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14 The Pit Layered and Loud “Sometimes the real thing is too real.” “That’s what the Redwood Run is all about, a bunch of goofy guys and a few biker chicks running off to the woods for a three-day party. Lots of others go on the run, and while some of them come down to the pit for a short time, most stay and play elsewhere. Different strokes for different folks, but if ya didn’t get down and dirty in the pit, ya missed the party. I was tired and dirty with a head floating somewhere in the treetops and there was a mean little animal growling in my stomach. But then that’s what the Redwood Run is all about, isn’t it?” (Easy Ed, FogHog News, August 1991) I have always dreaded the pit. Heard stories about it for years. Every woman I knew said “Stay away.” Every man I knew said “Go for it.” The pit is the stuff of legends. It’s where the main action of the run takes place. The pit is where you earn your right to boogie. Getting into the pit is the first rite of passage. Descending into the pit, I leave all expectations about behaviors behind. The pit makes its own rules. The pit is an enormous canyon with a river running across one end and terraced hills rimming three sides. On the fourth side, the granite goes straight up. Arriving at the lip of the pit, we are smacked in the face by the music. Music vibrates off the canyon walls. Loud, live bands vie with each other for raunchier, bluesier sounds. Music rebounds off the canyons, creeps into the tents, spirals along the carburetors, and ejaculates among the shitters. The pit is music-happy and it doesn’t matter if the music is blues, rockin’ blues, rhythm and blues, rhythm and country, or rock and roll. By the end of the weekend, no one can hear a bloody thing. Drawn by the music, Ken and I go deeper into the pit. To get into the pit, you must descend, on bike, down a very steep, winding, mountain road overlain with gravel, dirt, straw, and rocks. 221 Jamming the Wind With the mountain on one side and the cliff edge on the other and a road full of gravel and ruts, there is not much room for error. The road is pitted with deep grooves and potholes of enormous dimension. The road down, narrow and broken, has only one lane for bikes both entering and leaving. Great security. Other vehicles remain outside. Vendors , bands, and food concessions are already in the pit by the time the bikers arrive. Entering the pit is never done casually. Even in the best of weather, the steep dirt paths must be navigated with care. The road that winds down the mountain has no shoulder and provides little traction. It is slow going to get either in or out, and once in you’re pretty isolated from the rest of the world. A perfect biker hangout. The entrance is guarded by security people checking wrist bands. “We are comped,” I comment to Ken. “We don’t have to pay.” We are covering this event for Thunder Press, the Harley newspaper, and Reg Kittrelle, the editor and publisher, has gotten us in for free. Everyone else has to show their tickets at the entrance to receive their brightly colored wristbands. Tickets costing as much as $50 a person are purchased beforehand at the local bike shops or at the run’s entrance . We give our names at the entrance booth and get our bands. They will be worn all weekend. Since the wristbands are fitted to individual wrists, some riders make them as loose as possible. This permits them to later slip the bands off and pass them to friends. Since no one enters the pit with a naked wrist, friends share bands only when they are through with them. From the back of Ken’s bike on the way down, I watch the unescorted , nonriding, single women crashing the gate. Without the neoncolored wristbands, they can’t get past the guards. But it’s just a temporary setback. After only a short wait, the women get picked up by bikers, are bought the expensive at-the-gate tickets, and are given wristbands. Many married bikers choose to ride solo to Redwood Run. They leave their ole ladies, wives, and girlfriends at...

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