Big Dogs...

“Don’t open your eyes. Your helmet is filled with dirt and rocks. ”

Little Dog (John Richardson, Evergreen, CO) had crashed hard enough to earn the “Best Crash” award, and Coy Dog (Jim Key, Denver, CO) was attending to him as he drifted into consciousness.

Key, a veterinarian, had watched Richardson slide sideways in a moss-covered rut. Then, still on the throttle, legs off the pegs flapping wildly, Richardson T-boned a dirt wall at 90-degrees, planting his helmet, face shield up, into the unyielding wall of rocks and dirt, knocking himself loopy after flying over the handlebars.

Luckily for Little Dog, his attending physician scooped the spooge out of his helmet before his lolling tongue let jungle grunge enter his oral orifice. Before Little Dog’s eyes opened, Coy Dog blew out the finer particles.

Little Dog expressed his thanks to Coy Dog by slobbering, “Ahhhh, ohhhhh, errrrr, uggghhhh,” as his eyeballs rolled to center and his boots quit twitching. Key responded, “You’re getting the hang of this jungle riding, but for now you’d better keep your face shield down.”

Coy Dog (left) and Little Dog (right) join two Longneck women from Burma to become “tribal ladies” for a few moments. After both tried the brass coils each agreed they felt more feminine, more “lady like.”

Richardson and Key were two of “Die Glorreichen Sieben” (Magnificent 7), a group of hardened dual-sport riders bent on attacking the jungle in the area known as the Golden Triangle, where Burma, Laos and Thailand converge. Six were selected from a field of BMW applicants made up of veteran BMW GS “BIG DOG” riders, while the 7th came from connections with the Colorado 500. They spent two weeks in early 2003 hammering jungle trails, sliding rear wheels over paved twisting single lane roads and fording rivers or crossing over bamboo foot bridges. They bagged nearly 2,000 miles of some of the best dual-sport riding in the world while fellow Americans quivered in their freezing environs with bikes stored or dribbled like whelps at the thought of travel outside the borders of the USA.

The event was dubbed “The Jungle Run,” for the unique riding done through some of the most inhospitable jungles in the world. Much of the inhospitality was the result of flare-ups between the Thai government and drug suppliers from across the border in Myanmar (formally Burma). It was not unusual for villages the riders were passing through to be raided by either drug runners (forcing villagers at gunpoint to transport drugs), or militia from the Thai side seeking drug lords or suppliers.

As of the end of February 2003, Thailand had seen over 1,100 killed in the first 30 days of their government’s War On Drugs, with both good and bad guys doing the shooting. The Jungle Run riders were stopped numerous times by the Thai military, often well armed with itchy fingers and AK – 47’s, as they rode within inches of the Burmese border, in and out of the jungle. On a ridge, with Burma on one side and Thailand on the other, snipers with scopes tracked the silhouetted motorcyclists from both sides.

The Jungle Run was not one of the packaged motorcycle tours only offering “adventure” when writing the big check or vicariously by staring at the operator’s slick advertising. The Jungle Run was the real thing, involving a high degree of serious physical and mental risk. There was no chase truck, guide or mechanics. If a bike broke down the rider had to figure out a fix. Each rider carried tools, medicine, tire patch kit, maps, and water. No rider carried a GPS (many of the trails and roads were not mapped), deemed an unnecessary gizmo. The one concession to whimpishness was a lone cell phone which worked intermittently due to spotty service, for lost riders to call the carrier and report which hut/tree they were sleeping in if they got seriously lost or stranded after dark.

On each of the 250-cc Yamaha TTR’s, the rider carried what he needed for up to six days on the road, and in the jungle. The basic riding set-up comprised a small tank bag and tail pack.

Sleeping arrangements were questionable as hotels and guesthouses often overbooked. If the riders did not arrive early enough there was a possibility they would spend the night sleeping on the ground sans sleeping bag or tent. Not bad at a roadside rest stop in California, but risky in Thailand which is home for some of the ugliest herpetofauna in the world. Ugly because the snakes, like the king cobra, seek heat at night, like the warm body of some foolish motorcyclist sleeping on the ground.

Mountain Dog (in the background) watches Purple Dog and Coy Dog cross a deep stream to see if either will disappear if not seeing a deep hole in the murky jungle streambed. These streams are easily crossed by elephants, but not so by small motorcycles. The streambeds and banks house some of the more unfriendly snakes in Asia. Mountain Dog has not gotten to be an old dog by being a dumb dog.

The riders used Chiang Mai as their base, an eight-hour ride north of Bangkok. Chiang Mai is a tourist friendly city within spitting distance of superb off-road riding and the highest mountain in Thailand. It offered everything from Burger King’s, ice cold Heinekens, traditional Thai massages and noisy go-go bars.

A warm-up day ride broke the riders in for Thailand traffic, where vehicles drive on the left side of the road, Stop means sometimes, and anything from a truck to a screaming Honda 125-cc motorbike can be expected coming at you, in your lane.

The “Golden Triangle Rider,” (www.GT-Rider.com), David Unkovich, coached the Magnificent 7 one evening, telling them what is wonderful about riding motorcycles in this part of the world is the freedom. A founding member of the North Thai Tea Drinking Society (members drink not much tea), Unkovich knows more about roads and customs in Thailand than Bill Clinton knows about Cuban cigars.

The riders learned that dogs, chickens and pigs often ran in front of motorcycles, especially in villages where bamboo huts and thatched roofs were homes to naked children and wandering dogs. If a chicken or pig was run over, the rider was expected to stop and make restitution to the owner, $2.00 for a hen, more for a fighting rooster and big dollars for a porker. Dogs, which are covered in mange and often ownerless, cost nothing when whacked, which they are seldom.

Two of the three founding members of the North Thai Tea Drinking Society, “Big Dog 1” (Dr. Gregory W. Frazier, left), and “The GT-Rider” (David Unkovich, right). Both the veteran jungle riders over the years have hit, or been hit, by every jungle animal except an elephant. One was even tagged by a Thai “ting-tong”.

Bone Dog (Dan Haft, Santa Fe, NM) did not know what to do after he took out 20 feet of a farmer’s fence. He stopped on a hill and discovered, when he put his right foot down and into oblivion, that he was too close to the edge and both he and the motorcycle toppled over and slid 100 feet down the slick side of the hill, eventually sliding into the wooden fence. Extracting him and the motorcycle destroyed the section. Being the last in the group of 7, none of his pals were around to help him push/pull/curse the bike, on its side, back up the hill. When he got up to the trail, winded and flustered at his no-show riding buddies, he did not have the strength to slide down the hill to leave some money on the fence. Haft made up for the fence some days later at a Buddhist temple when he made a voluntary contribution to the educational fund. Buddha smiled on Bone Dog, and he had no more crashes.

Bone Dog, a new age environmentalist, shown here watering jungle plants.

The only rider to stay upright over the 12 days was Ow Dog (David Ow, Soquel, CA). This was a major accomplishment as the trails were some of the most difficult and technical several riders had experienced. Ow Dog surprised the rest of the pack by excelling in the treacherous “tough stuff,” especially the slippery single-track jungle mud and swollen stream crossings. There was some worry that Ow Dog, of Chinese decent, might be subjected to extra scrutiny at military checkpoints where guards were looking for illegals from China, Burma and Laos. He was instructed to keep his helmet visor down as the group passed the gun guys at the numerous roadblocks, after the leader had explained that the group were all US citizens and flashed his passport.

Ow Dog proudly sporting his newly purchased Thai motorcycle riding hat 100 baht ($2.50 US).

Purple Dog (Mike Curtis, Grapevine, TX) found that one of the easiest ways for him to meet the local people was by passing out “purples.” A purple is a Thai 500 baht note, equivalent to approximately $12.00 US. Curtis had trouble differentiating between "pinks” ($2.50 US) and purples, but was warmly received when he tipped by leaving a purple. His riding buddy, Mountain Dog (Jim Campbell, Pueblo West, CO) made numerous trips to banks to stock up on purples and pinks, because Curtis would start borrowing from Campbell after a few swills, and purples and pinks flowed like cheap whisky on payday in a GI whorehouse. By morning Campbell’s wallet would be empty and he would make another bank-run while Curtis serviced Campbell’s bike and his own.

The High Thai Rider (Don Duvall, Annapolis, MD, and another founding member of the North Thai Tea Drinking Society) took the group over an unmapped (secret) series of mountains and through numerous hill tribe villages on a 12-hour single-track ride. Duvall, a roving adventurer traveling the world with his Honda tied to the front of his sailboat, is known for having spent months/years exploring places where motorcycles are never seen in Asia. The High Thai Rider warned the Jungle Runners the night before they might not find food on their ride, which was correct. As the BIG DOG riders limped back into their base for the night at Tha Ton, they were a group of whipped puppies. All said they only wanted to first eat then sleep. Asked the next morning if they would do the day the same again, the reply was “In a second!”

The “High Thai Rider,” Don Duvall, hunts secret places, often being the only Westerner to ever reach them on a motorcycle.

What was special about this group of riders was their camaraderie and common denominator of wanting to ride motorcycles. They had left jobs, wives/girlfriends, children and responsibilities back home during the month of January, when snowflakes were flying and most hardened off-road motorcyclists were suffering from riding cabin fever, being stuck inside not being able to ride. For each of the Magnificent 7, their priority was to ride, and ride hard, each day they were away. Whereas some riders “Ride To Eat, Eat To Ride,” this group “Breath To Ride” each of their riding days. Telephone calls home to offices, wives and girlfriends were forgotten to be made as riders would arrive in the evening, did routine maintenance on their motorcycles, showered, changed clothes and then tried to decipher a menu written in Thai, which nobody understood. It was soon standard routine for one person to pay the entire bill each night for dinner, the honor rotating, because no one had enough energy left at the end of the day’s riding to compute everyone’s portion. The same would hold true for lunch if a group stop was made.

A mid-day meal would be an unscheduled stop when a convenient looking restaurant/gas station was passed. Food was always a surprise, often because there was no menu, and when there was, it was unreadable, being in Thai. Riders learned to eat what was served to them, and were happy when they got something that was not too spicy.

At a noodle shop one lunch stop, the riders were surprised when each bowl was served with chopsticks. The surprise was not the chopsticks, but Ow Dog informing the group that although he was Chinese, he did not know how to use chopsticks! To Purple Dog, from Texas, this was as surprising as it was to learn that the Crow Indian in the pack did not sleep in a teepee at home on his reservation, nor did he wear feathers in his hair.

Purple Dog was not without offering his own surprises. After three days of avoiding taking medicine for a case of liquid exhaust, the former Marine jet pilot confessed to not being able to squat and use the “squatter toilets” which were the only toilets available. Knowing eyes darted back and forth between the other riders when he said this. One raised an eyebrow, as if to say, “Damn, he’s gone three days without relief.” Another cocked his head as if to say, “Impressive, but the way he has been eating he might explode.” After the rest reached the same conclusion and moved a short distance away, Dr. Coy Dog got Purple Dog to agree to medicate. On day four Purple Dog proudly reported solid movement and was back on the throttle again, full twist. The Dr. in the group submitted that “Old Marines are tough.” Another Dog quipped, “Old Marines should be taught to squat before they become Marines or start riding motorcycles in places outside of the USA.”

Purple Dog makes friends with a jungle village puppy that probably gave him the runs for the next week after handling the worm-infested fleabag.

Thailand has 15 million motorcycles, most being in the 110-cc to 125-cc class, which are used as everyday transportation. Due to high importation taxes on “big bikes,” very few large motorcycles make it into the country. When at first the BIG DOGS were told they would be riding 250-cc motorcycles, they scoffed at the small displacement bikes, most being owners of the 800-cc to 1150-cc BMW GS motorcycles.

What the Beemerphiles learned after two weeks with the 250-cc enduro Yamaha’s was the smaller displacement motorcycles were perfect for riding in North Thailand. There the best roads are narrow, twisty, and sometimes the 180-degree reverse direction, 50-degree downward curves try to reach up and grab your ass, not desirable on a 500 lb. Bavarian behemoth. The off-road tracks can be little more than a footpath through slippery, steaming red clay mud in the jungle.

The Jungle Run riders soon learned that motorcycling in Thailand is far different that the USA. While there are millions of motorcycles on the roads, riding is very risky, especially in the Chiang Mai area. This was no place for a beginner to rent a bike and start to build on his/her riding skills. From December 27, 2002 – January 1, 2003 there were 514 deaths in Thailand, or 4 road deaths per hour. Another statistic was during the same period there were 29,485 injuries, or 204 per hour. Chiang Mai reported the highest number of accidents, and most were from drunk driving, and a number of those involved, particularly motorcyclists, did not possess a driving license.

A local Thai motorcyclist displays her riding style. While there is a helmet law in Thailand, many ignore it, and the weather is so hot leathers, boots and gloves are seldom seen.

As the Jungle Runners enjoyed the splendor and comforts of the traditional Mae Sai Plaza Guesthouse, overlooking the four-foot deep river that separated Thailand from Burma, they speculated on what they would find in the morning when they crossed into Burma.

No one spoke Burmese and Ow Dog made it clear he would be unable to read the Chinese script often used. Once across, the riders realized that driving was done of the right side of the road, that roads were in poor condition and there was no such thing as a motorcycle shop for anything larger than some Chinese made 125-cc two stroke bikes. In a graveyard they realized for the first time they had seen none on the Thai side, where most people are cremated.

Pondering the cultural differences a 100-foot wide river made between Myanmar and Thailand, Bone Dog asked, “If this is what it’s like in Burma, what are we going to find in Laos, our next stop?”

The answer was, “You’ve seen the best there is. For the next 800 kilometers phones wont work, the electricity goes off to the whole town at night, and the roads are impassible when it rains.”

Mountain Dog asked, “How much off-road riding will there be after we get across the Mekong?” The answer was “200 kilometers the first day, and it will take us five to seven hours.”

Ow Dog was drooling when he said, “Let’s hurry up and get there.”

Purple Dog asked, “What kind of toilets do they have, and will there be toilet paper?”

The answer was, “You need to get back into your Basic Training Mode and practice squat jumps, and Rule # 1 for traveling in this part of the world is ‘Always carry paper.’”

Coy Dog, the youngest in the pack and single, “Will I be able to get an oil massage when we get there?”

The answer was, “Now on that you’ll have to ask the locals.”

Then Little Dog, known as a self-proclaimed wastrel and constantly concerned with niggling, asked, “What is the exchange rate?”

One Big Dog spat into the dust then said, “You’ll feel like a rich man when you get there. They’ll give you 10,660 kip for each dollar, which means if you break a $100.00 bill you will get back a stack of 5,000 kip notes an inch high.”

Purple Dog, now concerned with his intake of food after his earlier experience with his exhaust consistency, finally said, “Tell you what. You lead us to a McDonalds and I’ll pay for everyone’s meal!”

It’s said, “You can take the American out of America, but you can not take America out of the American.” Proving this axiom is true was the beeline the Magnificent 7 made to the only McDonalds north of Bangkok, Thailand to the North Pole!

As the Magnificent 7 set off on the final leg of their Jungle Run, the winds blowing through the elephant grass whispered, “Only Buddha knows if you will find a Big Mac, but we’ve got to thank Buddha for allowing us to experience the vortex of the best Jungle Riding in the world.”

The “Magnificent 7 Jungle Runners” from left to right: Greg Frazier, Dan Haft, Mike Curtis, Jim Campbell, David Ow, John Richardson and Jim Key.

(If you think you have the “Ride Stuff” to try real adventure, contact www.globalmotorcycleadventures.com. The next Jungle Run is by invitation only and limited to four special riders. These are not guided motorcycle tours; they are motorcycle expeditions.)