THE THREE MUSKETEERS
GO TO JURASSIC PARK
Chris knew that we were experienced riders, but
what we failed to tell him was that we were out-of-shape experienced riders. Basher had only ridden once
in the span of three months due to a slipped disc.
Dennis had been out for six months due to wrist and
leg surgeries, and I needed my sidekicks to help zip
my size- 32 pants, as I had been on the sidelines with a
blown eardrum for a couple of months.
Day one: The ride started out with a few miles
of fire roads that led into some tight singletrack into
the jungle. At times the red clay was hard to read.
We couldn’t tell if it was dry, slick or double-slick.
Every once in a while one of us would slide across the
ground laughing like a hyena. As we climbed above
the jungle cover into the sunlight, we were greeted
with a gorgeous 360-degree view. It was hard to keep
our eyes on the path as they kept wandering off to
view the scenery. Before we knew it, we were in
the clouds at 2500 feet. We stopped at the peak and
watched the clouds rip through the mountains. What
a surreal feeling. We then made our way down the
backside of the mountain on razorbacks that led us to
a river crossing. Of course we could have gone around,
but how much fun would that have been? We were
all a bit nervous about how deep the water was, but
since we were on Chris’ bikes and he was willing to
let us ford the river, we knew it could be done. In fact,
Dennis and I turned around and did it again!
A few hours had past since we took off from home
base, and the WRs were running on reserve. In a small
village we got some water and snacks, while Chris
spoke with the locals in their native tongue (Spanish).
Chris signaled us to follow him, and we found ourselves on a local’s front lawn. A guy who had a
parrot on his shoulder came out of the house and
chatted with Chris. The man handed his parrot over to
Dennis, went into his living room and came out with
his family carrying jugs of gas to fill up the bikes. I
was at a loss for words while one of his daughters
topped off my WR250. Chris tossed the family a few
colones and off we went.
By this time the three musketeers were starting to
tire from the long day, and the sun was getting low
on the horizon. We had two options: take the fire
roads back, which was double the time, or take the
trails. We should have taken the fire roads. The three
musketeers had grins from ear to ear as we hopped
over logs, ducked under branches and weaved through
the trees, but it wasn’t long until our arms and legs
felt like Jello. John wasn’t looking too happy, but he
didn’t want to spoil anyone’s fun, so he kept silent and
suffered. Chris could tell we were hurting. He pointed
to the full moon popping up through the clouds (thank
goodness for the WR’s headlights) and said there was
only one technical section left. It was a slippery-as-snot rocky uphill that we all struggled to make. John
Basher only made it halfway up before his bike started
to overheat. Pale in the face, John finally threw in the
towel. He was spent, as were the rest of us.