I Busted My Knee Doing A Massive Wheelie While Learning To Ride A Dirt Bike, And It Taught Me A Great Life Lesson

One of my goals in life is to take command of as many vehicles as possible while I can. I have made some incredible headway into this, behind the controls of all sorts of things that run on the ground, water, and the sky. Yet, somehow, I have never ridden a dirt bike. Last month, I finally changed that when I rode a Stark Varg EX on a mountain in Oregon. This ride wasn’t just the thrill of a lifetime, but taught me a great lesson about life.

Back in May, I flew out to Medford, Oregon, joining Amber DaSilva from Jalopnik on a weekend of dirt bike extravaganza in the mountains above Jacksonville. Dirtastic is a celebration of all things off-road motorcycling that was crafted by women, for women. As I wrote in my first story in this series, Dirtastic was created to break down the barriers that women face in trying to get into riding a dirt bike. The event has classes taught by professional coaches who have years of experience in motocross and off-road riding. It’s an event where every woman of all skill levels is welcome, and you will never face judgment, scorn, or mockery, no matter how many times you fall.

To me, Dirtastic was my invitation into a world I had operated outside of for years. I have plenty of off-roading experience. I can get a stock Smart Fortwo to places that some pickup trucks cannot go. I have ridden a mostly stock Honda Elite 150D scooter a few hundred miles, mostly off-road. I have even ridden some adventure bikes off-road. Until May, the most hardcore off-road riding I’ve done was on a track on a Can-Am Origin, but that wasn’t a dirt bike, either. But none of these was anything like riding a real dirt bike.

(Full Disclosure: Stark Future and Dirtastic invited me out to Jacksonville, Oregon, to experience an all-women’s moto and camping event on a Stark Varg EX. Stark Future paid for my travel and accommodations.)

I will be writing a story solely about the Stark Varg EX, but you will need the context of what this motorcycle is to truly understand what I got myself into here.

Like Strapping Myself To A Saturn V

The Stark Varg EX is the enduro/dual-sport version of the Stark Varg MX. That bike is the electric dirt bike meant to take on the best of the 450cc competition. I don’t tend to cover machines that are not street-legal, so I never wrote about the Varg MX. The EX, however, has everything you need to slap a license plate on the back and take it on a road.

Let me just tell you the specs. The Varg EX sends up to 80 HP and 203 lb-ft of torque to the rear wheel from a motor that’s smaller than a liter of Coke. That intoxicating power is moving a machine that weighs only 264 pounds. Stark Future says that the Varg EX is “The fastest electric off-road bike in the world,” a claim that has been backed up by numerous reviews. Stark also says that the Varg EX is the “world’s most powerful enduro bike.”

All of this was pretty hilarious to me because most of those who ride dirt bikes seem to have started on little 50s and worked up from there. I have never touched a dirt bike in my entire life, and here I was wielding class-leading power as my first-ever dirt bike ride. The road equivalent would be like riding a Kawasaki Ninja H2 as your first bike.

I started out my ride on the Varg EX with 80 HP activated. This was a mistake. In its highest power mode, the Varg EX hits off the line like the launch of an intercontinental ballistic missile. It was brutally violent the moment I hit the throttle, and I didn’t even have time to regret my decision before the rapidly spinning rear wheel threatened to swap ends with the front. A dab of rear brake reined in the beast. Thankfully, I did have a saving grace: The Stark Varg allows you to customize your power curve and power limits. I used the 80 HP mode maybe twice, and otherwise spent my weekend going no higher than 40 HP. Honestly, I’d spend most of my weekend in a 25 HP mode.

I was under the assumption that slicing the power to a fraction of full would make the Stark docile. Sure, the power output now felt a lot less like getting into a street fight, but there was more than enough power to rip fat burnouts and generate unintentional wheelies.

Amber taught me how to do brake drifts, and it took me no time at all to pull off that trick on the Stark. I would never attempt to drift a motorcycle on the street, but the dirt and the Stark made it look too easy, and I never needed more than 25 HP to do it.

I Dumped It Basically Immediately

Once Amber and I had our gear on, we took off for the easy trail at Dirtastic with Stark Future representative Dan leading the way. We got lost effectively immediately and ended up on a trail that was absolutely not easy. By this point, I had maybe 10 minutes of experience on a real dirt bike.

I took what I knew from riding snowmobiles, dual-sports, and adventure bikes, then applied it to the Stark. I stood up, stayed on the throttle, and navigated around the many tree limbs that lined the trail. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was making it work.

Just as my confidence was getting better, we came across our first real obstacle. The trail dipped down into a tiny valley and then shot nearly straight up. The tall hill was intimidating enough, but then there was a rut going diagonally through it. I have never ascended a hill like this on two wheels before. There was a bypass that I could have taken, but Dan and Amber were able to do it, so I should have been able to make it happen, too. I’ll do anything at least once, so I went for it.

I didn’t get enough of a run-up, did not gain enough momentum, accidentally let off the throttle, and didn’t commit. The result was that the motorcycle toppled over, yanking me down with it. This wasn’t the first time I’ve been thrown off a motorcycle. I crashed that Honda Elite I took off-road, I crashed a Can-Am Origin, and I ate a Toyota RAV4 while riding a Harley-Davidson Sportster. Thanks to my gear, I walked away from all of these with no more than light scratches.

As the handlebar came down, it hammered my right thumb into the ground while my middle finger was briefly pinned by the bark buster. My thumb appeared to be in an alarmingly bad state at first.

The underside of my thumb was black, and there was nothing I felt but pain. I feared internal bleeding, a break, or something like that. We’d end up rushing to the on-site ambulance and, thankfully, my thumb was beaten, but okay. By midday, much of the color had returned to my thumb, and much of the pain had gone away. As for my middle finger, it was just bruised.

Dusting Myself Off And Trying Again

I responded to all of this by getting back on the bike and heading out onto the trail. Amber and I hadn’t even done the introductory course yet, but we were too amped up to wait. This time, we managed to stay on the beginner trail. Despite words like “beginner” and “easy” being used to describe this trail, it was difficult enough that many of the women at the event didn’t even try it.

This trail tested me with its ruts, tall hills, sand, and technical sections. I was forced to learn the art of the dirt bike as I rode. I learned that I needed to stand and lean forward when climbing hills, and that the rear tire will get loose, but that’s just the nature of the beast.

I also learned that, despite having a seat, dirt bikes are really meant to be stood on at all times. Sure, I was able to sit, but my control of the bike was so much worse when I was sitting. If I sat, it sort of felt like the bike was in charge of where I ended up and how sketchy things got. But if I stood, I could use my legs and my hips to keep me going where I wanted to go. Unexpectedly, for me, anyway, the Stark was far more comfortable to ride while standing, anyway. Trying to use the narrow, hard seat of a dirt bike on a trail makes a flight on Frontier Airlines feel luxurious.

Another useful lesson I learned is that, just like in off-roading vehicles with four wheels, remaining committed is one of the most important things I can do on a dirt bike. Once I was resolved to going up a hill or through ruts, there was no backing down and no releasing the throttle. Every time I backed off, it led to my dumping the Stark. But when I committed, I had far greater success completing maneuvers without falling off.

Amber, Dan, and I emerged from the trail after about an hour and 30-minute ride. I felt that experience primed me for the class. I figured out how to survive a trail on the most powerful enduro without killing myself, now I had to learn how to do it the right way.

As I wrote in my first entry, that nearly four-hour class taught us the proper way to stand on a dirt bike, the proper position for braking, how to shift our weight longitudinally and laterally, and how to work the clutch while walking next to the machine. The next day, Amber and I used this instruction to hit the same trail again, and it was a night-and-day difference in our performance and our confidence. The class worked.

The Stark under our legs was a brutal machine. It’s scary fast, even in 25 HP mode, and likely has more capability than most people brave enough to ride it. Varg EX’s torque hits with the sort of violence you’d expect from a John Wick film, and it vanquishes one obstacle after another with ease.

Having no clutch to worry about or an engine to stall also meant that I could focus entirely on the ride. I was even able to use regen to brake without touching a single lever. If your balance is good enough, you could go 2 mph on a Stark without worry.

My First Real Injury

My second day of riding a dirt bike concluded with a class on how to do party tricks. We started off with a race to see who could ride their bike the slowest across a line. The second lesson was wheelies, and this was the one I had waited for all weekend. Up until this point, every wheelie I’ve done on a motorcycle was initiated through a burst of torque. I didn’t actually know how to initiate a wheelie by myself, though I could keep one up for a little bit.

The instructors taught us how to compress the suspension and give just enough of a blip of throttle to get the front wheel up. I managed little bunny hops. Eventually, I got greedy. I cranked the Stark up to 40 HP, expecting bigger wheelies. I did not give myself a moment to adjust to instantly giving myself twice the horsepower. Instead, I went through the steps of starting the wheelie, then cranked the throttle the same way I did when I had half the power.

It worked. My front end went straight to the sky. I even held the wheelie for a couple of seconds. Unfortunately, I then lost my grip on the bars. As I slipped off the brake levers and off the grips, I inadvertently turned the throttle. This sent the motorcycle fully vertical, sending me off like a bucking horse.

I hit the ground with my left leg extended, and I felt a sharp pain upon landing. At first, I treated it like every other motorcycle crash I had been in, including the many times I dumped the Stark earlier that weekend. I took a moment to catch my breath, then tried to walk it off. This time, I got up, threw my fists in the air in celebration – the women on the other side of the course cheered me on – and then turned around to pick the bike up to get back on it. Only this time, I felt and heard a click in my knee right before it gave out.

This was terrifying. I have never broken a bone before, and the greatest mobility-limiting injury I’ve sustained was a sprained finger, something like two decades ago. Somehow, I just never really get hurt outside of bruises, cuts, and scrapes. Even when I got hit by a speeding car when I was seven years old, I blacked out and lost much of the skin on my forehead, but the rest of my body was totally fine.

I couldn’t understand what was going on. Pain was maybe a three out of 10 at the worst, and I could walk, but my knee and my leg just didn’t want to comply. As fear draped over my face, a track volunteer called over the event’s paramedics.

In the ambulance, paramedics gave me the best examination they could on top of a mountain. Based on their exam, I didn’t have a broken bone, and the knee wasn’t in the wrong place. Their best guess was maybe a pulled tendon or a lightly torn meniscus, but it was impossible to tell for sure with the tools they had.

The paramedics put my knee into a compression wrap and gave me two ice packs. Their recommendation was to get to an urgent care or a hospital. I elected to have them take me to camp. Then, I’d rest up for a moment, let the adrenaline fade, and then decide my next steps.

Bad Choices Mount

Dan offered to take me to a hospital. By the time I got back to camp, I had no leg pain and no knee pain, just a knee that didn’t like being twisted. As more time passed, I was able to walk on my left leg so long as I made no twisting motions. So, I decided that I’d stop riding motorcycles, be easy on my knee, and then see a doctor the moment I got home. That way, I’d know I’d be in network for my insurance, and I’d be able to have my wife by my side as I went through the whole nightmare.

At first, this plan worked. My newfound Dirtastic friends helped me limp to the Saturday night “Neon Rodeo” party. I then proceeded to drink and dance the night away, at times forgetting that I just busted my knee.

I retired to my tent around midnight, thinking I made the right choice, but woke up at two in the morning, all sobered up and in incredible pain. My left leg? It was sort of stuck in the partially bent position that I slept in. If I tried opening or closing the leg, I felt pain that was easily an eight or nine on the scale. Walking was entirely out of the question. Worse was the fact that Saturday was the coldest night of Dirtastic, with temperatures dipping down into the 30s. I was shivering, in immense pain, and I had to use the bathroom, but didn’t know how.

I Couldn’t Even Walk

As I sat in the tent and battled the frigid air, panic set in. Here I was, some 2,000 miles away from home on a mountain without cell service. Everyone was sleeping, and I had no way to call my wife or ask for help. Sure, I could have maybe screamed and gotten Amber awake, but I couldn’t do that. I felt so alone, useless, and broken. I felt I had lost the part of me that I found some of the most pride in, my independence.

At around five in the morning, the bathroom urge was now a need, and I had to act on it. I got around my lack of mobility by donning riding gloves and physically dragging myself out of the tent by my butt. Then, I continued to use my hands to drag my body the 20 or so feet to the nearby porta-potty. If I needed my left leg, I bent it into the necessary shape with my hands, crying every single millimeter of the way. But after 30 minutes, I made it to the bathroom. While I was in there, I cleaned myself up and took a bird bath. I had no idea if I was going to be able to get back to that toilet later on.

I then spent another 30 minutes dragging myself back to my tent. Once there, I burst into tears. I had no idea how I was going to get to a hospital, when I was going to be able to go home, or how I was even going to get home. I had completely lost the ability to walk, and even standing took most of the strength I had outside of my left leg.

Thankfully, by around eight in the morning, I finally had help. The Stark representative who was supposed to take me to the airport arrived, and some of my new friends woke up. I managed to pack up my suitcases and get dressed without ever standing. Then, Amber and the Stark rep helped me take down my camp. Thankfully, Amber had some Tylenol on her, and popping a few of those reduced the pain to the point where I was able to limp again.

After some tests, a doctor concluded that the EMTs were right in that the most likely cause of my demise was a pulled tendon or lightly torn meniscus. His recommendation was three weeks of rest, ice, compression, and elevation. As for pain, he said that it’s common for knee injuries to start hurting a day after, so that’s why I felt fine at first.

The big problem at that moment was that I was 2,000 miles from home, so he wrapped my knee up in a brace.

Misery Business

Something resembling walking became possible with the brace, but the struggle never went away. Walking through the airport at Medford was challenging enough, and it had only five gates inside the terminal itself. Eventually, I boarded my first flight, which would get me to San Francisco for my connecting flight home.

In San Francisco, assistants on the jet bridge flagged me down, apparently hoping I was one of the people who requested a wheelchair. I didn’t request a wheelchair, nor did I really think about it. I figured that, so long as I could do something that resembled walking, I could get to the gate myself.

Once home, more assistants flagged me down on the jet bridge, asking the same questions as the folks in San Francisco had. Not asking for a wheelchair was a mistake. It was midnight in O’Hare, and I was in Concourse B. The golf cart that rolled around the terminal was parked for the night, and I still had too much pride to ask for help.

I limped the entire length of the concourse, rode an escalator down to the baggage claim, and used my one fully functional leg to sling my two suitcases off the conveyor belt. A United Airlines employee told me that I could have and should have gotten a wheelchair. By his estimation, I had no business standing, let alone walking through an entire airport. It hit me that he was right. By then, it was too late. I had walked on my bad knee all day, and now I was only 30 feet from where my wife was picking me up. I made it, just managing to drag my left leg and two suitcases to O’Hare’s pickup area. By now, I was depressed and fully defeated. The only physical feeling I had in my body was pain.

The healing process has been a learning experience, and it started the moment I got home. I was simply incapable of getting my own bags up two flights of stairs. Sheryl, helped me with that, and braced me as I climbed those stairs. For the last three weeks, I’ve had to accept that there are times when I cannot be fully independent. Sheryl had to run some of my errands, and we had to cancel our Memorial Day trip to the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum. I also had to take things easy. No riding motorcycles, no wrenching, no swimming, no running, or anything like that.

Last weekend, I tried to go swimming in the nearby Fox River, failing so horribly that I sliced my right leg open on a rock. I won’t lie, I nearly reached rock bottom during this time, and would have lost it if Sheryl hadn’t been around. I was able to go camping with my family and even saw a baseball game with Sheryl, but I had to get comfortable with asking for help. Thankfully, I am now on the other side of this. I am using my knee again, and I am cleared to ride a motorcycle. I just have to be careful as healing continues.

It’s Okay To Ask For Help

When I first planned this story, I thought it was going to be a tale of dusting yourself off and getting back up. That was a major theme of Dirtastic. I’d fall, but instead of getting defeated, I’d hop right back on the bike. Then I got injured, and I learned something even greater.

What I learned is that it’s okay to ask for help. There’s no shame in reaching your limit and needing a hand. Sometimes, being stubborn only makes things worse, and for no good reason. I should have asked for those wheelchairs; I shouldn’t have ignored my knee at first, and I shouldn’t beat myself up for taking that help. You don’t have to go about life alone, and you don’t have to force yourself to struggle out of a misplaced sense of pride. If someone wants to help, take it; you’ll be glad you did.

I also learned that the world of dirt bikes is a fascinating one. Comfort is not at all a priority. The armor is bulky, the boots aren’t particularly flexible, and my goggles didn’t have the largest field of view. The bikes themselves are savage, weighing as little as possible with vicious power. Everything on a dirt bike happens so fast, and mistakes can be punishable with broken bones.

Riding a real dirt bike for the first time opened my eyes to why so many motocross riders have snapped a ton of bones, gotten numerous concussions, and even gone into comas. It’s a truly insane sport, and I walked away with a greater appreciation for everyone who can ride fast off-road while remaining above ground.

Just don’t be like me. If someone wants to help, take it; you’ll be glad you did.

Top graphic images: Amber DaSilva