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.

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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.

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.

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