I will have to admit it; I have been on some drunken road trips that I thought would be the end of me. But, the all time stupidest thing that I ever did was during one of those, George Martin in command, Jemez mountain trail rides. There have been other foolish stunts, this is but one.

As usual, it started out innocently enough. George (owner of the now defunct, Georgetown Cycle Shop in Albuquerque, New Mexico) and some of the guys that used to hang out at George's shop were getting ready to leave on a weekend trail ride. I was just hanging out at Georgetown for the weekly Friday night happy hour. I had sold my three motorcycles after an Mstar 500 put me in the hospital for two weeks, left me non weight bearing for 6 more weeks, and made me think that I better quit riding. On that fateful night in 1986, I am just about healed up and feeling totally bummed about selling my reason for being. The saddest part of the whole deal is the fact that I was still paying for two of the three bikes. But that is another, Stupid Things I've Done, story.

George, sensing my depression, invites me to go along for the ride. Ordinarily he would have been able to come up with a bike for me to ride. But this time he's already loaned out bikes to two of the participants. I figured what the hell; I'm better off sitting around a mountain cabin all weekend than I am sitting around home all weekend.

That is how it came to be, that the six of us, were in the Jemez mountain cabin owned by Tom's Dad. We were just minding our own business, drinking some brew and bench racing into the night, when George decides he wants to go visit his buddy Stanley. Stanley and his crew are at a campground that is probably ten miles from where we are. Instead of taking his van, George decides to take the Polaris Trail Boss. I remember thinking, "OK see ya later." But before I know it all five of us are following George out to the stupid little four-wheeler.

Suds and James were able to fit onto the seat behind George. Dave and Tom sat comfortably facing backwards on the spacious rear rack. Unfortunately for me, by the time I stumbled out from behind a tree, with my dick in my hand, the only seat left was the front luggage rack. It wouldn't have been so bad, except that I was blocking the puny Polaris headlight. We badly needed the headlight since it was a dark moonless night, blacker than the inside of a cow, as it were.

George, with a glowing Marlboro between his lips, plunged the Polaris into the darkness with five slack jawed passengers, each with one hand hanging on for dear life and the other hand clutching a fresh supply of beers. With the little Fuji 250 laboring at full throttle under the load of six large drunks, George's booming voice seems to be more powerful than the struggling two-stroke as he yells at the top of his lungs "GET OUT OF MY LIGHT YA TOILET FISH BALD HEADED MEXICAN!" All of this action takes place before we actually get to the pavement. Yes, I said pavement.

The pavement section is when I started to wonder if my blood shot orbs would ever squint to see the light of another day. It happened to be the start of a three-day holiday weekend, and traffic was heavy on the narrow mountain road. The oncoming headlights seemed like fiery cannon balls aimed directly at me. I tried to lie as flat as my modest beer gut would allow, so as not to block our feeble excuse for a head lamp.

While George is executing a perfect 4-wheel slide through a gravel-covered-right-hand-decreasing-radius-off-camber-downhill-blind-corner, with oncoming log trucks, I started to get some serious arm pump from clinging to the rack with all my dwindling might.

The 10 or so miles seemed like a million. I was so happy to see the campground come into view that I almost cried. No, I had already been crying ever since we left the cabin. George masterfully maneuvered the heavily overloaded Polaris off the pavement, and into the campground without lifting. Irate parents quickly scooped their children from the apparent path of the lumbering Polaris. It’s tiny red taillight illuminating the billowing cloud of dust that pursued it through a sea of tents, trailers, and motor homes.

Approaching Stanley's roaring campfire, George's thumb still holds the throttle wide open. By now, I have long since jettisoned my beverages as I am clutching the luggage rack with all the might that my aching muscles can muster. We are rapidly approaching the thundering fire pit, the diameter of my eye openings is quickly changing from a, two-piss-holes-in-the-snow-tear-filled-squint, to a terror-induced-full-moon-bulge. Should I stay with the vehicle, or bale before George scatters the Mt Vesuvius in front of us and slams our burning, hopelessly mangled bodies through Stanley's trailer? My eyes have now left my scull to see the group of people in our path vault from their lawn chairs, leaving a wake of spilled brew, chili beans, and still sizzling steaks.

I'm just about to give myself to the Lord, when George's ham fists clamp the brake levers to bars stopping the rotation of all four soft puffy tires. The little blue Polaris halts inches from the blazing inferno. My aching fingers are ripped from the cold steel luggage rack. And my drunken dumb ass is catapulted into the roaring fire pit. I ricocheted off the glowing embers and volcanic like flames of the huge blaze of pine timbers landing in the relative safety of a now crumpled lawn chair. The crowd is stunned into silence. For what seemed like an eternity, the only sound to be heard was the idling of the little Polaris. Or was it trembling? The crowd is jolted back to reality by the slamming of a door. It is Stanley's wife, locking herself, and her children in the camper. Stanley is the first to speak, "Hey George. Why do you only show up when I have my wife and kids with me?" To which George gives his trademark-deep-rumbling, "HAW HAW HAW fuck you." We stayed there till the wee hours of the morning for more beer and bench racing. Although I had my share of beer and told my share of lies, the one thing that stayed on my mind all night, was the horrifying fact that we still had to ride that damn quad back to the cabin. That's exactly the way I remember it, and I'm sticking to the story. I'm not proud of this episode in my life, just thankful to have lived to tell the tale. The experience does leave me a little more tolerant of the misfits who started out to have a little innocent fun with their buddies. Then, things sort of got out of control and they found themselves among the scorned.