(KU made the ball do what it is doing on David's shirt a lot during the Ohio State game. More than them, in fact)
With all of the annoying conference realignment noise in the news,
it’s refreshing when two powerhouses meet up for an early-season non-conference
throwdown. Even more refreshing when the Big 12 representative puts a whupping
on the Big 10 team. And yes, statisticians bemoan the inaccuracy of placing a
10 or 12 in either conference name, as the number of teams in both leagues has
changed more than KU’s quarterback. But there are some numbers in this equation
that do matter:
2 – Ohio State’s rank before the game.
13 – KU’s rank before the game.
46 – KU’s current non-conference home game winning streak.
21/7 – Thomas Robinson's total number of points and rebounds.
17 – Approximate number of tasty jams by KU (this number might be
slightly exaggerated).
10 – Number of rows up David and I sat behind the KU bench.
114 – Decibel level it reached in Allen Fieldhouse, equivalent to
that of a rock concert (think NIN as opposed to Hall and Oates).
3 – Number of centimeters vertical that KU’s Jeff Withey jumped, in a
previously unseen feat of longitudinal prowess. (He did not grab the rebound)
2 – Number of obesity jokes cracked by new head football coach,
Charlie Weiss, in his first address to the KU public at halftime.
Beatdown – This obviously isn’t a number, but it’s exactly what
happened to Ohio State.
(If you're a KU fan and this video doesn't make you cry, you're a robot. And we're not friends!)
And David and I were there front and center to see it all. Front
and side, to be accurate. He made the “extra ticket” call and I happily
obliged. All I had to do was supply him and his family with Dean and Deluca lunch, then buy him a pre-game brewsky for his troubles. Hey, what are brothers for?
The seats were ridiculous. 10 rows behind the KU bench, straight
out from the endline. We somehow avoided pesky face-painted neighbors, and were rewarded
with a direct view of the basket all game long. We could see Bob Knight and Jay
Bilas working the game. KU alum Scott Pollard working radio. Ex-baller Mario
Little dressed as a bum in the student section (we were legitimately concerned
for his well-being as he was sporting a ridiculous beanie, flannel shirt, vest
and boots combo).
(As a longtime season tic holder, David said this was the loudest game in recent memory)
Weiss was there just 9 (and possibly 8 and 7) rows in front of us. His
coaching counterpart was there as well, pacing the sidelines. Bill Self must
have internal radar for when ESPN’s cameras are pointed at him. The goofy,
self-deprecating Self we see on the telecasts and from the rafters was not the
same dude 10 rows in front of me. He lit into players and refs with equal
venom. He red-faced it with the best of them. Ironic that he showed his
emotions openly while Bob Knight sat calmly in his front-row chair, pondering a nap.
(Last time I saw this guy, students were pelting him with snowballs (true story) at a Notre Dame football game)
That’s not to say his anger wasn’t merited. I’d certainly be ticked
if my starting center forgot how to box out (Withey). Or my point guard
completed more passes to Ohio State than to Kansas, bum knee and all (Tyshawn).
Or the refs’ forgot that Ohio State’s seventh foul in a half meant we were
shooting one and one. I actually hold him in higher esteem now...not sure why.
(Self having to remind his point guard that our team is the one wearing white jersey's)
The game, for all its high emotions, was never really close. Ohio
State came within four, I believe, but KU was never in danger of being
overtaken. Each time they crept back in, Self subbed out Withey and crossed his
fingers that T-Rob wouldn’t be baited into another silly foul. The resulting
dunkage pretty much did the trick.
(Dunk you very much)
One question remains: how different would the game have been with Ohio
State shoo-in All-American Jared Sullinger in the lineup? I’ll answer that
question with another question: how much better would KU be this year with the
Morris twins? OK, not my strongest argument, but college basketball is all
about rolling with the punches. Injuries are jabs, suspensions are hooks,
academic ineligibility is when two boxers hug it out, and graduation is a
haymaker. Early entry into the NBA draft is Mike Tyson eating a chunk Evander Holyfield’s
ear. And Mike Tyson got busy with KU in the offseason. That said, I would have loved to have seen T-Rob and Sullinger go at each
other. But as is, they're left with the knowledge that they've had the same experience as Big 10 newcomer Nebraska: an Allen Fieldhouse Loss.
(When you hear this chant, you can begin to do what's going on in the next video...)
Seeing as the Monday polls had Ohio State remaining at #2 and KU
only moving up one slot, apparently the coaches, talking heads, possibly even
the BCS felt that it was a hollow win without Sullinger in the game. Well…they
didn’t see it. And David and I did. From ten rows behind the KU bench. We don’t
really care what everyone else says…we know it was a great victory because, did I mention, we were there...
I held out for years before I finally bought a Kansas City Wizards
jersey this past season. For good measure, Chad bought me one as well. With my
blue and white options, I was a proud dual-jersey, half-season ticket owner.
The Wizards sucked - an issue only exacerbated due to the fact that their home
games played out in a baseball stadium. Adding insult to that particular
injury, our seats were located directly behind home plate; though typically the
gem of baseball spectatorship, it proved to be the absolute worst spot imaginable to
watch soccer, seeing as we were an extra couple hundred feet from pitch, jutting
out from an odd angle off of the far corner, and management, for some baffling
and never-explained reason, refused to take down the giant netting that usually
protects spectators from errant foul tips, but in this context made it appear that
we were watching the game through a spider web. Also, once we were given
free Budweiser Chelada, which I suppose is an oxymoron since we all paid dearly for it hours later.
Attending a Wizards game had quickly turned into the same
experience as attending a Royals game. Tickets are cheap. Team stinks.
Concessions too expensive. You make it a point to over-party during the
tailgate. Parking attendant tells you that you have to enter because it’s the
sixth inning. You kind of remember the game, but mostly the conversation and
camaraderie. You mistakenly cheer when the Twins homer because you think the
Royals are batting. One team wins and the other loses. Das Boot at Lews after
the game. Coffee in the morning.
Considering the state of affairs, you would think Chad, Jaron, Neb
and I would have been whole-heartedly open to a change from Kansas City’s current iteration of a professional soccer franchise. So when the KC soccer brass announced the
Wizards were no more, and the new franchise name was Sporting KC, tipping their
hat to Portuguese powerhouse Sporting Lisbon, our emotions were mixed.
Initially I liked the idea, even if it perpetuated the trendy MLS wave of
European envy. I didn’t understand how changing the name would make the club
any less sucky. Mostly, I was pissed I now had two “legacy” jerseys.
We purchased our season tickets as we had planned to, our decision
unaffected by the recent events. As ownership kept repeating that
everything was going to change, we began to not only listen to this yarn, but
to see it unfold before our eyes.
They eschewed a lucrative stadium deal by partnering with Lance
Armstrong’s Livestrong foundation, resulting in the first major sports
franchise (though I suppose that term is relative depending on who you talk to)
to name a stadium after such an organization. We were invited to tour the
stadium while still under construction – sadly, no hardhats were handed out –
to see our seats and get a feel for the place.
(The stadium was impressive, and normally packed to - and beyond - capacity)
Our tickets arrived in a presentable box with the ticket book and
parking passes neatly tucked away in their respective slots. This was a marked
improvement from the previous year, when the tickets and passes were loosely
stuffed in a white envelope, so full to capacity that they George Costanza’d
all over the place when I opened it. The
free scarf coupon was the only loose item this time, but it was acceptable
because it was…a free scarf coupon.
(Lance's brand literally hangs over everything SKC)
They started eBombing us, but with mostly interesting updates. “Livestrong
Sporting Park signs on to host Team USA during Gold Cup”. Awesome. “Get
discounted concert tickets for all LSP shows”. Nice. “Come hang out with other
Sporting KC fans for road-game watch parties”. Cool. Not going to happen, but
cool nonetheless.
Excitement was building. They succeeded in making me curious about
what they’d do for opening night. Whether or not it made an impression on me
was to be determined.
Then the season began with a bang. Literally, as fireworks, then
massive amounts of smoke filled the stadium and nether regions our lungs. The
owners spoke. Lance Armstrong spoke. Sam Brownback spoke. Chad Ochocinco didn’t
speak, he smiled and flashed a peace sign. He did not see game action. Players were introduced to a very
loud and sustained cheer, something more akin to the Chiefs than the Wizards.
People were excited.
(Currently there's one gold seat in the house - this guy's)
Right before kickoff, a second round of fireworks went off. In the
stands. In the Chicago Fire fan section. That’s when we learned that there were
giants in purple shirts lurking seemingly under the bleachers, with one task:
remove hooligans. Thanks for driving, hope you like the view from the closest
bar.
(A fire breaks out in the Chicago Fire fan base)
That the game ended in a 0 – 0 tie, the shriveled grape of soccer
matches, worried me not. We had one goal taken back for a (presumably) bunk
offsides call. We were robbed of an obvious PK when Omar Bravo was blatantly
taken down. The end result, in fact, was the only thing we felt robbed of. The
experience was overwhelming, and beyond holdovers Kei Kamara and Matt Besler,
there were a lot of new faces on the squad. This is what excited us most. Some
were pretty (Bravo), some were ugly (Aurelien Collen), some were Brazilian
(Julio Cesar), which meant he had to
be great, and some seemed prematurely tabbed for greatness (Teal Bunbury).
One was The White Puma…
(A packed house cheered heavily in Sporting KC's inaugural game)
If opening night was setting the starter log in the campfire, the
rest of the season was chucking in some kerosene and a match. Here are some of
the highlights:
Sporting KC 1 – San Jose 0: First win of the season. Game winning
goal by eventual Rookie of the Year C.J. Sapong. Offensive prowess was a
constant for SKC, with a potent quad-headed attacking monster of Sapong,
Keimara, Bravo and Bunbury willing and ready to strike at any time. Soccer is flat-out more fun when dudes can score.
Expansion team Vancouver Whitecaps came to town, and with it,
national team defender and former British streetballer Jay Demerit. One of the bonuses
of the tempered success the MLS has been seeing of late is that veterans and
recognizable International players are signing at a higher rate. Sometimes I’m
more excited for who I’m going to see on the opposition than who will play for
us. This was one of those times. Just today, in fact, I ordered his documentary Rise and Shine: The Jay DeMerit Story. The
story of how this doc was even made is just as amazing. FIFA basically “loaned”
them the rights to World Cup footage – worth millions in rights – for a
repayment down the line. Unheard of. Can’t wait to watch it. Oh, and in classic
DeMerit fashion, he was yellow-carded for sliding through somebody.
(Grilling out in front of the stadium: Zach's level of interest is obviously high)
I’m always pumped to see Premier League teams, however the
Newcastle game was kind of a letdown. Compared to the (former) Wizards beatdown
– probably not an accurate descriptor – of Manchester United, it was a bit
underwhelming to see our B team limp to a draw with the Magpies C team. At
minimum a goal or red card would have been nice.
Due to stadium construction, Sporting KC was on the road for
much of the first two months. In recompense, we had five home games in the
month of August, going 3 – 2 during that stretch. Good wins versus Real Salt
Lake (and the hippied Beckerman), Portland and D.C. United were offset by close
losses to Seattle and FC Dallas. The Seattle loss was acceptable, because who
expects to best a team with former US mainstay Kasey Keller protecting the
pipes? The Dallas one was tough, because we were ahead much of the match, only
to let three unanswered goals slip by. We held their young mo-hawked stud, Brek
Shea – real name – in check most of the game, only to let him slip down the
left sideline twice near the end of the game (once in injury time) to deliver
perfect crosses that were easily knocked in. That one hurt.
(The Cauldron celebrates another SKC victory)
September brought on five more home games and further domination.
We had a weird one against LA. Having ascended rapidly in the standings after a
poor start, SKC was now in the playoff hunt, and meeting the west’s best team.
Beckham and Donovan were there, as was surfer turned soccer player Frankie
Hedjuk (who was once hilariously slapped by a Mexican assistant coach after a
US victory). Newly acquired Irish international Robbie Keane didn’t suit up,
nor did his one-time teammate, my favorite player of all time, the long-retired
Irish international Roy Keane. But that one made sense.
It was a raucous back-and-forth battle with playoff implications. Livestrong Stadium was as loud
as it had ever been. There were great goals and chippy fouls. Donovan subbed in
and quickly received a yellow-card caution for a lazy foul. Beckham, apparently
having spent too much time watching American football, received a yellow card for
trying to ice the kicker PK taker (video below). Omar was having none of
that. Though the tie was a slight let-down, Matt, Bethany, Melody and I greatly
enjoyed Garmin’s free seats, just a few rows up near the mid-line. It was a
nice deviation from our normal seats, but our hearts still belong in the south
stand.
(Beckham fail, followed by Omar goal)
The month ended on a high note, as SKC dominated the Columbus Crew
in a victory that we realized after the game, put us in first place. White Puma
(keeper Jimmy Nielsen) was running around the field like a track star, giving
props to fans and riling up his teammates. After a very s…l…o…w start to the season, SKC was
sitting alone in first near the end of the season. Peaking at just the right
time.
(More awesome than a double rainbow are double SKC fedoras)
October saw Sporting wrap up first place and gave us one
entertaining home game in the process. Livestrong Park was packed, anticipating
the arrival of the New York Red Bulls and their trident of stars, each of which, I’ll
use just two works to describe: Thierry Henry (The Legend), Rafa Marquez (he
sucks) and bright young talent Juan Agudelo (So Gifted). The win was a
relatively easy one as Henry kneed our Honduranian workhorse Roger Espinoza in
the head 19 minutes in, and was promptly shown straight red; Agudelo was resting and played
only the final ten minutes or so; and Rafa Marquez still sucks. Long-time US
Soccer fans such as myself recognize and appreciate this karmatic comeuppance,
no doubt a result of the pendulum finally crossing the pit that saw Marquez
violently elbow Cobi Jones in the face during Mexico's 2002 World Cup round of 16
loss to the US.
(Champs...like a Boss!)
Eastern Conference Champs!
Completing the hail mary that was an entire brand make-over, SKC
used their home-field advantage – and leveraged the ridiculous amount of second
half home games – to win the Eastern Conference. The tight race – just five
points separated the first five teams – took until the final weekend to
solidify, at which point SKC rested two points over second place Houston and an astonishing 23
points over last place New England. I imagine that management could have
predicted no better outcome. SKC entered the playoffs as a no-longer-longshot
to reach the finals.
A cumulative 4 – 0 stomping of last year’s winner Colorado put us
into the Eastern Finals. It also proved to be the first time I’ve ever prepared
to go to a game, stepped outside, then immediately turned back. Melody and I
felt the freezing rain and torrential winds that were outside and said ‘eff
that. I use the excuse that she was recovering from pneumonia, but I wouldn’t
have gone regardless. Nothing’s worth freezing my ass off like that. Jaron
soldiered through, however, and was rewarded with a great win and the requisite
humorous moments that occur on a slick and soggy pitch.
The Eastern Conference Finals against Houston…we won’t talk about.
While these are some of the tangible highlights of the season,
there were many subtle ones that centered around us the fans, not the players. Jaron,
Neb and I attended almost every game, sometimes hitting up the stadium twice in
the same week. Chad and Melody both bought official SKC jerseys. We had large
tailgates with many friends, grilling out and kicking around the soccer ball. Almost
everyone in my family attended a game with me, and they all left having had a
memorable experience. Beyond the high quality of play that we began to expect
with each passing, the experience proved worthwhile in that we knew we could
invite anyone – soccer understanding and interest notwithstanding – to the park
and they’d have a great time.
Here’s hoping we keep all of our weird-named players (Graham Zusi,
Soony Saad, Kei Kamara, Teal Bunbury and co.) and some of the normal ones too,
so that 2012 is even more successful than 2011.
Emails can be such a pain in the ass. I get hundreds and
hundreds throughout the week, most of which I deem so unimportant that I
neither respond to them nor consider archiving for the future. One short
non-emotive email sent a few months ago however, was different.
Sender: Nicholas Bishop Hefner. Subject: Dunes. Body: It’s
on…Don’t be lame, dudes.
I may be taking liberties with Hef's email composition, however his message was
loud and clear. It was time to gear up and head back to the sandy sand dunes of
the Little Sahara in Waynoka, Oklahoma. 1,450 acres of rideable sand that one
amateurish local tourist site claims was created during the Pleistocene Age,
which if I’m not mistaken, was when sleeveless dinosaurs roamed the desert. On
ATV’s.
This trip was more ambitions that the previous two times I
hit the dunes, as the number of invitees grew to ten. Our organizer, patriarch and spiritual messiah, Nick
“Sand Paddles” Hefner, took this opportunity to combine his core competencies:
party planning, shirt making, being a rugged outdoorsman, and having a gigantic
truck and a high dune IQ. These qualities, when stewed together, produce a recipe
for salty awesomeness.
In an attempt to maximize the amount of time spent
shredding, Hef rented us a house for the weekend. Mimicking the traits of the renter
himself, this house was both practical and awesome. Don’t believe me?
Practical: Located less than a five
minute ATV ride from the dune entrance.
Awesome: The driveway was so full
of sand that half our vehicles couldn’t so much as drive by the front door.
(And come to think of it, also awesome, I don’t remember it even having a front
door. Just a garage-bunker entrance).
Practical: Designed for weekend
duners like us, the house had comfortable sleeping conditions for ten adults.
Awesome: Designed for weekend
duners like us, the house had cinder block walls and linoleum floors that
invited you to get them dirty.
Practical: Not only did it have a
washer and dryer in the oversized laundry room, it had a working toilet stuck
right in between the washer and dryer in the oversized laundry room.
Awesome: There’s a good chance that
Osama Bin Laden once used this house as a hideout. I do not know if he used the laundry-room toilet.
(Little known fact about the dryer: it acts as both a toilet paper holder and magazine rack)
Needless to say, it did the trick. And by only adding $50
per person for two night’s stay, it was a much better option than freezing in a
heat-less trailer, spooning with Zach for warmth. Because that’s (more or less)
what happened last time.
So Zach – officially Zach “You like Sand, try some in YOUR face”
Barnes – met me at work on Friday around 5:30, or roughly three hours after I
had mentally checked out from any official work-related activities, sand figuratively
swirling through my brain all day long, gumming up any work thoughts. The plan was to caravan with the other
KC faction, driven and led by Chad “Fifth Gear” Cummings, however they ran into
traffic, so Zach and I took off, our need-for-speed mentality having already
kicked in. We would meet up with Fifth Gear, Jaron “Big Camo” Ruckman and Micah
“The Mechanic” Trotti in our Little Sahara sand bunker that may or may not have
once housed a hiding Bin Laden.
We roll into Waynoka, immediately remembering how tiny and
dusty a town it is. And quiet. 10pm, when we arrived, felt like two in the
morning. It actually surprised us that the gas station was open; also
surprising, that it sold ice (though I'm not quite sure why). Since Hef was unable to provide us with a street
address – he wasn’t unwilling to do this, so much as Waynoka chose means other
than words and numbers on signs and doors to denote its various locations – we
drove through town and searched for the café (amusingly pronounced “ka-fay”),
where we saw his truck and trailer, and then the trail went cold.
He drove out to meet us, and guide us to the bunker, at
which point Zach parked across the street for fear of having to tow his Honda
out of the driveway sand at the trip’s end. Hef’s truck struggled, but
eventually clawed its way through the sand, then down the sharp incline to the
covered pavement by the garage entrance. The city slicker in me asks why it’s
necessary for there to be sand in the driveway, when the house is meant for out-of-towner’s.
The part of me that knows and is friends with the Hefner family, has spend a
weekend in Sublette and once partied in a hotel/steak restaurant/Mexican disco
in Gardner looks around and sees that the only non-trucks in Waynoka were Zach’s Honda and Chad’s Honda.
We were greeted in our subterranean bunker by Jordan,
Michael and Whitney, who went by the handles, Jordan “King of the Razer”
Hefner, Whitney “No thanks, you drive” Hefner and Michael “Rooster Tail” Voth. They
greeted us with cheers, hoots and hollers, as well as a humorous story about
how they had to kick a family of 4 out of the room hours earlier. The family happily
moved upstairs, however it drives home the point that when a town eschews basic
amenities such as street signs and addresses, the likelihood of renting a house
without incident is all but a logistical impossibility.
We cracked some beers and Wild Turkey, and dug way too deep
into Saturday’s snacks. Learning from our terrible mistakes the last time out,
we decided not to party until early Saturday morning. Spending all day on a
quad is taxing enough on the body, exponentially so when suffering from a severe
hangover and deathly dehydration. We made it until about midnight before we all retired
to our respective rooms, mattresses and couches. By then the laundry room
toilet had been used a handful of times. We learned that though it functioned
properly, it wasn’t cemented to the ground, causing the sitter much
trepidation, and all but assuring we’d use it again the following day.
Saturday morning began with the single worst part of any and
every dune trip: renting the four-wheelers. If Waynoka was the sort of town
that used street signs and addresses, they’d probably have an idea how to
efficiently rent out a handful of quads. Since we know that it’s not that sort
of town, you can imagine how painful and belabored this process actually is. There
were no less than three workers behind the counter, yet all five of us had to
wait our turn to have the same employee fill out our forms. For us. He did so
by asking us the information that’s on our licenses (and Chad’s passport –
that’s another story), we tell him the answers, then he squints to try and
read it off our ID’s, he writes it incorrectly, then asks us for our
information again. Hef, knowing how painful this process was going to be, made
the smart decision to take Michael with him for some early morning duning to
pass the time.
After what seemed
like the entire seven-year run of the sitcom Wings, we had all finally helped the helpful employee fill out our
paperwork. For us. Next up was the talk. Each year we are passive aggressively
accused of being a bunch of idiots and X-Games enthusiasts who are out there
with the sole purpose of putting ourselves, our friends, and anyone on two or
four wheels in danger. Some highlights from the speech:
“I’m telling you now, at least one of you is going to roll
your bike and get hurt”
“There’s always a weakest link; ride to the level of your
weakest link”
“The bikes are replaceable…you’re not”
“Use the buddy system. You should always be within visual
distance of your buddy”
(Four lectures later, we were (almost) ready to roll)
I find it’s best to not say anything and see how long he’ll
keep talking. Just nod up and down mechanically and hope he loses steam soon. Which he did,
at which point we were almost free to go. Next up was 12 minute long
instructional video. Even thought it appeared to be in DVD format, no way it
was produced in a decade in which any of us have been alive. My favorite parts
were the neon Technicolor dune race uniforms the actors wore, the chick with
the poofy blonde hair and wraparound mirrored Oaklies that, if removed from her
head and placed upward on her chest, were large enough to act as a face tanner,
the two dudes playfully tousling each other’s hair, and the actors’ overall
refusal to act.
Unable to keep our laughs internal, we next moved outside
where Larry the Cable Guy’s brother Duane the Mechanic gave us yet another “don’t be an idiot”
speech. Seeing as this was the fourth iteration of the same speech, and that he
didn’t have all of his teeth, I didn’t even to through the motions and afford
him a nod. Had I been able to drive away from there without killing my quad six
times, I wouldn’t have felt like such a jackass for not paying him attention in
the first place.
I was second to choose a bike – my receipt came up second on
Joe Bob’s clipboard – and obviously chose the white and black one by
announcing, “duh…the Storm Trooper”. With no recognition to be seen on his
part, I sheepishly specified, “the white and black one”. Since I’m not a
gear-head, it always takes me some time to re-introduce myself to
four-wheelers. As such, the first half hour usually consists of me killing the
engine multiple times, not remembering where neutral is, not remembering where
first is, shifting when totally unnecessary, bailing on attempts to make it up
some of the larger dunes, forgetting how to properly bail on a dune attempt,
crashing into thickets, then struggling through the difficulties of pulling my
four-wheeler out of the sand traps I’ve created, filling my shoes with sand,
trying to find neutral, then first, not to mention reverse, hold in the clutch,
turn while shifting and hitting the engine, try to drive out of the rivets I’ve
created, and back to the bottom for a second go at it.
So when I killed the engine that first time at the rental
place, I all but magically fast-forwarded to my second attempt at the large
dune, with all aforementioned fun stuff in-between. I did manage to make the
five-minute ride from the rental shop to the dune entrance without killing it
too many times. Zach had to cover the $10 fee to enter the dunes, since I left
my cash in the bunker on accident when he gave me his card and ID to store in
my zipper pocket. I tend to lose focus of the details when I entertain thoughts
of the dunes. Luckily, Hef, Zach and others don’t suffer from my tunnel vision,
and we all made it through the familiar gate, announcing our presence with a
loud “whap” from the flagpoles on the back of our quads as they struck the
metal overhang.
Down the slalomy, yet narrow path and into the dune
entrance. We gathered our bikes and strategized our next move. It would take a
while before we were able to communicate with Hef – we were playing phone tag
ever since securing the bikes – so we decided to head for the side trails where
he and Michael likely were. Our journey there would see us attempt and fail at
some of the largest dunes since the Pleistocene Era. And by “us” I mean “Jaron
and I”. It was just the first large dune, actually, that caused us so much
trouble. I went up it with excitement and hubris, and wound up in the bushes,
stuck, with my nice North Face hiking pants charred shriveled from resting on
the hot engine. Jaron made his attempt patiently cautious since it was his
first time out there, and would up grounding his manual camouflage tank to a
dead stop 75% the way up. It was not a great start.
(First run of the day and I was on fire. Almost literally)
Micah helped Jaron reverse course and slide down first,
before hopping over to me and pulling me out of the ditch, righting course and
shoving me off back down. Ten minutes in and all three of us had a small
beach’s worth of sand inside our socks.
My second attempt fell short once again, this time because I
unnecessarily shifted to third for an extra push near the top (yes…this makes
absolutely no sense at all). Come to think of it, this tactic doomed my initial
traverse as well. Not wanting me to feel singled out, Jaron made it to almost
the exact same spot as the first time before losing steam and cutting the
engine once again. We were quite the pair.
With yet another dose of assistance I made my way out and
eventually shot up the dune with enough power to sustain the full trip to the
top. Trotti drove Jaron’s beast around the larger dune and up a series of
smaller ones until our group was again whole at the top of the mountain. And I
feel I must explain: Jaron’s automatic quad was significantly heavier than our
manual’s, and as a result slower uphill than ours. In wide-open flats and
winding through the side trails, Big Camo could keep up just fine, but going
straight up a dune was a challenge. Finding ways around that proved easy enough
throughout the rest of the trip, and for his first time at Little Sahara, Jaron
proved extremely capable in keeping in line with the rest of us.
(Filling his shoes with sand, Zach comes to our rescue)
Finally perched atop the dune, it became evident that the
weather was not going to be our ally this day. The sun was out and for late
October the temperature was great, however the wind had lived up to the
prognosticators warnings, and was whipping our asses with gusts of greater than
35 miles per hour. Thinking ahead, Zach bought out Wal-Mart’s supply of
bandannas, one of which I borrowed and used to cover my mouth,
Sandinista-style. Along with the $20 goggles we all bought at the rental shop,
the bandanna provided enough protection from the flailing sand, which came at
our faces from every direction, whether we were riding or resting. If Forrest
Gump were with us, he’d describe it as he did rain during the Vietnam War.
(Sand blowing our flags on top of a dune. 35 mph wind gusts turns soft sand into metallic darts)
It looked magnificent, though. Something we’d appreciate
much more no doubt, if we weren’t in danger of swallowing it or having even the
tiniest fleck of it touch an eyeball. Due to the wind, so much sand
had been displaced that the tops of the dunes were constantly being reshaped.
Instead of being on relatively solid ground, this was the type of sand you’d be
up to your ankle in when off of a bike. The gusts were so bad at the dune apex’s,
and so much sand was being blow in every which direction that you could see
your shadow sneak from the peak of the dune’s surface to out where there was no
solid sand at all, but only a mirage of freshly blown sand being funneled down
the side. Total mind-freak!
The only positive the wind blew in is that it prevented the
park from being overly crowded. Nearing the end of comfortable dune season in
terms of weather, we were fortunate to not share the grounds with too many
others. This made the side trails even more enjoyable than usual, as the
possibility of blindly crashing head-on into an oncoming quad was slightly less
than to be expected.
(Standing tall, maybe shaking some sand out)
We spent a total of ten hours from the moment we first
entered the park until we exited it for good at night, alternating from riding
in the sand, eating lunch and resting in Hef’s trailer. If you’ve never been to
the dunes before, there’s a number of ways you can pass your time while out in
the sand, all entertaining as hell.
The side trails are narrow paths that crop up on the
outskirts of the entire park. There’s no specific spot to enter or exit them,
but there are enough access points that it’s unlikely
that you’ll crash head on into another duner. Unlikely, though not
impossible, I imagine. Once entering the side trails, you’re usually funneled
down a specific path until you reach a spaghetti intersection, where you can
navigate any number of paths. Some are long straight-away’s with slalomy bumps
to prevent you from going too fast. Others are shorter, requiring sharp turns
with bursts of speed in between. Yet some others have high half-arcs (similar
to a skateboarding halfpipe) on alternating sides of the trail, where you can
whip your ATV and roostertail some sand at no one in particular.
(Hanging out in the trail system)
General rule of thumb is you take turns leading the others
through the side paths. Depending on the skill and creativity of the leader,
this generally leads to some of the more fun and satisfying runs of the day.
With such a large group, fracturing may occur, as it did a handful of times, at
which point we generally regroup at the mouth of the particular trail.
When we weren’t on the side trails, we made for the larger
dunes, banshee-style. We daisy-chained it to certain areas, where two or even
more large dunes intersected. Some of the more interesting places we hit up
were essentially bowls: two or three large dunes next to each other, rounding
out a circle, with a flat entrance in the middle. We would take turns burning
it up the side of a dune, only to skid out, throw sand upward, then angle
down the other side of the front face.
Not needing to stop, we could keep on going and repeat the
same motion on the second dune, again racing up and down the front face. This
was great because you could practice new techniques, or in my case, not killing my
quad or getting stuck. You could also take a short break on the flat surface,
watch the other members of the group, and rest your thumb from all of that
accelerating (like a jet-ski, the large and powerful ATV’s are propelled by a
single lever, operated by your right thumb; dudes with small hands like myself
thus sustain great amounts of pain throughout the day. If you want to more
about this, I describe it in detail in my write-up from the previous year). We
would spend ten to fifteen minutes at a time doing this; taking turns traversing the dune
faces, resting, maybe perch up to for a birds eye view of the action.
(Shot of the group from atop a dune. You can see the paths we've created practicing our skills)
The third way we played on the dunes was simple: haul ass
over a straightaway. We had to get from the trails to the larger dunes somehow,
right? Using my GPS device, I registered a top speed of 48 mph, falling just
short of my goal of 50. Still, considering that sometimes sand was getting
kicked into my helmet and ripping through my clothes (felt like this, at
least), that’s not too bad. I’m sure my record run wasn’t into the wind,
though. Sometimes I’d get going so fast that my quad would vibrate violently,
and I’d have to slow down for fear of ejecting my face into the sand. Clever planning
had me wearing my padded bike shorts, as last time, near the end of the day, my
rear end hurt so badly it almost forced me to turn in my bike early. The best pain is that which I'm able to avoid.
And that’s how we did it throughout the day. Up the big
dunes, over the straightaway, into the side trails, back over the straightaway,
up and around the big dunes, hit another side trail, head to the trailer,
repeat, repeat, repeat.
This year Hef and I both brought GoPro action cameras, so
some of the you-had-to-be-there shenanigans were captured on film. Still…they
merit explanation. Some of the highlights were:
·
Ashley was driving the two-woman Razer with
Whitney in the passenger seat. Somehow, and I’ll blame nature for this one,
they ended up in a patch of thickets at the bottom of a hill near the entrance
to a side trail. Having not seen the incident myself, it became apparent they
ran astray of the trails in an errant attempt to avoid running over an armadillo
or some other toothy creature. As it was, they were pretty well up in there.
Jordan and Hef had came to dig them out, Trotti joining the fray shortly after.
It took a significant chunk of time before they were even able to turn the
engine on. That’s the thing about getting stuck in sand – first you have to
physically lift the ATV out of the rut you’ve created by spinning your tires
both forward and reverse. If you’re legitimately stuck, trying to spin your way
out never works; you’re just as likely to make the elevator arrive faster by
pressing the button multiple times. But you always try. So the Hef dudes pulled
the Hef gals out of the sandtrap, and they angled the Razer away safely. Hef,
taping everything from the vantage point of his helmet cam, walks uphill and
starts his new four-wheeler once again. He kicks it into gear, then immediately
begins sliding into the tracks his sisters laid upon their entry into the
thicket. As if being pulled by a magnetic force, he slowly glides into the
exact same spot he rescued the Razer from. Cut the engine. Dig out the ATV.
Kick it into neutral. Slowly slide away from the tarantula of branches and
sticks threatening to scratch his new toy. The footage isn’t quite Red Bull and
Doritos material, but what it lacked in awesomeness, it completely made up for
in hilarity. I’m hoping it made the highlight reel.
(Lotta Hefner up in there)
Speaking of highlight real…while I wasn’t there
to witness it personally, both Trotti and Zach ran afoul of gravity and tipped
their ATV’s. Zach, for his part, was practicing donuts on flat ground and cut
one a bit too tight, causing his four wheeler to tip slowly at first, then
accelerate past the point of no return, and laboriously, as if guided by a
gigantic invisible hand, rotate from four wheels, to two, to none. These ones
lack the satisfaction of fast turnover, yet are much safer. They’re also the
ones that make you feel silly. Last time I was the only one to drop mine in
this manner, so I empathized with my friends. It’s as if we take turns
forgetting how to not be idiots. Trotti’s was a bit more violent, and he has
the resulting bruise to prove it – a nasty dollar bill size purple reminder on
his side. While (sadly) I was unable to witness the event that caused him to
turn his ATV, I was fortunate enough to witness him eject his person (all of
it) backwards off his quad in an errant attempt to pop a wheelie. As if yanked
back by a bungee cord, he shot straight back, while the quad settled in the
sand, resting on its back two wheels. The photo below acts as proof for any
potential doubters.
(Pop goes the four-wheeler)
After lunch Jordan decided to pilot the Razer,
with Michael acting as navigator, sand surveyor and that guy who throws the
peace sign to everyone they burn past. And man did they go fast. Jordan had
that thing cooking. On some of the flats, he’d race past me as we approached
the trail bottlenecks, and I’d always, happily, cede the path. If I had a
rearview mirror, it would have had the following disclaimer: “Objects in this
mirror are more terrifying than they appear”. It was a blast following those
two as they shredded the trails, kicking up sand indiscriminately and without
concern for how far it was displaced from its home.
Night Moves. As dusk approached, with all but
four of us retired to Osama’s bunker for showers and beer, we savored a few
final trail runs, Bob Seger-style. The wind was still whipping aggressively,
and the fine Oklahoma sand had found a way through my shoes, clothes, goggles
and bandanna, and into parts of my body I seldom used. It would take weeks for
my body to feel devoid of sand. Still, in an attempt to feel like we got our
money’s worth, Jaron, Zach, Hef and I gathered together for one final shebang.
I recorded the final 17 minutes of our trek, and it began as the sun was fading
and the dunes were orange and yellow, then ended in pitch black, the veil
between day and night in Oklahoma apparently as thin as worn out t-shirt with
it’s sleeves ripped off. We saw virtually no one during this final run, and the
feeling liberated us into some of our most technically brilliant and satisfying attempts of
the day. Not unexpected, a full day of duning had left my right thumb (the
accelerator) all but useless, forcing me to once again change my grip, use the
heel of my palm, other fingers, my left hand and every other band aid remedy I
could think of. While my hand hurt (significantly), my mind was as finely tuned
as it had been all day. This was by far the fastest we had been racing through
the trails all day. Without trying, I perfectly sprayed sand behind me at all
the appropriate turns. I accelerated rapidly coming out of the turns and into
the straightaway. When necessary, I kicked it up a notch so as to not lose my
companions. And I wasn’t alone. All four of us were on point. The leader would
legitimately try to lose us, to no avail. It wasn’t that dissimilar from The Matrix, though instead of reading
the environment in green and white code, we were seeing everything as one giant
sand mirage. Then burning through it, violently kicking up sand, getting major
air in the process. That last part might be a bit of an over-exaggeration. We
stopped for ten minutes or so to take it all in. Bikes lined up, tired bodies
resting on them or in the sand, sun rapidly fading, we had what you might call,
“a moment”. Similar to camping, we reached the point where it made sense to
stop all activities, take a step back and gush sentimentally over the fact that
we’re men, we’re outside in nature, we’re not watching TV, we’re doing
something badass that requires a helmet, creating stories for the water cooler.
We didn’t need to say all that, really. Just needed to take off the
sand-encrusted bandanna, remove the helmet, take a gigantic deep breath and
stock up on the mental photography of our surroundings. My destruction-proof
digital camera will fill in the gaps. Our broment fading like the sun, we
flipped on the headlights for the first time and headed home. By the time we
reached our bunker, it was dark as death, headlights bouncing a mesmerizing cadence
as the four of us rolled in. The quads were parked in two neat rows under the
open-air garage – as we navigated up to the bumper in front of us, it signaled
the end of an exciting and physically demanding day.
(Hanging on to the fading sunlight)
While the aforementioned stories were a grab-bag
of great, hilarious, touching and entertaining, nothing was as spectacular as
the moment that one Nicholas Bishop Hefner provided for all of us. Sometime
after mid-day (on the dunes, you can get away with telling time in general
terms, as I’m sure Moses and crew did) there was a split in the daisy chain.
Like we always do, we continued riding and assumed we’d run into our forgotten
crew as some point. I can’t remember everyone who was behind me (Jordan and
Michael were for sure), but I was following Hef like my life depended on it.
And it did. OK, it didn’t, but I didn’t want lose sight of him. He guided my
Storm Trooper through the trails as he had so many times before, looking ever
the professional in his fancy helmet that separated him stylistically from us
“renters”. His turns were precise. His rooster tails resembled actual rooster
tails. He was in the zone. I’m not sure how I even kept up. Maybe it was fate,
because he could not lose me. We ducked through some low-hanging branches and
were shot out of a trail at what can be no less than light speed. Hef gunned it
instinctively as we approached a steep incline, his motor so loud it made me
shudder, and I’m pretty sure I saw a bird fall out of a tree from heart failure.
What’s that at the top of the hill? Sitting pretty, no doubt waiting for us to
arrive, were Zach, Micah and Chad. Three dudes taking a break from the rigors
of the sand, hoping their buddies were close by. We were. Hef shot up and gave
them an Oklahoma greeting, working his way dangerously close to them, then
quickly cutting the handlebar left to avoid physical contact, leaving a
glorious double-rainbow quality arc of sand in their faces. Judging from the
replay – yes, miraculously this incident was recorded on the GoPro rigged to my
handlebars - you can see the sand cover all three of them at face level, Micah
apparently getting the worst of it. I laugh, but not for the last time. To prevent his new quad from hopping over the dune – remember, they
were at the top of a crest – Hef tried to stabilize the competing gravitational
forces that were now attacking him from all angles. Fail. He went from
balancing on two wheels on the right side to two wheels on the left side, and
back again – what we call the tipping point – past two wheels, upside down. Hef
ejected himself to the side instinctually, luckily not catching a leg, arm or
similarly important body part in the process. Inertia on full display, Hef rolled once and
caught his back flat on the sand, and as gravity pounded his body deeper into
the fine dust, his legs flayed forward, then straight to the sun, saluting it for a brief moment, then came crashing down in resignation. He was not
hurt at all, other than some bruising of his pride and feeling sad for his new
quad, which, as you can imagine, had never previously situated itself on it’s
saddle. I had to lean over and check to ensure I was recording. Oh sweet
relief, the on-light was on, capturing the single most awesome moment of the
trip.
(Hef's wipeout in all its glory)
There were many other stories throughout the day, and we
recounted them with many a laugh in the sand-and-wind protected trailer,
sipping Frappuccino’s and beers and snacking on granola bars. As always with
Waynoka, in spite of the nasty elements (well, “element”, wind) it was a
glorious day. Our bodies were beginning to tighten up, even before dinnertime,
yet there were nothing but smiles residing on our faces.
(panoramic shot of our crew)
We went to this tiny Mexican restaurant for dinner, and all
but closed them down. The food was great, the beers delicious and American, and
again, we spent our time recounting the day’s various achievements, failures
and everything in between. Ashley told what may be the funniest story of all
time about Hef. So funny, in fact, it can only be communicated through spoken
word. Typing it could cause my laptop to blow up. Don’t believe me, ask him
about it.
(All of us as seen through Trotti's iPhone)
After dinner we didn’t buy any more beer or liquor (in
Oklahoma, liquor sales stop at 9pm), but still had a few to share back at the
bunker. We downloaded the days videos, fast-forwarding through hours worth of
action, searching for just one nugget: Hef’s wipeout. We found it and promptly
watched it no less than 387 times. Like looking at a handlebar mustache, we
laughed harder each time we saw it. Epic.
One by one, we retired to our spots for the night. It would
have been nice to party, yet the combination of a day’s worth of getting thrown
around on a four-wheeler, a couple of beers, heavy Mexican food, and a whole
lot of calories lost laughing proved too much. For me at least; I passed out
with my legs hanging over the side of a reclining chair.
(3/4ths of the Hef clan close to passing out)
Breakfast at the café was delicious as always. I had a nice
conversation with Jordan, Ashley and Whitney about biscuits and gravy, and why
they have to be made a certain way, how most people don’t make them properly,
and that if you’re trying to make a good impression in the Hefner household by
making breakfast, please, for the love of God, do NOT make biscuits and gravy.
Luckily for the staff, they were out of biscuits. We all enjoyed our breakfast.
Hugs and the t-shirt Hef designed were handed out as we
gathered in the café’s parking lot. The possibility of a spring dune trip was
vocalized, and all were on board. Whether or not it stays that way is to be
seen, but after this last adventure, I’ll do my best to not let another couple
of years pass before the next one.
Sand needs to be shredded. Dunes need to be conquered.
Trails need to be created, or at least followed properly. The ten of us know
how to do this better than any ten individuals that I’ve ever met. So why not
us? Why not again? We’ll see you once more, Little Sahara. We’ll ride again. And
in the meantime, we’ll look at the pictures; we’ll watch the videos; we’ll
think of you fondly. And then, when you may have forgotten about us, we’ll be
back. With the $20 pair of goggles we bought. Ready for some action!
