Not exactly a trip report, more like a slip, trip and fall report, but it should help wipe away the winter blues... long story short: Sarah rides off-road. Sarah falls in sand. Sarah has sprained ankle. ------------------------- long story long: Saturday morning. Wake up at 6am. Put all items on list from last night into luggage. Don't question list. List knows all. Add flashlight. Leave house at 7:15 (not bad was aiming for 7am departure). Slab to Tarzana, get money at last Sanwa on the way out of town. 101 to 23. 23 north to where it hits 126. Start the regular twisty route through grimes canyon, bardsdale road, stink canyon (avoid the peacock), dennison grade, pass boccali's, now we're in new roads. Continue on to the Vons. Grab Pop Tarts. Take a right on 33. Meet up with the Cal Posse (KLR bunch) at the Deer Lodge. Have brekky. Get back on bike and ride 1:15 up 33 to Songdog ranch. Manage to make it up the dirt road to the top of the mesa. Luggage, not knobbies, and a violin strapped to my back. Not falling. Not falling. Get up top. Unsling all luggage. Bike sniff. Make trail pack (water, tools, clif bar). Bike sniff some more. Get Ron's bike down out of his truck. Go riding. My limited dirt experience, and Ron's 2 month vacation from riding make us fairly good riding buddies. We head off for the Ballinger Flats ORV area. I take the lead, and we end up on a whoop-de-do loop. AAAAAAAA! AAAAAAA! I only bottomed the forks once -- not bad for stock... AAAAAA! I stop. Ron pulls alongside. He asks how I'm doing. I say AAAAAA! I suggest something more fire-road like would be better. We head for what looks like nicer dirt. We go up a hill, down a hill. I'm starting to settle into the adrenaline rush. We see a sign that says single track. I'm feeling good. We start down it. Ron is leading. He comes to a stop, I stop some distance back, walk up, agree with his decision to not go any further up the goat track, we both drink water, he helps me turn my bike around (really weird to feel the back tire slipping, the hillside caving down, yet have it feel semi-controllable), he rousts his out, we head back off the single track. We're heading back to camp to see if anyone new has arrived (okay, i'll admit it, i'm a wimp, and the adrenaline is starting to get to me...). I'm having fun but I'm tiring rapidly. I go into a turn a little hot (still in first gear), the sand starts to make my rear tire go, I don't remember squidboy's sig (when in doubt, gas it) in time, and suddenly the KLR is on top of my left ankle (which made kind of an icky pop noise -- but no crack noise). I get out from under it. Wave my arms at Ron receding in the distance. As his Big Gun goes over a hill, I shout "Help". Then I try putting weight on my ankle and lifting my KLR. I yell AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! for real this time. Ron said he heard that over his exhaust. He started back. We got the bike up, checked my ankle (well, everything's still inside the ankle, let's pack it back into the boot and go back to camp). Ron offers pillion to me, but I think the ankle's not that bad, so I ride the bike out. Back to camp. I'm still thinking the ankle's not so bad. After about an hour, I realize that I'll be lucky to ride home on Sunday. At which point Ron starts mixing martinis. Or maybe it was just straight vodka with olives in it. Whichever. Dinner happened at "The Place" -- Toby contracted a $10 plate of prime rib. And some wonderful zucchini casserole. Back to camp again. Fire good. Violin came out -- I'm not good enough to play drunk yet... Violin went back away. Others tried the plucking thing, but they couldn't deal with the no frets deal. Ankle was a steady pain through it all. Sunday. Woke up actually pretty good considering everything. Immediately headed for the outhouse -- and by the time I'd hobbled all the way out there, realized I had made a good decision in the first haze of waking up. My options are a) leave the bike at songdog and come back for it next weekend, b) try to get it into the bed of Ron's truck (which is too small for _2_ klrs and the trailer he's towing), c) ride home with Ron carrying all my luggage, or d) ride home with everything I brought. Option C is the winner. But we took the straightest, dullest route out because I can't actually upshift unless I remove the entire boot from the peg and use my entire leg to pull the lever up. So we decide that 166 to 5 is the best route to take. Ron dropped me off at Stefan's with all my gear. I collapse on the couch and wait for either Stefan or Darci to get home. Which they do after an hour or so. They take me to get a rental car, the KLR is living at their house for a week, I've got Stefan's (dead) mother's cane (he refers to it as the dmc). To the best of my abilities to self-diagnose, I've got a really bad sprain. I've got a doctor appointment tomorrow to confirm that. I figure the vibration off the KLR footpegs is a rough approximation of a tuning fork, and it wasn't excruciatingly painful, so I probably didn't break anything. I hope. Doctor says that it is indeed just a bad sprain.