This occurred shortly before my departure at Jalopnik, but it remained a story I wanted to tell ever since.
On my right outer thigh remains a large, semi-deformative bump and bruise—a slightly painful reminder, nearly a year later, of my first, and well, last dirt bike excursion. It wasn’t my last because I had happened to yeet myself over the handlebars of a two-stroke bike I’d never ridden before, into the Pennsylvania mountain terrain, which ended with a solid collection of gnarly bruises and swelling across my body. It was just that it happened at the tail end of riding season (followed by a host of other unrelated medical maladies).
But that’s not what I think about when I accidentally ram my thigh into furniture and irritate the incredibly deep bruising that still remains. Rather, I think of all I was able to conquer, on bikes I’d never had experience with (or on), while riding with the raddest group of women, at a weekend camping oasis filled with dirt bikes, at Over and Out.
