Wrightwood wears out motorcycle mama

FOR some women it’s morning sickness, but the hardest part of pregnancy for me was giving up motorcycles. I’d been riding almost daily for a dozen years, and I gave it up only to avoid disapproving stares at my bulging belly resting on the tank.

So I parked my Ducati Monster and started driving a Dodge minivan. In the four years since, I’ve ridden my bike exactly twice, both times with extreme caution. I wasn’t riding so much like a mother as a grandmother, barely leaning into the turns.

I wanted to see whether this motorcycle-mama-turned-regular-mama was still game for two wheels -- but without running the risk of orphaning my 3-year-old. Dirt bikes and wide-open land seemed safer than narrow, twisty mountain roads.

I don’t own a dirt bike, but several outfitters offer instruction and tour packages that include bike rental. I settled on AdMo-Tours in Wrightwood because it was close and relatively inexpensive: $325 bought me a day’s worth of instruction and trail riding. The bike, gear and lunch were all included.

I made my reservations during an unseasonably balmy week in early February. A Sunday ride at 6,000 feet? No sweat. As my trip approached later that month, so did a major winter storm. I was inclined to back out, but it was too late. I checked AdMo’s cancellation policy, and I would have forfeited the entire cost.

So, early on a Saturday morning, I quelled my inner sissy by packing every piece of warm motorcycle gear I own -- a two-piece Gore-Tex riding suit, insulated gloves, a neck warmer, a helmet. I threw it all in the back seat and headed into the San Gabriel Mountains.

I had never been to Wrightwood, but the extensive phone work required to secure a hotel reservation two weeks earlier told me it was picturesque and also very popular with skiers and snowboarders this time of year.

A 90-minute drive from Los Angeles proved that both were true, especially that weekend. It was snowing, and the scrub-covered mountains were perfectly powdered.

It was 10 a.m. when I got to Wrightwood -- too early to check into my hotel and too early for lunch. Just three more miles up the road -- as many a billboard reminded me -- was Mountain High resort. I’d never snowboarded, and the conditions and my adventurous mood were right. I kept driving, undeterred by the signs that said I needed snow tires or chains to continue.

After a consultation at the Mountain High gear shop, I bought a cheap beginners’ snowboard package that included a lift ticket, rental of the board and boots and a 105-minute lesson -- but no jacket, pants, helmet or gloves. So I repurposed the motorcycle gear in my car and hit the slopes. Dressed head to toe in black, I looked more Darth Vader than Olympian Lindsey Jacobellis.

Six hours and exponentially more wipeouts later, I headed back to Wrightwood, checked in to my small but charming room at the Pines Motel and walked the dozen or so steps to town.

I was distracted from my hunt for food by a handful of appealing boutiques -- Off Melrose (which had a surprisingly great collection of cute clothes for women), Trenditikes (for kids) and a couple of knick-knacky places. Then I backtracked to the Mexican restaurant the shopkeepers had recommended.

Mexico Lindo was just two doors from my motel. Within moments of sitting down, I was warming my fingers in a heaping plate of hot nachos and relaxing my muscles with a margarita. The food wasn’t especially good, but the service was friendly and fast, which was fine by me. The sooner I could lie down the better. I was back in my room by 6:30 and down for the count by 9.

Sore. That’s how I woke up the next morning. If my legs didn’t hurt so much, I would have kicked myself for trying to snowboard and dirt bike the same weekend.

I stepped outside. It was still snowing. I looked down. My footprint was 3 inches deep. Not only was I not sure I wanted to go dirt biking, I was beginning to doubt I could drive home.

I wasn’t allowed much time to indulge my fears of careening off the road. My motorcycle instructor -- who introduced himself in a Schwarzenegger-esque accent as Uwe (pronounced Oo-vay) Diemer -- arrived and told me to drive down the hill behind him.

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Leaving the white stuff behind

IT was slushy but smooth sailing down to El Mirage -- a 25,000-acre off-road vehicle area about a 30-minute drive north. Here in the high desert there was no snow, but it was just as cold as in the mountains and far windier.

But the sky was clear and the land seemed endless. Just a handful of ATVs, dune buggies and dirt bikes were wheeling around the edges of the dry lake bed.

Our group consisted of Uwe, who owns AdMo-Tours, his girlfriend, Tracy Immken, and me. Ordinarily, AdMo’s tour groups have about five riders, but I had lucked out. Fewer students equals more attentive instruction, which I needed. I’ve been street riding for 15 years, but Uwe told me that wouldn’t do me any favors. The skills for dirt riding are radically different; I would have to unlearn what I knew.

For the next two hours, Uwe ran Tracy and me through exercises on braking, steering and seat position, then he led us out across miles of the lake bed’s smooth, dried mud. We took a break for a quick lunch of beef jerky, honey-roasted peanuts and water before wading our knobby tires through gnarly swaths of sand and loose rocks. After a few practice runs on successions of little bumps (or “whoops”) and turns along a berm -- which felt sort of like riding the inside of a doughnut -- we headed into the hills on the far end of the lake bed.

We cut paths through the tumbleweed and followed sandy, rocky trails over the hills. Every 30 minutes or so, Uwe showed us how to handle a new aspect of the terrain, such as stopping on a crumbly incline. I thought riding in the middle of nowhere would feel safer than dodging cars on L.A.’s streets -- but it was also more challenging and exhausting. Each time I successfully navigated a path of boulders, fishtailed around a bush or powered out of a mini sand dune my ego swelled.

I had no idea where we were headed or how to get back to our camp. I put my trust in Uwe -- who has been leading on- and off-road tours for 10 years. I just followed his lead -- sitting when he was sitting, standing when he was standing and trying not to freak out as I sped toward big, loose rocks lodged in sand. My back tire was bouncing all over the place, and sand was flying. Some moments I felt completely out of control -- but that just added to the rush.

After five hours without stalling or crashing, I was happily worn out. My aching thighs and shock-absorbing knees were struggling to keep me standing up on the foot pegs. The sun was sinking as we headed back through the scrub to the lake bed. I shifted into fourth gear and blasted straight across the lake. I had no idea how fast I was going; my bike didn’t have a speedometer. It didn’t matter. Mama -- motorcycle or otherwise -- was back.

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(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX)

Mountain thrills

GETTING THERE:

Wrightwood is 77 miles northeast of Los Angeles. Take Interstate 10 east to Interstate 15 north to California 138 west to California 2. Allow 90 minutes in light traffic, three hours in heavy traffic.

WHERE TO STAY:

Canyon Creek Inn, 6059 Pine St.; (760) 249-4800, www.canyoncreekinn.com. Four simply appointed rooms with queen beds and private baths. From $139. Lower rates in summer.

Pines Cabin, 6045 Pine St.; (760) 249-9974, www.pinescabin.com. Pine-paneled motel rooms, mini-suites and cabins. From $129 on weekends, $99 weekdays.

WHERE TO EAT:

Mexico Lindo, 1253 Evergreen Road; (760) 249-4100. Margaritas $5.50, main dishes $7-$15.

Evergreen Cafe and Raccoon Saloon, 1275 Evergreen Road; (760) 249-6393. Breakfast $4-$10; lunch and dinner main dishes $5-$20.

Grizzly Cafe, 1455 California 2; (760) 249-6733. Breakfast $9; lunch and dinner main dishes $8-$18.

TO LEARN MORE:

AdMo-Tours, 1253 Evergreen Road, Suite 1; (760) 249-1105, www.admo-tours.com.

Mountain High, 24510 California 2; (888) 754-7878, www.mthigh.com.

-- Susan Carpenter