The Bike and the Mountain

The Bike and the Mountain

            As some of you may know, we live (by my terms anyway) on a mountain. We also own the mountain next to us, which is actually higher than the residential mountain.

            So, on lazy days, instead of using leg power to walk the dogs, I trundle up the hill on my Yamaha 350 quad bike.

            Wednesday was such a day. Work had been crazy, and my neck had been giving me trouble. I thought, instead of pounding up the mountain and hurting myself more, I’d take a gentle, slow ride on my bike.

            Well, my bike had no petrol in it, and none to be found (probably because darling Wilbard had nicked it for his own bike, the skelm), so I used Pio’s. His is a little different from mine. It’s a small Grizzly, like a 100cc, and is an automatic and not a manual like my monster.

            Pio bought it for me, and I hated it – much preferring the raw, brute strength of my own. I got to keep the big one.

            Anyway … off I went up the hill on the sewing machine, the dogs in front and behind, running, smelling, and in Kita’s case, walking very slowly. She’s getting on in years, and weighs a good forty kg’s, bless her, which is quite a bit of weight to carry up the mountain. I stop and wait her every so often.

            Once on the top of the mountain, we have seriously impressive views, and can see forever. It’s stunning. I’m sorry to use such a boring word, Richard and Jo-Anne! Because of my lack of lyricism, here’s a photo for you:

            So once on top of the lovely mountain, which my iPhone says is the equivalent of about twenty flights of stairs, I stopped the sewing machine on a flat bit at the top and waited for the dogs.

            Then I felt very lazy. I had to at least do something, so I thought I would walk across the top of the mountain to our farthest fence line, and at least get a little exercise in.

            I put the bike in neutral and hopped off. I turned to call the dogs, and gather all five together so I at least knew where they all were.

            I turned around. Why, I don’t know. To my horror, the stupid sewing machine had decided to take itself for a walk.

            I charged after it as rolled towards the edge of the mountain, gaining momentum. I leapt rocks, dodged dogs, and must have looked like a marathon relay-sprinter on crack, with my eyes falling out of my head, trying to grab madly at the back end of the bike.

            Alas, it was not possible. It’s likely the fastest the useless thing has ever gone.

            It missed a bloody tree that would have halted it in its tracks, ramped over a large outcrop of rock, and disappeared. I slid to a halt. I had no idea what to do. I’m pretty damn sure my mouth was hanging open, my eyes still as big as saucers, and my hands waving madly.

            There was silence. For a second, anyway. Then there was a thunderous crash. Silence. Another thunderous crash. I put my hands over my mouth.

            Pio was going to kill me. This was undoubtedly the stupidest thing I had ever done.

            The dogs had gathered around me, clearly confused as to why I wasn’t on the bike as it plunged over the edge. They charged after it – which, to be fair, that’s what they normally do. I’m just on it, in most cases.

            There was another crash. It was no doubt going off yet more of the large outcroppings. More silence.

            Please God, make it stop. I was in major trouble.

            Another thunderous crash echoed through the valley.

            Eventually, it did. I shrieked into my phone, the recipient being Sharon. “I walked away for two seconds and the bike rolled off the mountain!”

I peeked over the edge of the large outcropping of rock, but couldn’t see the bike. I could however, very easily follow the trail of destruction it had left as it went 4x4’ing on its own. Grass was flattened, whole trees ripped from the ground (I still feel bad for them), and rocks smashed, literally. They also had liberal coverings of blue plastic.

Photo of large outcropping of rock that bike ramped off of, dogs included: (there’s a large drop)

It was slow going. The dogs cleared the space with ease, probably three or four times, before I could make it down to where the bike lay. It’s hectically steep. I used the slow-going time to phone the hubby.

“The bike went off the mountain.”

“What?”

“Yes. It went off the mountain. Like, on its own.”

I can’t really remember the rest of the conversation, but he was not happy.

On reaching the bike, I was almost too terrified to look. Surprisingly, it was on its wheels, but judging by the amount of blue plastic on the rocks, it had definitely gone over a number of times. I think it ramped off yet another massive rock, smashed a tree out of the ground roots ’n all, flipped, and skidded for at least a good ten meters, before coming to rest on its tyres.

The steel here and there was battered and bent. The key was gone. One tyre was off its rim entirely, the rim scratched and dinged.

I phoned the hubby again.

“What if it bursts into flames?”

“It won’t. Disconnect the battery.”

“We must get it out.”

Husband was not impressed. I gave up.

I gingerly disconnected the battery. My neck was killing me. There was no way hubby was going to come fetch me. It took another twenty minutes to bundu-bash home through very thick bush, down and then up a very steep mountain.

It’s now a week later, and the poor bike is still there! Thus far, we can’t get it out. Hubby is not enamoured with my idea of tying it to the big bike and pulling it out with force. He’d rather drive it out.

Moral of the story: HANDBRAKES ARE THERE FOR A REASON!!!

                    Bike in bottom right corner! From top of mountain!!!