Four weeks ago I was flying from San Diego to Minneapolis. From my window seat, I could see the winding dirt trails and roads of the Sierra Mountains. They looked like never-ending snakes.
I decided right there and then that I wanted to get on those trails.
And so that happened this weekend. With my 10 year old daughter Claire. In Lemmon Valley, Washoe County, Nevada.
It was our first time in the dirt. I had recently purchased a 2005 Honda CRF70 for my kids, but we hadn’t done much more than rip up our yard and roll up and down our quiet suburban street.
Typical for me, I hadn’t made any official reservations for rentals until the last minute. I called Daron at Tahoe Dirt Bikes, and he was on it fast. By the time we landed in Reno, he had his two awesome colleagues and expert tour guides, Mick and Janee, loading bikes and gear and on their way to pick us up at my Aunt Sue’s house. Hardly never had anything been so easy.
This whole adventure was made possible b/c of the loving support of Claire’s dad, my mom, who holds her breath every time we ride motorcycle, and my beautiful, gorgeous Reno relatives: kick-butt Aunt Sue who, at 75, no-big-deal skis and snowboards in Tahoe, heart-throb Cousin Ryan, who I’ll write about one day because he’s got motorcycle and life stories that everyone should hear, sweet goddess Cousin Shannon, who reminded me of all the reasons we need to come back to Reno soon, and my Uncle Dean, who has known no limits, and has been riding motorcycle since forever.
To your beautiful wild.