The View From Here

10 years goes by in a blink. This lousy rag has been crashing regularly during that 10 years and, to everyone’s dismay, we’re just getting started.

The Traction eRag began as a harmless club newsletter. It quickly spread like mold in an unopened gear bag. Riders seemed to enjoy our honest and humorous take on off-road riding, clearly weary of reading the soulless and formulaic dirt bike publications of the time (they used to be made of paper!). We have always focused on the human element and the simple fact that riding is fun. We celebrate the everyday hero, not the pros.

We are extremely proud of our roots, check out our back issues. Our ascent from the primordial mud is evident and we would like to thank everyone who gave precious time to make that happen – you know who you are, your names grace each issue of the eRag. Without your contributions this dream would have been dead long ago.

We’ve come a hell of a long way in a decade, but I’d like to think that we will continue to proudly churn out irreverent and inappropriate content with exactly the same attitude as when we started – You can’t shine shit, but you can add glitter.

Somebody wrote us?

WE COULDN’T MAKE THIS SHIT UP

Hi Dallas,

So we had a vote here in Vanuatu, and a guy called Peter R. lost, so we are sending him over to you ratbags for a trail ride.  He used to be a racing car driver – “some say” he was the STIG, but when you meet him you will realize this is unlikely. 

Anyway, he is bringing over two Vanuatu MAD T-Shirts and some stickers, they are crap quality similar to your mag, but that’s why I thought you would enjoy them.  Grab a tin of  Molson and a shot glass of Bear bile, and ask Peter about riding up the Volcano in Tanna. Once you start him off it will be a long night!

 Stay well and come visit some time!

-Terry M.

ED: Well, it happened. A homeless Pablo Escobar looking fella showed up at the airport carrying an axe and told the authorities he was here to “ride with the eRag gang”. After we bailed him out of Customs, we shuttled him off to eRag HQ. Despite falling off his bike (a lot), he proudly hung onto the axe while raving like a lunatic. What’s with the axe, you South Pacific reprobates?
PS: We tacked that janky Vanuatu sticker onto the eRag Jet to ward off the flies.

Hi Dallas,

Darn darn darn, Megs is my hero! I just impaled my thigh. Picture attached if you’re not too squeamish. The accident gave me a kick up the arse to get some serious coaching so I can better manage myself and my bike. I’ve taken no lessons and just follow my boyfriend around.  I want to be a great rider and do it well. But I cannot manage this Sunday as I won’t be recovered.

Please can you keep the offers coming over the summer. My surgeon says I’ll be fully recovered after 3 - 4 weeks. It’s actually “only a flesh wound”

-Louisa C.

---

ED: This looks surprisingly like the "impaling" portion of our off-road curriculum. You're way ahead of the class!

EMPLOYEES MUST DELETE HISTORY BEFORE LEAVING WASHROOM

Hey, is there anyway to Get a paper copy of the eRag? When I am out camping and need to do my business it would be nice to have something to wipe my ass with.

Ray M.

ED: Hell no, we don't do print. But thanks to our new mobile-friendly format, you can now wipe your ass with your phone!

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FI… NO WAIT, YOU’RE SERIOUS.

I found a perfect spot for some of the decals you sent me. I put them on our fire engine. Now we can get to the scene so quickly the fires don’t even have a chance to start. I have a feeling that everyone will want one.

Thanks

Carl S.

ED: They better put additional holy shit handles in that 20 ton fireboat. The additional horsepower will surely catch your driver off-guard and we don't want you to extinguish a BMW rider while pulling into Starbucks.

Going Down

Panicking and silently yelling obscenities at my disheveled self, I tried to peel my heavily loaded Suzuki DR650 off a nice-looking couple’s car. This was the rush hour in Neiva, Colombia, and as I tried to filter through traffic, my right pannier got hit by an impatient bus, propelling me into a clumsy wobble and, eventually, into the door of a black sedan. It wasn’t really a crash, more of a soft, embarrassing thud – but there I was, stuck, with the terrified car people staring at me in shock and disbelief …

No, no, stop, rewind. “Hit” by a bus isn’t quite accurate. The bus just sort of nudged me a little, almost lovingly, and …

Okay, okay. Fine. The bus didn’t hit me. It didn’t nudge me, either. I hit the goddamn bus. I miscalculated the width of the panniers, the bus was moving and I guess I sort of bumped into it.

There I was, a one-woman circus, an idiot gringa who tried riding Colombian style and ended up sideways. People were staring, some visibly amused, some deeply unimpressed. A nice older man jumped off his own motorcycle and helped me pick Lucy up. I thanked him and tried to apologize to the freaked-out couple in the car, but the traffic started moving. 

A minute later, the whole incident was forgotten. People just went about their business. Me, I never forgot it, and to this day, I mostly lie about what happened. “I got squished between two cars,” I say to people. “A bus hit me.”

“Well, nudged me, really.”
“In fact …”

When I got my first motorcycle, a Chinese 150 cc, I was not aware that falling was generally viewed as uncool. As a former horse rider, I felt no prejudice towards involuntary landings. If one fell off a horse, all one had to do was tuck and roll, get up, locate and catch one’s mount, confirm there were no hard feelings on the four-legged side, and get back into the saddle. 

During my brief but entertaining horse training career, I experienced many forms of falling off: dragged along country lanes with my foot stuck in a stirrup, thrown into tree trunks and hedges while fox hunting, launched over fences during show jumping, bucked off while negotiating a with young, uncooperative equines. It was just part of the job, and no one ever batted an eye. Even photo captions in English fox hunting magazines under pictures of red-jacketed riders tumbling over hedges would read “Spectacular Dismount at the Shropshire Hunt,” instead of “Bunch of Inept Folks Fall Off Horses, Haha.”

I brought the same attitude to my little motorcycle: I’d come off once in a while, but because the bike was so small and light, I’d giggle, pick the bike up, dust myself off and carry on. It never dawned on me that the act of falling was somehow lame. It was just something that happens sometimes, like flat tires, or grit in your face from a passing truck, or rain. Just a natural rhythm of moto-life, I figured.

But when I started hanging out with other motorcycle riders, especially after coming back to Europe, something changed. Somewhere along the way, I learned that to fall off meant humiliation. To fall off meant you were incapable, a noob, an object of sniggers and laughter. Nobody explicitly said this, of course. They didn’t have to. Falling off was just uncool, even if you tucked and rolled with smashing success.

However, not all dismounts were equally lame, I learned. Just like other baseless social constructs that unnecessarily, but spectacularly, complicate our lives, there is a hierarchical system categorizing motorcycle falls. Some are permitted, some tolerated and some cruelly laughed at –  the Tiers of Uncoolness.

Dignified Dismounts

There are falls caused by forces outside of your control: other vehicles, suicidal squirrels, landslides and the like. If you fall off your bike because a befuddled Bambi ran out in front of you, your fall counts as a justified, and therefore dignified, one. Perspective is an important element. Sure, maybe you lost control on loose baby-head rocks, or maybe, just maybe, you spotted a field mouse soaking up the sun on a pebble and didn’t want to ruin his afternoon. Maybe the bus hit you, maybe you hit the bus … Semantics.

Tolerable Falls

Some falls are kind of okay. They’re kind of your fault, but still sort of tolerated, like if you find yourself on the ground after attempting to ride slick mud, deep ruts in bulldust, a log or some equally sinister surface. After all, in these cases, you’re not just Egle the Nerd who forgot to focus due to daydreaming and tumbled off – no, you’re a Brave Fallen Hero of the Gnarliest Tracks Imaginable.

Laughable Stupidity

Finally, there are falls that should not, by any means, be brushed off or forgotten easily. You know when you have to stop at the top of a hill, and there’s a slight decline on the left side but you’re not really paying attention, and before you know it, your bike is tipping over? That is a serious offence, in many cases more despicable than killing John Wick’s dog. Fell off crossing a small puddle because your front wheel slipped? Disgrace. Came off on a slow uphill U-turn? Duuuude.

But just like with all other social constructs, in reality you’ve got a choice: You can either strictly adhere to the code, scrupulously log and categorize your falls, and using the Tiers of Uncoolness algorithm, calculate where you stand on the spectrum between utter lameness and glorious badassery. Or you can simply tuck and roll, unselfconsciously chuckle, get back into saddle and keep riding.

Cabo Pulmo

“Cabo,” she said. 

“WHAT?!” I replied. “Like, Cabo as in Baja? Like, home of the NORRA 500 and 1000 Baja rallies?” 

I paused, realizing my excitement might not be shared by my dear wife who had just booked a surprise trip to celebrate our 15-year anniversary. Happy anniversary – Cabo here we come!

As our cattle car with wings made its final descent, I stared out the window at the world below. The crisscrossing dusty roads, lonely rural buildings, rising hills and sandy valley bottoms appeared to run forever. There’s no way I can go home without riding here, I thought. 

I have nothing against the excursions run by resorts, but I wasn’t going to get the kind of riding I enjoy from a mainstream organization with large groups or overly restrictive concerns for safety. I wanted the real deal, with a guide who’s got the knowledge and equipment to offer an experience that would feel like I’m at home riding with my buddies. 

After a bit of googling, I had come up with a likely contender: bajaride.com. I had reached out to them, and after discussing what type of riding I’ve done and my experience, we had made arrangements for a day trip. 

 

Fab picked me up outside my resort and we headed off to his ranch. In the car, I couldn’t help but notice the large air cast on Fab’s left leg. He explained that he had been struck by a car on his way back from a ride. “But there’s nothing to worry about. Your ride will be very safe,” he assured me. I hoped not TOO safe. 

After pulling into his compound, Fab introduced me to Eric, who would be my guide for the day, and showed me the CRF450Xs we would be riding. They were kitted out with large tanks and were clean and well maintained. As he was going over the bike, Eric asked what type of riding I like to do. 

“Como se dice ‘full throttle’ en espanol?” I asked.

He grinned. “MUY BUENO!” 

As I got my gear on, the anticipation and the temperature were rising. This was going to be a great day.

As Eric and I left the compound, the broad desert valley was level and sandy, and dusty dirt roads seemed to head off in all directions. Eric turned from one to another, picking up speed, as I drafted close to his back tire. Soon I was in the top gear, the wind whipping my jersey and the blat of the engine in my ears. Before long, the sand gave way to small hills with more defined gravel roads. The roads, littered with cow droppings and hedged in by thick dry brush, wound through people’s front yards. Clusters of cattle and an occasional horse eyed us suspiciously as we drove past, no fences to pen any of us in. 

We came to a small community made up of a few scattered houses, a desperate-looking soccer field and a small store. Eric bought us a couple bottles of water and some homemade burritos. We had a bit of a break, and Eric chatted with the shopkeeper. Oblivious to their conversation, a wormy-looking dog wetted on a patch of weeds, eyeing my burritos enviously. Off in the distance, the mountains stood blueish and silent.

We left the village through the soccer field, picking up speed and altitude as we headed towards the mountains. Eric seemed to have the sense of direction and velocity of a cruise missile. Small roads and trails forked off occasionally, punctuated by small metal signs, rusty and sandblasted by weather, indicating family ranches.

Higher and higher we went into the rugged sandstone hills, occasionally dropping down into an arroyo, only to climb back out higher than before. Cactuses of all sizes lined the trail, their limbs pointing skywards. Gradually, the vegetation thinned and the terrain became steep and stony, with scrub brush tenaciously clinging to the hillsides. We came to the summit of our ride, and I surveyed the dirt road that snaked its way along the top of the ridge for several miles, with a vertical drop off either side falling hundreds of feet straight down to narrow little canyons below.  

We began to descend and the once-arid air became thick with the smell of ocean salt. The narrow double-track opened up into a gravel road, and the Sea of Cortez lay before us, beachfront houses sparsely dotting the shoreline. We raced towards the water, turquoise-green and tranquil. The road led us into Cabo Pulmo, huddled between the gentle waves and the windblown sandstone hills. A small entourage of dogs briefly gave chase as we drove into town.

We parked our bikes at a small seaside cantina. Eric explained that the restaurant wasn’t open yet, but would be in “about 20 minutes.” A small explanation about how time works in Mexico: It’s sort of like dog years, where one human year equals seven dog years, but instead one Mexican minute equals seven Canadian minutes. “Twenty minutes” stretched into over an hour, and as I cooled off in the shade, looking out at the water, I couldn’t imagine anywhere else in the world I’d rather be and hoped that time would stand still.

Cabo Pulmo was once a small fishing village, it’s life blood the abundance of sea animals that provided the main source of employment and industry through sport and commercial fishing. In 1995, the Mexican government designated the area a protected marine park, making a sanctuary for its coral reefs, 226 species of fish and 154 species of marine invertebrates, as well as the local sea turtles, whales, sharks and colony of sea lions. 

Cabo Pulmo is quickly becoming a bucket-list destination for diving and snorkeling due to its clean, healthy reefs and friendly locals. Quick with a smile or an offer to take a picture, everyone in town seems to have a joie de vivre you don’t encounter in the daily grind most of us are accustomed to. 

The cantina eventually opened its doors, and as we ordered, a gentle breeze ruffled the table cloth, and the waves beat the rocks on the shore while some kids swam in the surf. Music tumbled out of the speaker in the cantina’s corner, and a few regulars made their way in, offering kisses or throwing high fives to the staff. Someone made a joke I couldn’t interpret, eliciting an eruption of laughter from an adjacent table. As our lunch arrived, I had two very clear thoughts: One, this food looks amazing, and two, what the hell am I doing living where it’s frozen half the year when I could be here?

As we munched on our fish tacos, Eric and I had a few minutes to talk about our different riding experiences, and I was reminded of the incredible connection among riders that allows two total strangers from entirely different backgrounds to hit it off so well. Eric told me about his family, his wife and his two young kids, and how for a number of years he has been supporting his family by trail-guiding full-time. 

It was at this point I began to seriously question my own career choices. This guy lives in paradise and gets paid to ride dirt bikes every day? I felt cheated by my high school guidance counselor for never presenting this as an option – if he had I’m certain I would have done a few things differently.

We finished up lunch, settled our tab and got geared up for the ride home. Eric offered two choices: We could take the coast route, which was fast and flat, or we could go back through the mountains. “MOUNTAINS!” I said. 

“Bueno,” he replied, and away we went. 

As soon as we were out of town, Eric once again resumed his pace, the pace I’d requested, which I like to refer to as “Bank Heist Getaway Driver Speed.” 

We retraced our path back up to the top of the mountains, where we stopped for a quick break and a picture, bidding goodbye to the Sea of Cortez. Eric explained that the area, despite looking so barren and desolate, was home to a variety of snakes, spiders, small rodents as well as lynxes and pumas. 

Not long after we had begun to descend again, Eric motioned for a turn, and we swung off the track and climbed down into an arroyo. The arroyo snaked left and right, and the sand was as loose and bottomless as a politician’s promises around election time. It felt like riding on meringue. “What would Barry Morris do?” I asked myself, and not finding an immediate answer, I did what I usually do, opened the throttle and gave it another gear. 

Left and right, we followed the sandy ribbon, which was scattered with trees and clumps of brush we had to slalom our way around. Through yards with cattle, goats and an occasional rider mounted on horseback, we continued to power the Hondas through the sand. The wash gradually widened until it became a valley, and as we raced along, a low-flying jet buzzed overhead, making its approach for landing. We raced along, dodging the brush and bushes, leaning back heavy on the rear tire, trying to maximize traction. 

Looking at my nearly empty fuel tank, I realized my fun had to be drawing to a close, and a brief series of spluttering backfires confirmed my suspicions. I reached down flipped it onto reserve, and after it had cured itself of its coughing fit, I goosed the throttle. Unfortunately, there was no getting away from the fact I was back in the compound’s neighborhood. 

I replayed the day in my mind, with the stunning scenery and miles of sandstone hills as we crossed the twelfth-largest peninsula in the world. With the friendly, resolute people, cactus groves and ranchos, all with their roots and boots in the dust, it’s no wonder that the Baja captures so many people’s imaginations. This IS really one of the few remaining places on Earth where you can experience the kind of ultimate freedom that most of us riders dream about. There are no warning signs, fences or posted speed limits. No license plates, safety committees or fun-police. The pipes are loud, the bikes are fast and the trails spiderweb out into the horizon forever. This is Baja, and I can’t wait to go back.

Broke or Flush

You know how this goes, you are about to read a balanced article about how there are pros and cons on both sides and ultimately it comes down to a personal preference as to what works for you as a individual with your own set of unique proclivities, including that weird thing you do with that inanimate object we won’t mention.  

I call bullshit!

OF COURSE its better to have lots of money.  Even for Adventure riding.  

So, before you skinflints get out pen and paper to write a protest letter, let me ask you, is that a ballpoint pen you are using or a quill you fashioned for the purpose?  Maybe you were about to write an e-mail?  Computers are a thing too.  Bit costlier than a chook arse feather though.

But motorcycles are different right?  

I still call bullshit!

I dare you to take off the luxury items from your bike.  Start with removing your grips and all the padding from your seat.  You don’t need them.  If you were broke, you couldn’t afford them anyway.  

Now go for a nice long ride.  How was your adventure riding experience?  Did you enjoy a day with sore wrists and a red raw bum?  If the answer is ‘Yes’, then my apologies, I didn’t realise you were a private school teacher from England.  As you were.

Everyone I know wants more money.  You don’t have to spend it on your bike or ADV experience, but if you had it, you would.

‘But ADV is about skill, man and machine versus mountain, not some amazing electronic trickery helping you out or an expensive coffee maker the next day!’ I hear you say.

Ever had a coffee headache from detoxing?  They aren’t pleasant.  

What you really, really mean when you say these things, is that your ADV is about talking crap at the bar (or campsite, if you must) and about how, even though you are poor, you were a hero.  Ever notice how the challenges you overcame keep growing every time you retell them? 

Let’s face it, what you probably did was just push your bike through a muddy puddle.  If that is the glory of ADV for you, and that makes you a legendary figure just awaiting a Marvel film in your honour, then when I win Powerball, I have absolutely no problem having you jump out of my luxury support vehicle and push my bike whenever I come to a muddy puddle.   I’ll pay you well.  

You can even ride along with me.  When I get a flat tyre, my crew will fix it, while I recline on a chaise lounge being fanned by bikini clad femme fatales.  When you get a flat tyre, you will use your skill and wily wit … while sweating like a pig.  If I get lost, or hurt, I’ll use my expensive technology to get help.  You won’t.  If my bike won’t start, I’ll use my expensive battery charger.  You can do … whatever it is you do in that situation. 

At the end of the day, while you sit on the sodden earth, telling your mates about your ‘adventure’, I will eat Lobster, drink fine red wine, have my aching muscles massaged by nymphs and trust me, have very much enjoyed my ADV experience.  Later, I will go to bed in my tent, that was erected by someone else, and sleep on a thick mattress under a downy doona, while you shiver and fight off mosquitos. 

Oh, and the next morning, my Italian barista will make me a Kopi luwak cappuccino, even if I have to pay for a 180km extension cord to a power outlet.  

And if we meet in a pub a week later, guess what, I’ll be able to make up delusional stories just as good as yours.  The only difference is, when I tell a joke, my entourage will laugh.

Tell me again how good it is being broke?

Motorpscycledelic

Some lessons can be learned multiple ways. Like, “Enjoy the ride.” As riders, we know we turn to our motorcycles to escape the mundane and search for the unfamiliar. But, an ADV trip last spring introduced me to the parallels between throwing one leg over a freedom machine and chewing an eighth of a paste of dried psilocybin mushrooms. 

The crew and I spent the months preparing, and when the day finally came, we all felt the adrenaline rush. In the moment! On the move! 

But before long, trepidation began to set in. Psychedelically speaking, “bad trips” don’t exist, only difficult ones. My sandcastle in the sky began to crumble. No one talks about solo helmet time. Alone in the group. A cloud shifts across the sky and blocks the sun. In that split second, the doubts creep in. Did I take (on) too much? Are my tires the right pressure? Fuck, my back is sore. 

“One pull on the throttle, it all melts away”

The cloud rolls, and the sunshine brings warmth to my already burnt face. The scenery is spectacular. One pull on the throttle, it all melts away. The dream realized! 

The days ripped by. Apparently I wasn’t the only uneasy rider. One by one, my comrades succumbed to their demons until only one KTM remained in the isolated backcountry. Paranoia is too heavy for a plastic tail fender. Fuck them. They joined the enemy (the asphalt).

My mind told me to take it slow, but the throatiness of the 690 sang to me. She knew the desolate backcountry allowed for neck-breaking speeds. 

Twisting my right hand further and further back, I stormed down the logging roads into oblivion. Rushing by, the backdrop became a surreal blurred pattern. The line between bike trip and mind trip was no longer obvious. Alone. How did I get here? How hard-headed am I? This 690 is perfection! The ditch flying by could swallow me whole. No one knows where I am. Do I know where I am? I feel invincible! What is that ticking from the engine? 

I was peaking. The euphoria and crippling fear were dancing in my brain. I was losing my mind. 

When I finally came to a stop at the black tar in front of me, my awareness of reality returned like a pan to the face. A drug trip can reveal to you the secrets of the universe. But inevitably the next day you are left asking yourself: What were they again? What the hell just happened? 

The only way to remember is to do it all over again.

Do Neck Braces Actually Work? - Gadgety Items

There's plenty of debate about neck braces: Do they really work? How much do they reduce neck injuries? And which particular injuries? A big problem in trying to find answers to these questions is there is so little genuine research available. There is plenty of anecdotal “evidence” from riders, some saying they would be dead or at least paralyzed now if they hadn’t been wearing their neck brace, and others saying neck braces can break your sternum or cause other injuries. Not very decisive. So we pored over the existing research to see if we could draw any tentative conclusions. 

It appears speed is a big factor. Neck braces are far more common in desert racing and motocross compared to Enduro riding. One study showed 10% of motocross injuries are neck and upper spine fractures. In contrast, a different study of Enduro competitors found no spinal fractures at all, just mild strains, which only accounted for 5% of total injuries. Keep in mind these are actual racers, so slower everyday riders will probably have even less chance of spinal injuries. 

Do neck braces actually work? An informal report from basic statistics gathered by emergency services personnel seems to support the use of neck braces. Unfortunately, the methodology isn't very good from a research angle, and we feel the report needs analysis and interpretation from experts to be more reliable. 

Next, we read a white paper from Leatt, creator of the first motorbike-specific neck brace. The methodology is much better in this study, but of course there's the potential for a lot of bias here. Not surprisingly, the report found Leatt neck braces do work in preventing or reducing injury. It would be good to see this paper published in a peer-reviewed journal, as this would give it the stamp of approval from independent experts, but no luck so far.

We then came across a properly independent study that said their results were unclear and that the dummy used in all tests so far should to be replaced with a better model to really prove neck braces work. Another independent study showed neck braces had a moderate effect, but only if the gap between the helmet and neck brace was less than five centimeters. 

Our conclusions? Well, at the moment, it's all too sketchy to form any solid opinions. But hopefully in the near future we will see some decent independent research on neck braces using high-tech crash test dummies and great methodology applied to various types of dirt riding. 

In the meantime, do your own research and see if it's worth handing over your hard-earned cash.

MOTORCYCLE NECK BRACE REFERENCES:

• Great Lakes EMS Inc/Action Sports EMS (2018). Neck Brace Effectiveness Statistics.

• Khanna, A., Bagouri, E. O., Gougoulias, N., Maffulli, N. (2015). Sport injuries in enduro riders: a review of literature. Muscles, Ligaments and Tendons Journal, 5 (3), 200-2022. 

• Khosroshahi, S., Ghajari, M., Galvanetto, U. (2016, May). Finite Element Simulation of Neck Brace Protective Equipment for Motorcycle Riders. Paper presented at International Conference on Impact Loading of Structures and Materials, Turin, Italy.

• Leatt, C., de Jongh, M., Keevy, P. A. (2009; public release 2012) White Paper: Research and Development Efforts towards the Production of the Leatt-Brace. Leatt Corporation.

• Sathyanarayan, D., Nightingale, R., Ballantyne, C., Panzer, M. B. (2016). The Efficacy of a Motocross Neck Brace in Reducing Injury.

• Sun, J., Rojas, A., Kraenzler, R., Arnoux, P. J. (2012). Investigation of motorcyclist safety systems contributions to prevent cervical spine injuries using HUMOS model. International Journal of Crashworthiness, 17 (6).

Rack N Roll hitch carrier - Gadgety Items

I work with my hands. I prefer carburetors to fuel injection, the mall is a torture chamber, and safety comes (a not so close) second to getting the job done. I am technically a millennial, but don’t tell anyone. I vaguely remember a simpler world where two plus two is always four, dogs are boys, cats are girls, and Coke is the obvious choice over Pepsi.

So, when the Rack N Roll showed up at the eRag HQ, I was excited to give the world an aligning nudge back to its blue-collar axis by showing why a hitch carrier is not a valid option for transporting a motorcycle. 

As the unboxing began, I felt a familiar sensation in my back: strenuous labour! The components were heavy! The hardware was good quality and it went together like old farm equipment – all the bolts fit in the holes. But there were no instructions. Searching online, all we found were poor quality pictures posted by people loving their Rack N Rolls. This was not Ikea furniture. It took three of us and a box full of proper tools to get the thing built.

Mounting the bike was an easy one-man job thanks to the Rack N Roll’s ingenious turnbuckle system and adjustable wheel chock, though my doubts persisted as to how the rack would handle rough backcountry terrain. I took the rough way down to the highway, still hoping to salvage some evidence that this thing was for ninnies, but I was sorely disappointed. My bike was rock solid. The hitch carrier didn’t move independently of the truck, and the turnbuckles held the bike securely. My bike is far more secure on the Rack N Roll than on a trailer.

There are some downsides to using this rack paired with mitigating considerations: On the rack, the bike does protrude beyond both sides of the vehicle, but the rack lights clearly mark the width. The bike gets dirtier than if it were in a truck bed, but because using the rack means I can take my SUV instead of a truck, I also have somewhere to sleep on overnight trips. The rack price tag is somewhat alarming, but it means I don’t need to buy a truck just to haul my dirt bike.

After several months of using the Rack N Roll, I do have a couple of complaints: Namely, that the Australian wiring takes some figuring to adapt for North American use, and because the rack instructions are non-existent, the resulting humming and hawing means my self-identity is more precarious than ever. Nevertheless, if you don’t need to carry more than one bike, and your vehicle is designed to carry a bit of tongue weight, the Rack N Roll is a solid contender.

Interested in owning a Rack N Roll? Where men are men and sheep are nervous, they are available at the Aussie website racknroll.com.au. If you are living the American Dream, the product can be found at racknrideusa.com. With the super fancy LED lighting kit they cost $450 USD. For Canucks, shipping from L.A. to the Great White north is roughly an extra $100 but you will have to account for the Northern Peso.

Asterisk Cell Knee Brace - Gadgety Items

It wasn’t a massive crash but a silly tip over that pinned my leg between my bike and a rock and tore my MCL, the ligament on the inside of the knee. During my three-month recuperation, I began the search for proper knee braces to replace the cheap knee guards I had been using and settled on the Asterisk Cell. Admittedly, the selection process was based on Internet searches and customer reviews, as I could not find a retailer that stocked the product in my area. 

Finally, I called Asterisk directly with questions and provided leg measurements. When the knee braces arrived, I made adjustments to fine tune the fit, and over a few rides the braces began to form-fit to my legs. 

The Cell uses four velcro adjustable straps to secure the brace to your leg. It provides frontal impact protection from mid-thigh down to mid-shin and limits sideways movement of the knee joint. A knee sock should be worn between the brace and your leg to absorb moisture and to keep the brace from moving out of position as you get sweaty during your ride.

The Asterisk Cell provides extra protection for your knee that knee guards cannot, but that protection costs around $1000 CAD a set. I weighed this cost against the potential of a season-ending crash plus subsequent therapy and found it acceptable. Knee braces are bulky and may not fit inside slim riding pants. They also require a riding boot with increased lower leg/calf room to accommodate the lower portion of the brace.

 After four years of use, my Asterisk Cell braces are battered, but they still work properly, are comfortable and provide me with the protection I require. They have definitely saved my knees from serious injury several times, and I will not ride without them. 

asterisk.com

The Finish Line