I read something on Lance the Leftist's blog yesterday that brought to mind my one and only motorcycling experience. It was in Utah on Easter weekend, in 1997. My wife's BIL (BIL1) is a huge motorcycling enthusiast. He wanted to take DW's 17 year old brother (BIL2) to the Little Sahara for the big Easter weekend. Even though Little Sahara is in Utah, Easter weekend sees thousands of bikers converge on the place to ride up and down a hill known as Sand Mountain. BIL2 wanted to stay in Logan and play video games, but he agreed to go to humor BIL1. DW suddenly chimed in and said that I ought to go too. I was a little reluctant at first, but BIL1 talked me into going along.

We got to Little Sahara and set up camp. The group next to us looked like, well, total white trash. As the evening wore on, they acted that way too. They "tested" their bikes all night long, and at one point were dangerously close to BIL2's tent. As I lay freezing in my sleeping bag (it started out that day in the 60s, but dropped into the 20s), I couldn't help but hear the very loud conversation going on in the camp next door. Every other word was an f-bomb, even when it made absolutely no sense. Cussing always has been a bad habit of mine, even when I was a very active LDS. The woman in their group showed up and started talking about doin' the nasty with various guys. The bikers next door at one point smoked a doobie 'round the campfire. They also tossed in the names of a few of their hometowns.

The next morning, BIL1 commented to me that the people in the next campsite must be from Colorado or something, but they probably weren't from Utah. No, I told him, they're from Cache Valley. Places like Newton, Hyrum, and Logan. BIL1 went over to talk to those guys. I was afraid there would be some type of confrontation, but BIL1 surprised me by complimenting their motorcycles. Those guys dug BIL1's old dirt bike, which evidently was a prized model. I came out of the tent and BIL1 introduced me as a big city lawyer. The biker dude asked what the hell I was doing out there, as I might wipe out, fall off the bike, and hurt my brain. We were yukking it up at that point, when BIL2 came out of his tent. "They don't even cuss right," he told me. Yes, I said, that's how I knew they were Mormons, or had been raised as Mormons. Too many cuss words used inappropriately is always a giveaway in that part of the country. I suppose Jack Mormons try a little too hard to differentiate themselves from their more observant neighbors.

Later on, just before we took off back to Logan, a couple of guys showed up on their Harleys and asked if they could park their hogs in our campsite. We said sure, and I watched the big bikes as my BILs rode around one last time (we only had two bikes, so one of us was always back at the camp). The Harley dudes came back after a while and were pissed off because there was sand and dirt on their bikes. I thought, "uh, you're in the EFFING DESERT! Of course there's dirt!"

Anyhow, that's my Utah motorcycling experience.