Dad and I woke up at the butt-crack-o-dawn today to hit the 500. Dad wanted to show me the first test section of the Golden Eagle Enduro we had a few weeks ago. Apparently there was a nasty uphill right before the end of the test which kept the check workers snickering all race long. Fortunately I have a strong sense of self preservation and managed to get us slightly lost before we hit the hill-o-doom. I "unfortunately" :nener: never had the pleasure of crashing on that particular hill. Of course there's always next time I suppose.
I finally tackled the 80 this glorious July 5th morning. The 80 is a parcel of land that the big boys talk of with a hushed awe usually reserved for obstacles that have claimed the lives, careers, or radiators of someone's distant cousin's best friend's roommate. :think: It's tight curves are legend at the 500. So of course it took my dad some time (a few years) to convince me to attempt it. Of course when I think of "The 80" my mind conjures images of near pitch black woods with rabid badgers, spiders as big as your head, and 90 degree turn every 3-5 feet. While it was every bit as difficult as I thought it would be, the woods weren't nearly as menacing as I had originally supposed them to be. It was a fun ride and I only nearly killed myself 3-14 times.
After another short loop dad and I decided to seek out breakfast so we started to load up. When I took off my glove I experienced the blind panic and revulsion usually reserved for tick sightings. Fortunately, it was a small blood blister I got NOT by doing anything heroic or daring on the motorcycle BUT by pinching myself with my boots during my struggle to get them on. (for those who don't know my boots and I don't really get along sometimes and it takes a little "persuasion" to get them buckled properly)
So far during my short-lived motorcycling career my worst injuries occur within a ten yard radius of camp and usually about 5 feet away from my motorcycle. :think:
We went straight to Braums and while we were there an elderly gentlemen asked dad about his bikes. This man turned out to be Doyle McCubbin(s) who rode back when there was no 500. Apparently he and his compatriots were the ones who lobbied to established the 500 after being run out of the Lake Carl Blackwell area. They also cut the first trails out at the 500. :worship: He had a lot of great stories about some of the older names in dirtbiking around these parts (Zink Boys and the Coopers). He was happy to hear how well the Golden Eagle was doing now days. :yeehaw:
Fun times and we made it back into the air conditioning before it got Oklahoma Hot.
I finally tackled the 80 this glorious July 5th morning. The 80 is a parcel of land that the big boys talk of with a hushed awe usually reserved for obstacles that have claimed the lives, careers, or radiators of someone's distant cousin's best friend's roommate. :think: It's tight curves are legend at the 500. So of course it took my dad some time (a few years) to convince me to attempt it. Of course when I think of "The 80" my mind conjures images of near pitch black woods with rabid badgers, spiders as big as your head, and 90 degree turn every 3-5 feet. While it was every bit as difficult as I thought it would be, the woods weren't nearly as menacing as I had originally supposed them to be. It was a fun ride and I only nearly killed myself 3-14 times.
After another short loop dad and I decided to seek out breakfast so we started to load up. When I took off my glove I experienced the blind panic and revulsion usually reserved for tick sightings. Fortunately, it was a small blood blister I got NOT by doing anything heroic or daring on the motorcycle BUT by pinching myself with my boots during my struggle to get them on. (for those who don't know my boots and I don't really get along sometimes and it takes a little "persuasion" to get them buckled properly)
So far during my short-lived motorcycling career my worst injuries occur within a ten yard radius of camp and usually about 5 feet away from my motorcycle. :think:
We went straight to Braums and while we were there an elderly gentlemen asked dad about his bikes. This man turned out to be Doyle McCubbin(s) who rode back when there was no 500. Apparently he and his compatriots were the ones who lobbied to established the 500 after being run out of the Lake Carl Blackwell area. They also cut the first trails out at the 500. :worship: He had a lot of great stories about some of the older names in dirtbiking around these parts (Zink Boys and the Coopers). He was happy to hear how well the Golden Eagle was doing now days. :yeehaw:
Fun times and we made it back into the air conditioning before it got Oklahoma Hot.
