ridecamp@endurance.net: Dirt Bike vs. Equine

Dirt Bike vs. Equine

llayman@Imail.NeoRx.com
Tue, 04 Feb 97 11:15:50 PST

I got this story from a rider off another mailing list, and in the
spirit of "falling off of our horses", she said is was okay to share
it with all of you.

I grew up in Southern Nevada, on the edge of miles of scrub desert. At
the time if this incident, I was about 13. I had just graduated up to
my first non-pony horse. He was a big palomino gelding, who I named
B.J. after B.J. Hunnicutt from MASH. I didn't know the horse very well
when I named him, as he was very ill-tempered and jealous. He was,
however, a fabulous athlete of a horse. When he was in the mood to
jump, he cleared 5 feet well, and he never tired.

One day we were wandering in the desert, following the familiar
washes, miles from anywhere. B.J. was being his usual self, pretending
to be afraid of the occasional jackrabbit that we flushed from the
creosote bushes. I heard a motorcycle at a distance, and headed
farther out into the desert to avoid it- better to go around them,as
they generally frighten horses, and B.J. was pretty high-strung.

I avoided the widest wash that led back to the corral area, expecting
the motorcycle to be there, and chose a series of small washes that
crossed dirt roads. After a while I didn't hear the cycle anymore,
and I brought the horse up onto a dirt road and trotted for home
relaxed, with no sound but hoofbeats and the crackle of the power
lines that carry Hoover Dam's electricity to L.A. I came up over a
large hill, at the top of which I could see the corral area still a
mile or two away, and the motorcycle rider was at the top. He was
straddling the dirt bike, just kick-starting it up at the top of the
hill. To a horse the sound of a dirt bike starting is practically like
having a lion roar in his face.

B.J. reared and turned, and I took him back down the hill at full
speed, with the motorcycle in hot pursuit. Galloping at full speed
downhill is unsafe-perhaps especially in the desert, but B.J. carried
me down the shaley road in a series of bone-jarring leaps. The cycle
had the advantage on the hill, however, and was right alongside as
we reached the bottom. I headed for one of the washes that crossed
the road, and the cycle cut us off. He circled us so closely that B.J.
lashed out with both hind feet and almost hit the cycle.

I headed the horse straight across the rough brush, through the bushes
and rattlesnake holes, to get away. But that way is so unsafe for a
horse, a misstep on the large, sharp stones or a hoof down a snake
hole and we were both done for at that speed. I had to get to a wash
or a trail-I found a small, deep wash- too deep for the cycle to
handle, a real struggle for a panicky horse. I was not going very
fast, but the motorcyclist had to take a trail above the wash.

B.J. was struggling in the deep sand, but there was no question of
stopping or turning around. The bike was above us, roaring down its
threat, and we were headed for home. At this rate the machine would
get between us and the safe haven of the corrals, where there would
be grown-ups to alert.

I turned for a wash that led to many escape routes- a dirt road to the
corrals, a narrow path that eventually wound its way to the dump, the
large racetrack wash. The grown-ups hated when kids would race their
horses in this wide sand wash. It was pretty deep most of the time,
and it had a wicked ending. The end of the racetrack wash was called
"the stone steps". It was one of the first things a young trail rider
in this area learned to tackle. There were four steps, from two to
three feet high, each about "bounce distance" apart. Just enough space
on each step for a horse to land and take off again without a stride.
There was a very narrow trail that led around the steps, for those
less daring. The wash ended in a huge stone step, perhaps eight feet
and nearly sheer, that was a drop-off from a series of dirt roads,
barely a quarter-mile from the corrals.

When we came to the racetrack wash, B.J.'s speed increased
dramatically. He was still running in a panic. The cyclist came down
off the upper trail to the wash, which was not deep enough to
hinder him much. Now it was just a race- but I knew where the finish
line was. We came around the long curve at an insane speed, and B.J.
leaped up the stone steps in two gigantic bounds and as I started to
sit down in the saddle and turn him to make the tiny trail that led
home, he jumped at the embankment. I was not ready. I held on for dear
life. I could see the corrals in the short distance, and for a moment
I thought we had cleared the wall. I couldn't hear the cycle over the
rocks sliding as B.J. scrambled to get atop the embankment. Our
momentum stopped, and I held onto his mane as we fell back, the horse
twisting in the air to land staggering in the wash. The cyclist came
around the curve at full blast. We were trapped, and he came right at
us, not noticing the trap until it was too late. He made the jump up
the first stone step, but didn't have enough to get over the second.
The front tire of the dirt bike hit the step,and the bike stopped
dead right there. The rider flew off and hit the third step headfirst.

I cheered, and B.J. reared and thrashed until I settled him down. When
I turned again to look, the cycle's engine was clattering to a halt,
and the rider was still lying prone on the second step. He was in a
terrible heap, and all at once I was sure that I'd killed him. I was
terrified of going back. What would all the grown-ups say now?
Would they know? I looked around. I looked down. B.J.'s knees were
torn up from the scramble on the embankment. Blood ran down his legs.
Everyone would know. I started toward the fallen cyclist, but B.J.
refused to go towards the machine.

I pushed the horse to go up the narrow trail, and as we came around to
where we could see the cycle again, I saw that the rider was
sitting up. He took off his helmet- it was a high school boy, I didn't
know him. I waited quietly at the top of the hill until he wobbled to
his feet and began walking the motorbike back towards town. Of course
there was none to tell when I returned to the corrals, but it was
probably for the best- when I had finished dressing B.J's cuts
and discovered that he had lost a shoe, I cried for about an hour.

I really felt at the moment that it was life or death...
and I have never since felt such remorse.
My only real combat...

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