Alaskapade on Twitter

I have been asked by several readers to set up a Twitter account for the Alaskapade updates.  It seems to me that there are already plenty of other ways to keep up with me on the road, but I appreciate the interest.  It was minor effort to set up the Twitter account and I linked my Spot GPS transponder to the account.

So, if you're into the Tweeting scene and you prefer to keep up with Hester and I that way, you can follow me on Twitter under the username @Alaskapade. I don't plan on tweeting directly to the account. The updates will come from the messages sent from My Spot transponder.

Stupid Part Three - Senior Prom Sabotage

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Alaskapade.com Is Up

I'm not ditching Google Blogspot completely because I like their authoring interface.  But I've managed to port my writing over to my own site and since Google AdSense screwed me, I'd rather not send them any traffic.

Nothing changes from the reader's perspective except that you can reach the site the following ways:

www.alaskapade.com

alaskapade.com

or

http://alaskapade.blogspot.com

.

Stupid - Part Two

For those of you jumping in without reading the articles in chronological order and wondering what the hell this has to do with the Alaskapade, the next paragraph is a repeat from a previous entry.


I was sitting in a client's conference room in the midst of pre-meeting smalltalk when a co-worker brought up the Alaskapade and asked when I was leaving.  One of my clients asked what he was talking about and my co-worker pulled up the Alaskapade.com page on the conference room's projection screen.  We had but moments before the meeting kicked off, so there wasn't much time for me to explain.  There was time, however for my client to express his opinion that "this has to be the stupidist thing [I've] ever done".  My first instinct was to argue the purpose for my trip, but this is my customer and IBM probably wouldn't appreciate that.  So, I just grinned, nodded, and bit my lip as the meeting started.

It did get me thinking though.  I know I'm firmly resolved in my purpose for the trip and I also know that I've done many things more stupid than this.  There are too many to list without starting another blog, so I thought I would describe my top three in no particular order.As promised in a previous post, here is another of the three dumbest things I've ever done.


 Shooting My Mouth Off to a Prison Camp Guard

"That - Mr. Wilson - is going to cost you."

Many years ago, I served in the U.S. Air Force. My primary job was an Electronic Warfare Systems Technician and in that capacity, I serviced aircraft-mounted electronic countermeasures (ECM) equipment. The gear's purpose was to jam or deceive enemy radar by altering the apparent location and/or quantity of our aircraft as they flew over threat radar systems. We also maintained radar warning receivers that alerted aircrews to the presence of various ground and air based radar-guided missiles and anti-aircraft artillery. In their day, these systems were on the absolute bleeding edge of microwave and RF signal processing technology and as technicians on them, we were the geekiest of geeks. Training for and working with these systems required serious security clearances beyond what the general public even knew existed.  While I was in basic electronics tech school, I was constantly hearing from friends and even high school teachers back home telling me that strange people in suits with badges showed up at their doorstep asking questions about my background. I was squeaky clean - the Air Force's wet dream, so securing the necessary clearances necessary to move on to the specific equipment was a breeze for me. I also happened to do really well in the school. Classes ran six hours a day, five days a week for 18 months, at the end of which I had carved out a 98% test score average. My point isn't that I'm some smart guy. Hell, I flunked algebra in high school.  I just got the concepts and excelled in the training.  Nevertheless, that average earned me honor grad status and that status offered me my choice of base assignments as well as opportunities to join Special Operations forces.  In one of the few conversations my father and I had regarding my career, he strongly advised (based on his own experiences) that I stay away from any special duties that involved National security or Special Ops.

I couldn't wait to get into National security or Special Ops.

I took an assignment at Bergstrom Air Force Base in Austin, Texas and worked in an ECM shop in the 67th Tactical Reconnaissance Wing's Component Repair Squadron (CRS). Many there claimed ECM stood for "Easy Chair Maintenance" and that CRS stood for "Can't Repair Shit".  To a certain degree, they were correct.  So when I was offered an opportunity to step outside the box and work in field intelligence, I jumped at the chance.  I would work in my shop until notice of an assignment came to me. These notifications usually consisted of temporary duty (TDY) orders with the location blanked out. Then, I would disappear for a few days and no one in my shop or immediate command structure was allowed to ask where I was. It was a perfect racket.

These assignments had ancillary training prerequisites that were not overly technical.  Short classes in Falls Church, VA were common. You can determine the Government agencies there and put two and two together.  Less common were the field survival courses which were usually conducted in remote locations in the pacific northwest. One of these courses was essentially a prison camp experience wherein the trainees were dropped-in to the forest, captured by "enemy forces", interrogated, and subsequently evaluated on our ability to cope and maintain military discipline throughout the induced stress. There was one other tech in my shop who had been to "prison" and he had related his experiences to some of us.  So when my turn came up, I had an idea what to expect.  In fact, I was pretty sure that I had the entire game figured out.  Hell, at 24 years old, I thought I knew everything.

I was fortunate to be scheduled in the summer months when surviving in the forest is easier.  There were six of us from various armed services in my drop group.  When I said "dropped-in", I meant it.  We bailed from the back of a C-130 cargo aircraft and parachuted into the forest.  They didn't just strap a chute to us and push us out the door.  I had been a sport sky diver in years past and had some Air Force training as well.  We could see the camp facility from above during our descent and we knew they could see us parachuting in. We had been told that once we were on the ground we would most certainly be captured immediately and taken to the camp.

Having had some idea of what to expect, I packed peanut butter crackers and a heating bladder of water to live on in case I wasn't immediately apprehended. The course had a finite schedule and I figured every hour I was on the lam was an hour I wouldn't spend in "enemy" hands. I also knew the forest was wired and our location would be known as soon as we started moving.  So when I hit the ground, I buried my chute, dug a hole, covered myself with leaves,and laid there. I wasn't alone.  I discreetly shared my sustenance stash with an Army soldier before we jumped. We shared a warped sense of humor and clicked in the hours prior to our flight departure. Beyond that, I figured if I was caught with the goodies, splitting the blame between two of us might make my life easier.

We laid in the woods through the night and were awakened from the pre-dawn silence by an announcement blasted through a loudspeaker system in the trees instructing us to turn ourselves in. Specifically, the instructions were to walk south until we saw a white marker in the trees and then turn left, and to keep turning left at each marker until we received further instructions.  Looking back, I assume they always knew where we were.  They were just to lazy to come get us.  Essentially, they had us following an inward spiral which terminated at a clearing in the forest. The fort was straight ahead of us in this clearing.

Prior to our flight, we were given details of fake missions, nonexistent technologies, call signs, passwords, and other minutia to memorize. This would be the information that our captors would attempt to extract from us during the interrogations that were almost certain to take place in the days ahead.  The instructors actually used Dale Carnegie memorization techniques to force feed the information to us.

My Army co-fugitive and I exited the forest and made our way towards the fort.  After sleeping in the dirt among insects and Lord knows what else and having consumed only stale crackers and warm rubbery water for the last 30 hours, even prison quarters and inmate chow was starting to sound appealing.  The fort looked like a fort I would have constructed as a kid.  It appeared to be a two-story wooden structure with guard posts on each corner and a row of razor wire surrounding the entire place. As we approached the fort, a person appeared in one of the guard towers and yelled to us through a megaphone, ordering us to stop. It reminded me of the French guard in Monty Python's Holy Grail. That movie cracks me up to this day.  Unfortunately, the association of events cracked me up then too and I started laughing. The night before, we had been discussing the tactics they might employ to get to us and surmised that although they would try to scare us, they weren't going to physically harm us.  We assumed were way to valuable for that. This would turn out to be but one of many invalid assumptions that I will have made by the end of this experience. Another guard appeared on the other end of the wall before us and told us to keep walking. We started walking again and the first guard yelled to us to stop. Again, the other guard said to keep walking and we did.  About then, the most realistic bullets-hitting-the-sand-around-us-effect stopped us dead in our tracks. Apparently, when the first guard said to stop, he meant it.  The other guard was unarmed, or at least never showed a weapon. You can guess which orders we followed. The doors about fifty feet in front of us burst open and several people came running toward us with weapons drawn and yelling in some language neither of us understood.

Instinctively, I dropped to my knees with my hands in the air.  The afternoon before, I was leaping into thin air form a cargo plane and was as cool as a cucumber.  Now, here I was firmly planted on terra firma and my heart was pounding so loud I'm sure the guards could hear it from their posts.  We were instructed to turn to face away from the fort.  My hands were bound to the sides of our waists and my elbows strapped so close together behind me that I thought my arms would snap out of my shoulder sockets. They bound my feet together and them bound my right ankle to the left of my Army buddy.  One of the soldier's placed a black cloth on the ground in front of us and told us to put our faces in it.  Picture me on my knees with my arms and legs bound and try to imagine how I could comply with their order.  All I could do was lean forward and let gravity do its thing. I managed to turn my head to the right so I wouldn't face plant into the dirt and so I could see what was happening next to me.  That was the last I saw for what seemed like several hours.  The thick, opaque, black cloth was wrapped around my face and its base duct-taped around my neck. I couldn't see anything, but I remember hearing the tape being unrolled and torn.  We were brought to our feet, turned around, and instructed to walk forward. Still bound at the ankles, it must have resembled a drunken three-legged race.  I had no idea which direction I was stumbling. We clumsily stepped up into something and I felt cooler air surrounding me.  I assumed we were inside the fort.

At this point, we were separated and I was led into a musty smelling room. The door closed behind me and the room was silent except for the thundering sound of my heart and pulse. I was still bound with my head covered. For all I knew the lights could have been on with a roomful of people watching me, so I just stood like a mummy.  I could hear conversations in adjacent rooms, but couldn't make out what was being said.

After what felt like hours, I heard the door open behind me.  My feet, elbows, and hands were unbound and that damn hood was finally removed. In the room was a table with a chair on opposite sides facing each other. Behind the table was a window into a smaller room with a big, old-school video camera.  Two older Asian-looking men in foreign military uniforms walked in. One spoke perfect English, the other said nothing. The English speaker spoke softly and invited me to take a seat.  I was offered a cigarette and a glass of water.  I declined the smoke, but took the water.  We were permitted to accept basic living necessities, but were instructed to decline luxuries that might lead the other prisoners to think we were receiving special treatment in exchange for information or cooperation. I sat at the table and drank the hard water.

The non-English speaker spoke to the other in what sounded like an Asian dialect.  The other nodded, opened a binder on the table, and pushed it toward me.  I was instructed to sign a pre-written statement or write my own and then read to in front of the camera. I replied that I didn't wish to make a statement.  The non-English speaker said something to the other and he then told me that it was not a request. "You must make a statement." I thought about if for a moment and reached for the pen. It was a standard issue black Bic Click pen with "Property of the U.S. Government" embossed in the barrel.  That pen totally ruined the environmental mood effect.

I scribbled out a short sentence, closed the book, and slid it across the table.  Without looking at it, the English speaker motioned to someone in the camera room and stepped out leaving me alone with the other officer.  A large red light on the camera illuminated and the officer pointed at the book and then at the camera and said something I didn't understand.  I opened the book, looked toward the camera and read the following statement which I had written moments before.

"My name is U.S. Air Force Staff Sergeant Scott Wilson. the Geneva Convention dictates that I tell you nothing more."  That was the written statement.  At this point, I thought about that pen and the smart ass in me piped up and I added "Do whatever you want to me, but remember; You never found me out there. I came to you."

I could hear someone in the camera room burst out in laughter and then stifle it.  The Asian speaking officer leaned over to me and with a straight face said very quietly in perfect, unaccented English. "That - Mr. Wilson - is going to cost you."

It occurred to me at that very instant that that might not have been smartest thing I had done up to that point in my life.  The events that occurred afterward would confirm this thought. In fact, I would learn during my time there that I was wrong on many things concerning this experience.  We figured we were too expensive and important to take serious abuse from these guys.  We were wrong.

I was led to a cell wherein my feet and hands were bound to the outside of the bars as I sat on the concrete floor on the other side of the bars. From that position, I learned shortly thereafter that if the bottom of your feet are beat with a pliable rubber paddle, the bones don't break and there's no bruising for evidence.  I also learned that it hurts like a motherf*cker.

They uncovered my water bladder and peanut butter wrappers from the forest where we hid out.  I paid for that too and there was no blame sharing discount.

I towed the line and did my best to play by the rules for the rest of my time there. Once again, I thought I could outsmart them during an interrogation session, so I made up details and lied.  I later learned that they already knew all of the information I was given beforehand, so they knew I was full of it.  I learned also that the reason telling lies doesn't work is because your captors could assume it's true and word will get out among the other prisoners that you are cooperating. Morale suffers as a result. It's not like everyone's morale was high to begin with, but I got the point.

I learned that they had called back to my shop at Bergstrom and asked for dirt on me. They asked about things like gambling and drinking habits, girlfriends, pilfering from the paint locker; anything with which they could claim to know about and use to try to get me to talk.  When I said above that I was squeaky clean, I meant it. So when I was told that someone from my shop reported some lame story that I forged my semi-annual physical fitness test results, I knew it was crap and thought (silently to myself this time) "is that the best you got?" and refused to talk.

When our "sentence" was complete, they blew a horn throughout the camp and it was as if the world around us went from black and white to color.  The entire staff spoke perfect English as they opened up the cells and walked the grounds calling everyone to assemble in the courtyard.  We were told that our training was complete and sent to shower and get back in uniform and meet up for our individual evaluations.

I remember being struck by the fact that the instructor staff were all older and were all veterans who had spent real time in real POW camps during the Vietnam war. At that moment, I felt like a heel for the attitude I displayed more so than I felt like a pussy for whining when my feet were beaten the days before.  These guys were the real deal and I felt like I had disrespected them.

The key thing I took away from it all was a comment I received from the "Asian" officer.  All he said to me was "You could stand to take all of this a bit more seriously".  I'm fortunate that although I faced some wild stuff in my last couple of years of Air Force service that followed my prison camp experience, I never faced the circumstances that were presented to me in the camp.

Updates From the Road - Please Read

One of the (many) devices I will have on board with me on the Alaskapade is a GPS transponder unit which will uplink my location via satellite and will allow me to send short updates from the road during the trip.  A great portion of this trip will be ridden through remote areas beyond the range of cellular service and this device will let me keep friends and family abreast of my location and status via short (max 41 character) messages. The messages will include a link to a scrollable, zoom in/out map with my current location and a track line of my trip from its inception.  Viewers can move their cursor over the track line to see when I was at that location.  This device will also be the source for a similar map with the same features which will be placed atop my Alaskapade.com page.  Readers not receiving the messages from the road can still see my progress.

The unit does not receive messages.  I will only receive text and messages when I'm under cellular coverage or stopped at a location with internet services.

The device also provides 911/SOS monitoring and emergency dispatch through the dedicated International Emergency Rescue Coordination Center (IERCC) based in Houston, Texas. If I happen to find myself in serious trouble, (assuming I'm physically capable) I can press a button and activate the rescue process. While the safety/rescue feature is this device's primary purpose, I prefer to concentrate on the messaging capabilities and think of it as a means of keeping in touch with my friends and family back in the lower 48.

The routine status messages can be sent to predetermined groups of recipients who can receive the information via text or email. If you want to receive these updates, I need you to send me an email with the following information.

Name

Your preference for contact - Text or Email (or both)

Email Address

Cell Phone Number & Carrier (if text is your preference)

Email this information to me at ktm_scott@yahoo.com

Please do so sooner than later because updating the network is a bit cumbersome and I expect to be really busy in the days preceding my departure.

 

Neither I nor the service provider will distribute or otherwise compromise your personal information.  Transmissions will begin on my scheduled June 18th departure date and will cease when I return to Dallas, upon which I will delete the recipient group and your information. I don't expect more than one or two messages per day unless something extraordinary happens.  Recipients can opt out at any time by, but I will have to be in a location with internet access to edit the list, so you may receive a few messages after you opt out.

Finally, if you're into the geek speak for this stuff, you can find details on this device here.

IT WAS A JOKE!

Apparently, I didn't make it clear enough at the end of my last post that the Alaskapade is not postponed. It was just an April Fools joke.  Come hell or high water, I'm hitting the road on June 18th and I'm sure I'll have plenty to write about here before I leave.  I hope to have "Stupid Part 2" up on Friday.

Alaskapade is Postponed

I hate even having to type this.  It was tough enough just making the decision, but I had to address it and move on.  I've decided to postpone the Alaskapade until the summer of 2012.  The reason is primarily financial.

Some of you are aware that I am an avid stamp collector. Last week, I was offered the opportunity to purchase the coveted Netherlands #12, og, hinged stamp for only $2,300.  If you're into the stamp collecting scene, you can imagine my excitement.  Dropping the cash on the stamp drained my Alaskapade fund and I refuse to use credit cards for a vacation. Therefore, the financially responsible thing for me to do is to postpone the trip.  I'll continue writing the blog as the months pass and the year will go by before we know it.

If you're as disappointed as I am, saying these two words to yourself will make you feel better: April Fools!  Stamps?  Really?

The Three Most Stupid Things I've Ever Done - Part One

For those of you jumping in without reading the articles in chronological order and wondering what the hell this has to do with the Alaskapade, the next paragraph is a repeat from a previous entry.


I was sitting in a client's conference room in the midst of pre-meeting smalltalk when a co-worker brought up the Alaskapade and asked when I was leaving.  One of my clients asked what he was talking about and my co-worker pulled up the Alaskapade.com page on the conference room's projection screen.  We had but moments before the meeting kicked off, so there wasn't much time for me to explain.  There was time, however for my client to express his opinion that "this has to be the stupidist thing [I've] ever done".  My first instinct was to argue the purpose for my trip, but this is my customer and IBM probably wouldn't appreciate that.  So, I just grinned, nodded, and bit my lip as the meeting started.

It did get me thinking though.  I know I'm firmly resolved in my purpose for the trip and I also know that I've done many things more stupid than this.  There are too many to list without starting another blog, so I thought I would describe my top three in no particular order.As promised in my previous post, here is one of the three dumbest things I've ever done.

Racing My Dirt Bike the Weekend Following My Vasectomy

Does this really require elaboration? I had a vasectomy many years ago.  Prior to having it done, I had heard horror stories about the pain, swelling, and general discoloration immediately following the procedure.  Maybe it was the Xanax, but I found that the drama surrounding the process was really overblown.  I was dropped off for the procedure and was standing in the parking lot waiting for my ride home less than an hour later.  I went home and sat on my bag of Bird's Eye Frozen Peas as I was instructed.

That was on a Wednesday.  By the following Friday, I was feeling fine and was up and around as if nothing happened.  I should make it clear that I felt fine, but I really didn't look fine.  My balls looked like Leggs Panty Hose containers that had been colored with Paas Easter egg dye.  I was impressed with the size, albeit kinda freaked out by the color. But I digress.

Months before, I had signed up to race the Jimmy Jack Enduro, unaware at the time that I would be getting the vasectomy.  Once the surgery date was scheduled, I pretty much blew off the race figuring I would be too miserable.  But, by Saturday I was feeling better than I was on Friday and my balls had shrunk to almost their normal size and color. The sutures in each side were no longer itching either. I decided to load up the bike and ride out to the race with my friends and if I felt like it, enter the event.

An Enduro is different than what most people think of a dirt motorcycle race.  It's not like motocross with massive jumps and berm corners where each rider competes against the rest of the pack. An enduro is a race with the clock, much like an auto rally.  The idea is to get from point A to point B (and subsequently dozens of other points) at a precise time. There are several classes of competitors with classifications based on engine type and displacement, rider age, and experience.  All competitors ride the course simultaneously, but you only compete with riders in your class.  They didn't have a post-vasectomy class, nor a too-stupid-to-know-better class, so I just rode with my usual group of intermediate "B" riders.

The enduro course is long.  Really long. A typical course for intermediate and advanced riders is 80-120 miles. The terrain usually consists of canyons, creeks, rocks, bigger rocks, deeper creeks, and very dense forests. Work with me here because as mundane as these details are, they're necessary. Riders are given details of specific speeds that must be maintained between specific mileage points and there are checkpoints with synchronized clocks along the course to verify each rider is on time. The trick is, you don't get to pre-ride the course and you have no idea where the checkpoints are.  I used a small handlebar-mounted computer that interfaced with my odometer to tell me if I was on time, late, or early.  I was rarely early.  Actually, I was rarely on time either.  A rider who hits a checkpoint late gets a point for each late minute.  A rider who enters a checkpoint early gets five points, plus a point for each early minute.  The idea is to have as few points as possible at the end of the course. It's a cat and mouse game because the riders don't know where the checkpoints are and the terrain is such that there's practically no way you can ride the proper speeds for the entire course. Every so often, the course will have an open pasture or field in which riders can twist the throttle and make up some time.  These open areas were typically my favorite part of any course. That would eventually prove not to be the case at the Jimmy Jack Enduro.

We arrived at the race site on Saturday afternoon, unloaded the bikes, and set up camp.  This was in my early years of racing before I bought a camper. That night, we endured the worst storm I have ever seen short of hurricane Elena which I endured when I was in the Air Force stationed in Biloxi, Mississippi. It was so bad that I abandoned my tent and slept in the car. We awakened to a campground that looked like a refugee camp. Tents, EZ-Up canopies, and banners were scattered "from Hell to breakfast", as my mom used to say.  There was still a light drizzle in the air which was eventually followed by a full-on drenching.  Despite the weather, the promoters did not scratch the race. They were aware that many riders including myself had driven hundreds of miles to ride this event. It was a bitterly cold morning in November and there was rain and wind, but no lightning.  It may have been uncomfortable, but from a weather perspective, the conditions were not unsafe so the race was on.  Still, a little voice in my head was telling me I should sit this one out.

I have a bad habit of ignoring little voices.

Enduro races always start at 8:00am on Sunday mornings. At 8:00am, the first row of five riders takes off.  The second row at 8:01, and so on until all rows are out. I figured someone on my row must have a clue about the course and I would just try to keep up with them.  Problem was, this time I was apparently that guy on my row who appeared to have a clue and to whom the other riders looked up. Insert your metaphor here: blind leading the blind, drunk monkeys porking a football, etc.

The starting area was downhill from the camping area, so I just mounted my Kawasaki, coasted down the hill, popped the clutch in gear, and bump started the engine and rode to the line where my row was waiting. I was about midway through the pack in what turned out to be a smaller group of riders than there would have been had the weather not turned.  One by one, minute by minute, the rows in front of me took off with motors revving as they disappeared into the woods and appeared to be swallowed by the dense fog. When my row started, excitement and nerves got the best of me and I screwed up and stalled the motor. Not thinking about the events that had taken place just three days prior and in a panic over my starting line miscue, I quickly slammed my right leg down on the kick starter of my high-compression, 365cc four stroke motor.

Ouch.

Fortunately, the motor fired on the first attempt and I was on my way.  It was only thirty seconds into the event and my handlebar computer was already alerting me to the fact that I was behind. Keeping an eye on the computer while trying to avoid the trees that seemed to randomly move into my path somewhat numbed the feeling of explosive swelling taking place inside the crotch of my riding pants.

Within a few minutes, I caught up with the riders from my row and had made up my time.  I hit the first checkpoint on my minute and  took no points. I thought to myself how there were dozens of riders who scratched the event just because of some inclement weather and here I was kicking ass only a few days after surgery.  Pussies!  After only an hour or so, the course conditions had deteriorated so much that the trail was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding terrain.

All enduro courses are marked with red surveyor's tape, usually hung in the trees and bushes on the right side along the route. If the markers are on the right, you're going the right way.  I usually had no idea where the hell I was, but I at least knew I was going the right direction.  I must have passed half the pack before I hit the first gas stop.  Before the race, we place our gas cans on a trailer with our row number affixed to them. Race officials take them to a predetermined location on the course and line them up by row number.  When riders arrive at the gas stop, our fuel cans are magically there waiting for us. Before the race, Robert (a friend with whom I drove to the race from Dallas) took my can with a lunch inside an attached plastic grocery store bag to the gas trailer for me while I searched the camping area unsuccessfully for the remains of my tent. It also meant I didn't have to lift anything heavy.

While at the gas stop, I scarfed down my soggy sandwich and cookies and downed a warm Mountain Dew. I decided to forgo filling my tank because I really didn't need the fuel. I had plenty left to get me to the next gas stop and with less fuel weight, my Kawasaki was easier to handle in the sloppy trail conditions. Once again, I was spared from heavy lifting.  I tried to sit on a stump as I ate, but the swelling and pain in my groin were catching up with me so I just stood and tried not to waddle as I walked.  I always packed aspirin in my lunch sack to thin the blood and prevent numbness in my hands.  I popped a few extra tablets  in hopes that the pain relief might head further south.

I took off from the gas stop and couldn't help but notice that the course looked barely ridden.  Apparently, most of the riders bagged the race at the gas stop and took a fire road shortcut back to camp. Pussies. I figured with so many riders out of the race, this was a great opportunity for me to earn top points for the overall State championship in my class.  My balls were arguing against my continuing on, but I had come this far and I was not packing it in due to a little pain.

A few miles after the gas stop, I had accrued very few points on my time card, but had had a tough go at it through some particularly tight woods and creek sections.  The woods were so dense that a few times, I literally had to stop and wiggle my handlebars between the trees and then continue to the next bottleneck. The torrential rains had swelled one previously ankle-high water crossing to waist height and there were course officials there pointing out the most shallow line over which to cross.  The creek was littered with fallen motorcycles and riders attempting to extricate themselves from the swollen flow.  Somehow, I managed to ride across and remain vertical. My swelling balls probably provided additional buoyancy as I crossed.  Whatever the reason, when I hit the far shore, my four-stroke motor pulled like a tractor and I shot up the embankment with ease.

The water crossing was followed by the tightest woods I had ever ridden.  It was clear that this course was laid out by a sadomasochistic motorcyclist. My computer was screaming at me that I was falling far behind.  I could see a clearing ahead of me and hoped that the course would lead me to it so I could open up the throttle and make up some time. The course markers followed a serpentine path, but eventually led me out of the woods.  The clearing was actually a wide valley with a slight decline to the bottom and a slight incline out to the wood line a mile or so ahead on the horizon.  Visibility at the basin was short as the fog was dense in the absence of trees.  Nevertheless, it was a welcomed sight and I shot out of the woods like a rocket.

About halfway across, the dirt in the field had turned into mush and I was fighting to remain vertical and maintain forward momentum. My riding position was such that I was leaning as far back as possible on the bike to keep the weight off the front wheel hoping to avoid a forward flip face-plant into the mud.  As such, the rough terrain was forcing my seat to bump up and slap my butt mercilessly and the kinetic ripple effect on my groin was becoming unbearable.  I glanced down at my computer to check my status and inadvertently steered into a deep, wet rut that eventually swallowed my rear wheel down to the axle.

I was stuck.

I stepped off the bike and realized that it was sunk so deep in the mud that the seat was only about knee high to me as I stood next to it.  I had come too far under too much pain to give in now, so I decided to un-stick myself and keep moving.

There's a process for extracting a mud-stuck motorcycle wherein you rock the bike back and forth from side to side and loosen the mud surrounding the rear wheel.  Then, you can lift the rear end up and you're clear.  I tried unsuccessfully to rock the bike loose and decided to just try and lift the rear wheel out of the mud.

I stood behind the bike and gripped the rear wheel with both hands and gave a firm tug.  It was then that I heard an unfamiliar sound that emanated from inside me, but could clearly be heard from the outside.  In fact, I'm pretty sure it echoed against the nearby woods. It sounded like a thick rubber band being stretched beyond its capacity and the ends slapping against a wall as it tears apart.  The sound was accompanied by a feeling of being hit in the groin by a baseball bat swung by Barry Bonds after a fresh Deca-Durabolin injection.  The actual vasectomy snipping was nothing compared to this.  My eyes crossed and I was so dizzy that I wasn't sure if I would shit or puke first.  Had my boots not been sunk so deep into the mud, I would have fallen over like one of those old toy cartoon character statues that collapses when you push up the bottom of its base.

Despite the cold, I was sweating so profusely that my riding jersey was soaked and I was freezing in the light breeze as a result.  I took off the sweat-soaked jersey, wrung it out, and laid it over the Kawasaki's seat.  All the while, other riders appeared out of the fog behind me and passed by as I stood trying to regain my senses. I was afraid to look, but I had to know what happened.

I unbuckled/unzipped my riding pants and wrestled them and my biker shorts-style underwear down past the top of my racing boots and bent over to throw up first, and then take inventory. My face was probably as green was my Kawasaki when I saw that my balls had been replaced with discolored grapefruits and noticed a strange ooze dripping from them.  About this time, several riders appeared out of the woods and were heading straight for me.  Riders tend to follow other riders' paths in inclement weather with the hope of staying on a defined trail.

So there I was; shirtless and effectively naked from the waist down, standing in an open field with my feet spread wide apart and bent over with my Casper-white butt greeting the other riders as they made a bee-line towards me.  I could see the "what the f*ck" look in the bug-wide eyes of speeding riders as they looked over at me, lost concentration on the course, and then nose dived into the mud.  Within mere seconds, the field around me was littered with motorcycles and riders who were cursing the weather, the mud, and most certainly Casper the friendly ghost.  Some of them saw the humor in the situation and laughed it off. Some even thought I was planted as a distraction by the race promoters. Others were just pissed and blamed me for their delay while they maintained their distance and cursed me from afar. None of them bothered to help me out of my predicament.

About the time the rider and motorcycle carnage cleared the area, my spinning head had begun to slow down and my stomach had completely purged itself. I barfed so much I thought I was seeing coffee grinds in my puke.  An EMT back at the camping area told me later that what I thought was coffee was probably blood.  I donned my sweat and rain soaked jersey, gingerly stuffed my swollen sack into my drawers, marveled briefly at the protuberance, and pulled up my riding pants.  The sweep riders would be by soon and (since I was no longer naked) would hopefully help me out.

Eventually, a course official on a four-wheeler appeared out of the woods and fog and stopped to tow me out.  After I explained what I had been through earlier in the week (and after he stopped laughing hysterically), he offered to trade vehicles with me so I would have a less uncomfortable ride back to camp.  Feeling like a big enough loser for not finishing the race, I opted to ride my own bike back. Once on drier surface, I made my way to one of the fire roads and took the shortcut back to camp.  Pussy.

As I arrived at camp and rode past the other riders, I was ignored by most, but greeted with stares, sneers, laughter, and a few middle fingers from others.  I stopped by the officials' tent and turned in my incomplete score card in an attempt to salvage whatever season points I could. I parked my bike at the spot where my camp had been before it blew away in the night, changed into some loose-fitting sweat pants, and crawled into the back seat of my car to lay down.

I awakened to the sound of an air horn, indicating that the race was over and that the scores had been tabulated. I made my way to the tent figuring no one would recognize me since I wasn't naked.  Times and scores were read aloud by the race promoters as trophies and ribbons were distributed. Much to my surprise, I went further on the course than anyone else in my class and took first place.  Confident that my anonymity was intact, I wobbled up to accept my trophy and pose briefly for a photo as someone in the crowd yelled "turn around and bend over".  Everyone under the tent was laughing except me.  Actually, I found it as funny as they did. I was just in too much pain to laugh at that moment.

It was a long and painful ride home. In retrospect, that was certainly among the dumbest things I've ever done.  Interestingly enough however, by the end of the season I won the overall Texas State championship in  my class by only three points over my closest competitor. The trophy was long since donated, but I kept and still occasionally wear the embroidered jacket the Texas State Championship Enduro Circuit gave me.

The Most Stupid Things I've Ever Done

I was sitting in a client's conference room in the midst of pre-meeting smalltalk when a co-worker brought up the Alaskapade and asked when I was leaving.  One of my clients asked what he was talking about and my co-worker pulled up the Alaskapade.com page on the conference room's projection screen.  We had but moments before the meeting kicked off, so there wasn't much time for me to explain.  There was time, however for my client to express his opinion that "this has to be the stupidist thing [I've] ever done".  My first instinct was to argue the purpose for my trip, but this is my customer and IBM probably wouldn't appreciate that.  So, I just grinned, nodded, and bit my lip as the meeting started.

It did get me thinking though.  I know I'm firmly resolved in my purpose for the trip and I also know that I've done many things more stupid than this.  There are too many to list without starting another blog, so I thought I would describe my top three in no particular order.  The first will be posted tomorrow.