This is another one of those stories centered around the Hidden Valley RV ranch north of Deming NM where I lived in the late 90's of the last century. Almost everyone in that park owned ATV's. Most fulltime and wintertime residents owned two, one for the husband and one for the wife. There was about 250 miles of back roads and trails to ride. But enough about usn's that lived there, this is a story about Willy, a wild and wooly tourist, who was about 40 some odd years old, and had never been west before. It was his lifelong dream to motorcycle all over the west but right after he got his first motorcycle he got married and then the kids started arriving, etc, etc. You can all recognize the drill. Willy never managed to motorcycle the west but now here he was. The Kids were raised and gone, he and his wife had come west in an RV, and Willy had his motorcycle strapped to the back. And yes, it was the original bike he had bought over 20 years ago.
As I was heading up to the recreation hall for the morning coffe klatch with the other boys, I spotted Willy's old motorcycle strapped to the back of his RV. One glance told me it was somewhat dated and was an old 350CC road/trail model. At the rec hall, I met Willy, a stocky muscular guy wearing a big smile and Marlon Brando sunglasses. I was the only guy in the park that rode a motorcycle and Willy was just tickled pink to find another cycle rider. My good buddies there in the rec hall had spotted a live one in Willy and had been pumping him full of good ideas about where he and I could go on our motorcycles. My "good" buddies knew that I wasnt a wild and wooly cycle rider. I used my cycle sort of like a two wheeled tractor for going places other vehicles couldnt go. My motto was "if you are riding slow, you can fall slow....and carefully." Falls might happen in desert riding but I preferred soft sand to gravel or rocks. I was 67 years old about that time and most of my wild oats had been sowed. My remaining years were precious to me and I didnt plan on getting busted up or cutting them short.
One of the places my good buddies had Willy exited about was Suicide Hill. That ride was pretty much of a thrill on a 4 wheeler ATV and never once, never, never, had I had the remotest idea of riding it on my cycle. As we were introduced, Willy was standing there grinning amongst all my good buddies who were standing there grinning as he shook my hand and said "Hey man, I wont you to take me on a cycle ride up Suicide Hill."
I got Willy away from the bad influence of all my good buddies and took him for a ride. Willie's old cycle was pretty well beat. One of the first things I noticed was that the rear shocks were worn out and the springs had been overworked and were weak. The result was that the least little bump resulted in a loud BANG as his suspension bottomed out. We Bang Banged our way north for about 2 miles on a 2 rut road untill we hit a gravel country road that had been built along the old Butterfield Trail stage coach route. Willy thought that was just great and historic to ride that old trail and had a big smile hanging under those Marlon Brando sunglasses. (No helment) I explained to him that the gravel roads ruts were hard clay and easy to ride but crossing from one rut to another over loose gravel could get a little dicey as it was kind of like riding on marbles. Willy said he knew that and off we went down the Butterfield Trail. YAAHOOOO, Willy was yelling. Willy seemed to know only one way to ride and that was fast. He soon left me behind. Then he started switching ruts, slithering and sliding and blasting loose gravel around while he was YAAHOOOOing and the old cycles rear suspension was going Bang Bang Bang. I speeded up so I could keep him in sight and would be able to explain to his wife how he managed to break his neck. I had explained to him how sand washes crossed the roads and how I slowed down and kind of duck paddled my way across. Willy must have forgot or didnt care cause when he hit the first sand wash it was spectacular. He went A$$ over teakettle. The old cycle went farther than he did, ending up on its side still running with rear wheel spinning up a dust cloud. Willy bounced right up to run over and shut off old bang bangs engine. He was yelling "YAAHOOOOO, boy wasnt that something!!! Come help me lift this damned thing up, will you?" as I putt putted up to the sand wash.
We got the sand shook out of Willy and old Bang Bang and headed on down the Butterfield trail. Willy insisted we use the cycles to go see the hierglyths (bad spelling) up on the pony hills rather than park them and walk. I explained that the trails up there were just a layer of rocks about tennis ball size that would just beat you to death on a motor cycle but off he went with me reluctantly behind him. The rear suspension was sounding like a machine gun as old bang bang went bang banging up the rocky trail. My arms and shoulders were having muscle cramps from fighting the front wheel recocheting over the rocks on that trail when I reached the top and there stood Willy with a big grin hanging under those sunglasses. We spent about 2 hours on the Pony Hills looking at the indian drawings and carvings. Willy asked a jillion questions that I couldn't answer. He kept saying "Boy aint this something!! Wait till Marsha (his wife) sees this." It was a pleasure to see him enjoying himself but I was dreading having to skate back down that trail of rocks on the way back down. As I suspected, the ride down was worse than the ride up and my nerves were pretty much shattered by the time I reached bottom but there stood Willy, still grinning. "Where to now?" he wonted to know. "Home," I said, "Im beat." He started to object but I suggested he take pity on an old man so we started backtracking back up the Butterfield trail.
Willy stopped and was looking at some cycle tracks leading off the road. He said they looked like my cycles tire tracks. I said they were, that I had ridden an old trail across there a few days before but we couldnt ride it now. I hadnt realized that rains had washed out a lot of the old trail and I had made a misstake in trying to ride it a few days before Willy arrived. Willy insisted if I rode it once, we could ride it again. I finally agreed if he let me go first so I might be able to figure out a better way thru the maze of eroded wash-outs. He agreed and he came bang banging along behind me. Everytime we had to do a whoop-de-doo down thru a gully and jump up the otherside, he would let out a exultant YAAHOOOOO! Then I came to a small washout that was only about one and a half foot wide but was a real deep V shape. I had stopped to look at it and Willy was crowding me from behind so I didnt back up and get a sort of running start at it, figuring I could power my way across. But my front tire just dropped into that V and hung there slinging me up over the handlebars. I was still gassing my cycle as that happened and that big old knobby back tire was jumping up and down. Each time it hit the ground, it would grab a big gob of dirt and sling it behind me......right where Willy was sitting. I managed to kill my engine and the cycle toppeled over, pinning me down in that V slot. "Damn," I muttered, "Willy, you wont to come get this cycle off me?"
Willy didnt answer me so I twisted around to look at him. There sat Willy. He had killed old Bang Bangs engine and was just sitting there making kind of spitting sounds. The only pink color in his face was the tip of his tongue as he was licking the dirt off his lips and spitting. The rest of his face was solid dirt....untill he took off those Marlon Brando sunglasses and then he looked kind of like a racoon with only the white areas around his eyes.
I delivered Willy back to his wife and as I was riding away, he was hollering "Hey, when we going up suicide hill."
Some of us took Willy and Marsha around on a borrowed ATV to some of the sites in the area, including Suicide Hill. We approached the hill from the long ride along Flouride Ridge and rode down it. At the bottom was a ryolite claim (common name candyrock)where the rest of us fooled around some while Willy borrowed my ATV cause it was bigger and more powerful than the borrowed one he had been riding. He just had to ride back up and then down the hill one more time, with the cry of YAHOOOOOO echoing off Flourite Ridge.
The day before Willy and Marsha were scheduled to leave, he wonted to go get some more of those candyrocks because Marsha liked it and he was going to have some jewelry doo-dads and ear bobs made of it. He wonted to take the cycles. I should have refused but we took the cycles. We took some candyrock samples then Willy said, "Lets ride the Hill". I refused but couldnt talk him out of it. He tried it. Suicide Hill had once been a road up to the top of Flouride Ridge to some mines. But all the gravel had washed off years ago leaving nothing but rocks about 4 to 5 feet across and round domed on top with deep crevices between rocks. Even on a four wheeler, you were getting thrown about a lot, rocking and rolling. Below the old roadbed was about a 30 degree slant for a long way down. If you went off on that, the only thing to slow down a long, long fall was an occassional big rock or creosote bush or a big patch of pear cactus.
Willy immediately went out of my sight behind a curve and some high rocks as he made his run at the hill. The old cycle's bad suspension was banging away for a short time and then came a scraping sound....then silence. I looked downslope, expecting to see Willy and old bang bang hurtling along. Nothing. I trotted up and around the curve and there stood Willy, rubbing an elbow and looking down at old bang bang. He had lost his big smile. "Poor old thing, she just couldnt make it could she?" I helped him roll old bang bang down the hill. We looked her over, Willy muttering that he guessed a few more dings and scratches wouldnt hurt her. A few kicks and she fired right up. Willy waited for me to get my cycle and then I followed him for about a hundred yards before he stopped. I rode up beside him and said "What?" He sat there with a calculating look on his face, just looking at my cycle. "No Willie" I snapped at him, "You aint riding my cycle!" Before he could say anything, I told him to just shut up and ride. Then the big smile flashed below those Marlon Brando sunglasses, he goosed old bang bang and left a trail of dust and the sound of YAHOOOOO came echoing back from Flourite Ridge.
Willy had so much energy and exuberance that it just tired me out saying good morning to him. Or maybe it was an inner fear about what he might try to talk me into doing that day. And Willy old buddy, if per chance you made it back to Wisconsin alive and happen to read this, let me say that I enjoyed my time with you. With you just entering your second childhood and me on the tail end of my third one, we made a good pair.
As I was heading up to the recreation hall for the morning coffe klatch with the other boys, I spotted Willy's old motorcycle strapped to the back of his RV. One glance told me it was somewhat dated and was an old 350CC road/trail model. At the rec hall, I met Willy, a stocky muscular guy wearing a big smile and Marlon Brando sunglasses. I was the only guy in the park that rode a motorcycle and Willy was just tickled pink to find another cycle rider. My good buddies there in the rec hall had spotted a live one in Willy and had been pumping him full of good ideas about where he and I could go on our motorcycles. My "good" buddies knew that I wasnt a wild and wooly cycle rider. I used my cycle sort of like a two wheeled tractor for going places other vehicles couldnt go. My motto was "if you are riding slow, you can fall slow....and carefully." Falls might happen in desert riding but I preferred soft sand to gravel or rocks. I was 67 years old about that time and most of my wild oats had been sowed. My remaining years were precious to me and I didnt plan on getting busted up or cutting them short.
One of the places my good buddies had Willy exited about was Suicide Hill. That ride was pretty much of a thrill on a 4 wheeler ATV and never once, never, never, had I had the remotest idea of riding it on my cycle. As we were introduced, Willy was standing there grinning amongst all my good buddies who were standing there grinning as he shook my hand and said "Hey man, I wont you to take me on a cycle ride up Suicide Hill."
I got Willy away from the bad influence of all my good buddies and took him for a ride. Willie's old cycle was pretty well beat. One of the first things I noticed was that the rear shocks were worn out and the springs had been overworked and were weak. The result was that the least little bump resulted in a loud BANG as his suspension bottomed out. We Bang Banged our way north for about 2 miles on a 2 rut road untill we hit a gravel country road that had been built along the old Butterfield Trail stage coach route. Willy thought that was just great and historic to ride that old trail and had a big smile hanging under those Marlon Brando sunglasses. (No helment) I explained to him that the gravel roads ruts were hard clay and easy to ride but crossing from one rut to another over loose gravel could get a little dicey as it was kind of like riding on marbles. Willy said he knew that and off we went down the Butterfield Trail. YAAHOOOO, Willy was yelling. Willy seemed to know only one way to ride and that was fast. He soon left me behind. Then he started switching ruts, slithering and sliding and blasting loose gravel around while he was YAAHOOOOing and the old cycles rear suspension was going Bang Bang Bang. I speeded up so I could keep him in sight and would be able to explain to his wife how he managed to break his neck. I had explained to him how sand washes crossed the roads and how I slowed down and kind of duck paddled my way across. Willy must have forgot or didnt care cause when he hit the first sand wash it was spectacular. He went A$$ over teakettle. The old cycle went farther than he did, ending up on its side still running with rear wheel spinning up a dust cloud. Willy bounced right up to run over and shut off old bang bangs engine. He was yelling "YAAHOOOOO, boy wasnt that something!!! Come help me lift this damned thing up, will you?" as I putt putted up to the sand wash.
We got the sand shook out of Willy and old Bang Bang and headed on down the Butterfield trail. Willy insisted we use the cycles to go see the hierglyths (bad spelling) up on the pony hills rather than park them and walk. I explained that the trails up there were just a layer of rocks about tennis ball size that would just beat you to death on a motor cycle but off he went with me reluctantly behind him. The rear suspension was sounding like a machine gun as old bang bang went bang banging up the rocky trail. My arms and shoulders were having muscle cramps from fighting the front wheel recocheting over the rocks on that trail when I reached the top and there stood Willy with a big grin hanging under those sunglasses. We spent about 2 hours on the Pony Hills looking at the indian drawings and carvings. Willy asked a jillion questions that I couldn't answer. He kept saying "Boy aint this something!! Wait till Marsha (his wife) sees this." It was a pleasure to see him enjoying himself but I was dreading having to skate back down that trail of rocks on the way back down. As I suspected, the ride down was worse than the ride up and my nerves were pretty much shattered by the time I reached bottom but there stood Willy, still grinning. "Where to now?" he wonted to know. "Home," I said, "Im beat." He started to object but I suggested he take pity on an old man so we started backtracking back up the Butterfield trail.
Willy stopped and was looking at some cycle tracks leading off the road. He said they looked like my cycles tire tracks. I said they were, that I had ridden an old trail across there a few days before but we couldnt ride it now. I hadnt realized that rains had washed out a lot of the old trail and I had made a misstake in trying to ride it a few days before Willy arrived. Willy insisted if I rode it once, we could ride it again. I finally agreed if he let me go first so I might be able to figure out a better way thru the maze of eroded wash-outs. He agreed and he came bang banging along behind me. Everytime we had to do a whoop-de-doo down thru a gully and jump up the otherside, he would let out a exultant YAAHOOOOO! Then I came to a small washout that was only about one and a half foot wide but was a real deep V shape. I had stopped to look at it and Willy was crowding me from behind so I didnt back up and get a sort of running start at it, figuring I could power my way across. But my front tire just dropped into that V and hung there slinging me up over the handlebars. I was still gassing my cycle as that happened and that big old knobby back tire was jumping up and down. Each time it hit the ground, it would grab a big gob of dirt and sling it behind me......right where Willy was sitting. I managed to kill my engine and the cycle toppeled over, pinning me down in that V slot. "Damn," I muttered, "Willy, you wont to come get this cycle off me?"
Willy didnt answer me so I twisted around to look at him. There sat Willy. He had killed old Bang Bangs engine and was just sitting there making kind of spitting sounds. The only pink color in his face was the tip of his tongue as he was licking the dirt off his lips and spitting. The rest of his face was solid dirt....untill he took off those Marlon Brando sunglasses and then he looked kind of like a racoon with only the white areas around his eyes.
I delivered Willy back to his wife and as I was riding away, he was hollering "Hey, when we going up suicide hill."
Some of us took Willy and Marsha around on a borrowed ATV to some of the sites in the area, including Suicide Hill. We approached the hill from the long ride along Flouride Ridge and rode down it. At the bottom was a ryolite claim (common name candyrock)where the rest of us fooled around some while Willy borrowed my ATV cause it was bigger and more powerful than the borrowed one he had been riding. He just had to ride back up and then down the hill one more time, with the cry of YAHOOOOOO echoing off Flourite Ridge.
The day before Willy and Marsha were scheduled to leave, he wonted to go get some more of those candyrocks because Marsha liked it and he was going to have some jewelry doo-dads and ear bobs made of it. He wonted to take the cycles. I should have refused but we took the cycles. We took some candyrock samples then Willy said, "Lets ride the Hill". I refused but couldnt talk him out of it. He tried it. Suicide Hill had once been a road up to the top of Flouride Ridge to some mines. But all the gravel had washed off years ago leaving nothing but rocks about 4 to 5 feet across and round domed on top with deep crevices between rocks. Even on a four wheeler, you were getting thrown about a lot, rocking and rolling. Below the old roadbed was about a 30 degree slant for a long way down. If you went off on that, the only thing to slow down a long, long fall was an occassional big rock or creosote bush or a big patch of pear cactus.
Willy immediately went out of my sight behind a curve and some high rocks as he made his run at the hill. The old cycle's bad suspension was banging away for a short time and then came a scraping sound....then silence. I looked downslope, expecting to see Willy and old bang bang hurtling along. Nothing. I trotted up and around the curve and there stood Willy, rubbing an elbow and looking down at old bang bang. He had lost his big smile. "Poor old thing, she just couldnt make it could she?" I helped him roll old bang bang down the hill. We looked her over, Willy muttering that he guessed a few more dings and scratches wouldnt hurt her. A few kicks and she fired right up. Willy waited for me to get my cycle and then I followed him for about a hundred yards before he stopped. I rode up beside him and said "What?" He sat there with a calculating look on his face, just looking at my cycle. "No Willie" I snapped at him, "You aint riding my cycle!" Before he could say anything, I told him to just shut up and ride. Then the big smile flashed below those Marlon Brando sunglasses, he goosed old bang bang and left a trail of dust and the sound of YAHOOOOO came echoing back from Flourite Ridge.
Willy had so much energy and exuberance that it just tired me out saying good morning to him. Or maybe it was an inner fear about what he might try to talk me into doing that day. And Willy old buddy, if per chance you made it back to Wisconsin alive and happen to read this, let me say that I enjoyed my time with you. With you just entering your second childhood and me on the tail end of my third one, we made a good pair.
I'm guessing you had a bit of a wild streak when you were younger Jbird ?? Glad you survived your journey's with Willy. Really enjoyed your story.