( updated, bikes rescued, pix on page 6 )
Well, it started innocently enough.
Good firewood, good food, good beer. A motorcycle and a tank full of gas.
My buddy flaked on me, but I usually don't let things get in my way. So I went alone.
What follows is...a sad a painful thing. So lets skip that and head straight to camp. I arrive, exhausted. I enjoy the view and pound a bunch of water to stave off my headache. I think I may have come pretty close to sunstroke out there, but more on that later. I enjoy the view.
Then somehow, things got worse.
I have a deep respect for the people of Vietnam. Their language however, is to my ears like nails on a chalkboard, the sound of a dentists drill. My head is splitting and now comes the harsh and offensive ( to my ears ) sound of a carload of them, snapping pictures and talking loudly. I feel as if I am tied to the whipping post, a prisoner in some dark mental dungeon. The guy is wearing monks robes, fer Christs sake. I silently beg him to get all Zen like and shut the fuck up.
I guess there are risks I have ignored about going deep in the boonies by myself. Somethings you just figure you are safe against. Never in a million years would I expect to become trapped in mud in the middle of a God-blasted wasteland. It is ninety five degrees. Nobody knows exactly where I am at. It was a dry lake bed, until it was a swamp. One minute I am joy ridding. The next I am contemplating drowning in a salt marsh.
When I began to sink I got off and ran along side the bike. It was no use.
There was an epic battle raged out there. I lost. I was beaten handily. Every step I took plunged me six inches in the mud. In seconds the bike was to the skid plate. I managed to tip in over and onto some scrap wood, but it fell into the mud again.
I never thought that this was how it would end.
Goodbye my lover. Goodbye my friend. I'll try to arrange rescue, but anybody else who enters there shall suffer the same fate and I can't afford a helicopter.
Somethings were just not meant to be.
I feel as old and broken down as the buildings I pass on my way home through Randsburg. Tonight I file an insurance claim, and hope that my loss is covered. Part of me is still there, sinking slowly and being eaten by salt, and covered by sand.
Well, it started innocently enough.
Good firewood, good food, good beer. A motorcycle and a tank full of gas.
My buddy flaked on me, but I usually don't let things get in my way. So I went alone.
What follows is...a sad a painful thing. So lets skip that and head straight to camp. I arrive, exhausted. I enjoy the view and pound a bunch of water to stave off my headache. I think I may have come pretty close to sunstroke out there, but more on that later. I enjoy the view.
Then somehow, things got worse.
I have a deep respect for the people of Vietnam. Their language however, is to my ears like nails on a chalkboard, the sound of a dentists drill. My head is splitting and now comes the harsh and offensive ( to my ears ) sound of a carload of them, snapping pictures and talking loudly. I feel as if I am tied to the whipping post, a prisoner in some dark mental dungeon. The guy is wearing monks robes, fer Christs sake. I silently beg him to get all Zen like and shut the fuck up.
I guess there are risks I have ignored about going deep in the boonies by myself. Somethings you just figure you are safe against. Never in a million years would I expect to become trapped in mud in the middle of a God-blasted wasteland. It is ninety five degrees. Nobody knows exactly where I am at. It was a dry lake bed, until it was a swamp. One minute I am joy ridding. The next I am contemplating drowning in a salt marsh.
When I began to sink I got off and ran along side the bike. It was no use.
There was an epic battle raged out there. I lost. I was beaten handily. Every step I took plunged me six inches in the mud. In seconds the bike was to the skid plate. I managed to tip in over and onto some scrap wood, but it fell into the mud again.
I never thought that this was how it would end.
Goodbye my lover. Goodbye my friend. I'll try to arrange rescue, but anybody else who enters there shall suffer the same fate and I can't afford a helicopter.
Somethings were just not meant to be.
I feel as old and broken down as the buildings I pass on my way home through Randsburg. Tonight I file an insurance claim, and hope that my loss is covered. Part of me is still there, sinking slowly and being eaten by salt, and covered by sand.
