water was getting in on the inside. I was wiping water from the inside-out. My heavy denim pants, soaked up the rain completely. And then my boots, and then the rest of the trip was me sloshing around in boot puddle. I became comfortable with my soaked state of existence rather quickly, because choosing not to, meant being miserable, and there is never that option for me. I always choose to be absolutely stoked with whatever wild adventure and experience I’m being afforded.

So there I was: drenched, delighted, and destined for this great long 480 mile ride.

I stopped for lunch at a diner nestled in a hillside, right off the highway. I took off my wet ass gloves, and propped them up on various parts of the bike, to air out. I waltzed inside. I sat at the counter, and ordered chili, a salad, and a coffee, to warm up with. My server was very nice, and almost talked me into desert. But I forewent. I decided that I’d visit my friend Michelle in Jim Thorpe, on my way back to Brooklyn, and so I found an easy little backwoods entrance to town. It’s always nice to drop in to say hi, as seems to have been my summer travel routine. We visited a local restaurant. She had food, I had coffee, and we shared recent stories, and I was back on the road within hours. Winding through the PA mountains, the roads looked freshly washed, the feel and sound of water spraying from my tires, and boy do I love that fresh rain smell, MMMmmmMMMmm, it never gets old.

Somewhere in Jersey, I pulled over under a bridge on a dodgy two lane off-the-beaten-path road, next to a river, to take a leak. I found, and promptly kicked away, a broken tip of a jagged kitchen knife, and some other shady bits of what I imagined was the leading evidence in a murder mystery. All too glad to leave that crazy spot, and end of the story short, I ended up on my doorstep in Brooklyn, at about 1pm.

I always say, it’s not a great trip, unless there’s rain. And there was a whole ton of it. A whole cleansing-fun-ton of it. And I’ll leave you with that.

See you on the road.

More trip pics coming over the next couple days, when I manage to get on the internet here and there. Thanks for stopping by,