Mini Bike Hell

“Do you want Dallin to bring his other mini-bike for you to ride tomorrow?” My sister-in-law was asking me a perfectly reasonable question. Mini-bikes are the new rage among all the kids these days, so she was offering me an exceptional opportunity. I stuttered a hesitating response, however. This particular sister-in-law has gotten very good at putting me on the spot like this. For example, yesterday she spent excessive time preparing a simple meal known as “Hawaiian Haystacks.” I’m not sure that Hawaii lays any claim to this meal, which in the Glenwood household consists of pineapple, black olives, chow mein noodles, mandarin oranges, and shredded chicken and cheese with some sort of gravy poured on top. Look, I know that people love this meal. For me, it’s missing some key ingredients, and I think that rice, olives, and chicken gravy are not a great combination. But this particular sister-in-law took the time to ask me, point-blank, if I liked Hawaiian Haystacks. What was I supposed to say? She already prepped the meal, for crying out loud! So I told her I absolutely loved them (if I’m gonna lie, I might as well lay it on thick) and proceeded to fake eating some of it before pitching the remainder of my plate in the garbage. Okay, so back to the mini-bikes situation. Let’s be clear: I’m a young man in an old man’s body. I’ve got a broken tailbone that causes significant paint to the point of me using a literal wheelchair cushion when driving; I see a chiropractor a couple of times a month for low, mid, and upper back pain; my Left Nut is extremely sensitive to vibration or palpation ever since a mangled vasectomy (I don’t want to talk about it!); I could teach a class on actinic keratosis using my face as the prop; my hands and my feet all experience various but consistent levels of arthritis; and last but not least, I’m of course too fat to be riding the equivalent of a child’s dirt bike. But I said yes, and the next day I excitedly mounted the cheapest of the mini-bikes. I didn’t have a helmet on because my enthusiastic (and much younger) brothers-in-law instructed me that the “Biker Gang” all needed to wear hats backward for the photo shoot as we rolled down the road. I prepared for a round-the-block experience. Unfortunately, what was supposed to be an around-the-block joy ride turned into 31 miles of rugged mountain off-roading on these satanic contraptions; most of the journey was on washboard gravel that turned my face into a permanent grimace and curved my sacrum so much it probably punctured my bladder. Left Nut fell off early, savagely bouncing off in a fit of whiny rage. Right Nut was tougher, holding on for a few hours before conscientiously determining that this sort of life was not for him and ceremoniously rolling away, leaving my sans-testicles and only myself to blame. It’s an accepted fact that I will never sit again, and I’m sore in places that I’m pretty sure aren’t even supposed to have nerves. I spent some time with Calvin S., who has been one of my favorite people since we were eight. We did a tiny hike behind Mt. Timpanogos before returning to his house for me to reclaim my lost title of Master Foosballer for the following year. Yesterday, we went to the Last Remaining Lake. That’s not really what it’s called (Palisades), but it appears that every other lake in Utah is drier than a High Councilman’s sermon. From the start, I opted for the mandatory exploration trip, jogging up game trails to cross three high ridges until I could see the Manti temple in the distance. The rock formations looked like someone had taken a giant ice cream scoop to the mountain, and there was a funnel gulley with a suspiciously large number of dead deer corpses/skeletons. I’m pretty sure a mountain lion lives in the region.