There are two types of mean people. There is the person who is outwardly mean-the nasty, rude, obvious type who is easy to identify and avoid. Then there is the dangerous type.
I was freshly healed and ready to ride again after separating my wrist and breaking my thumb seven months earlier when Senior Editor Karel Kramer called to invite me to go to Idaho with the Dirt Rider rig for the ISDE qualifier and to compare three bikes-a 250F, a 250 two-stroke and a 450F.
During the 18-hour road trip to Idaho City, Karel entertained me with stories from his many years in the sport. Most of his stories were humbling, many were humorous and nearly all ended with "but I'm just old and slow." This was reassuring to me-being off a bike for so long and with nearly zero off-road experience, I had been concerned Karel would get me in over my head on difficult trails. Karel seemed modest, real and nice. Seemed.
Once in Idaho City, Karel made it a point not to take me on any tough or technical trails. He kept to the easy ones that any rider could navigate. The problem was the speed with which he took me down those trails. Did I mention I hadn't been on a bike in seven months? Did I mention my wrist was of questionable strength? I'd certainly mentioned it to Karel. Trail dust has no sympathy. Karel's 1000-mile elaboration on his lack of riding skills was a nearly sociopathic setup for the humiliation I was now feeling. Not nice.
I seem to remember an article in DR about trail etiquette. I'm sure it covered that the leader should not lose his followers. But there I was, a motocross track rider who's never seen dirt without track streamers, lost in the woods in Idaho. So I shut off the engine and listened. I could barely hear Karel's bike off in the trees. When I'd first noticed the bikes were all fitted with quiet silencers, I'd seen it as an act of ecosensitivity. No, it was really a stealth tactic. Not nice. Not nice at all.
On the trail back, Karel took us across a narrow-very narrow-ridge that dropped sheer down both sides. The room to dab a foot was 200 feet below. I never would have imagined you could experience headshake at 3 mph; Karel thought it was fun. I'm not sure if he meant riding it himself or watching me cross. Mean.
The next day, Karel asked me to wear my glasses on the ride to give an opinion in the over-the-glasses goggle comparison he was doing. We picked up two more talented off-road racers and headed, yep, straight back to the ridge for a photo shoot. Karel explained what he wanted-the three of us, riding close together, going across the ridge several times. Karel would bravely take photos. He also put me on the 450, the bike I'd had the least experience with at that point. After each pass across the ridge, Karel gave us a little direction on what he was looking for. He talked just long enough to allow my glasses to fog under the goggles before sending us back across. After several trips, Karel casually told us the shots looked OK, but the dramatic danger of the ridge wasn't coming across. Basically, we could have taken those photos anywhere. Mean.
But I'm not the only victim. Karel told me stories, each time with a growing smile, of other "fun" times he'd had. Like the time he got Mercedes Gonzalez turned around in the desert, then "raced" her back to the truck-only to find out she wasn't racing, she was terrified he was trying to lose her. Or the time he mastered a very dangerous, very technical blind jump off the side of a mountain, then went back with Willy Simons the next week and led him off it blind-knowing illy would be too proud not to follow. Cruel.
On the last day of the trip, probably incensed that I hadn't crashed yet, Karel took us over a washed-out road. The trail wound down through a stream, then back up steep, short banks. Nothing too difficult, I'm sure, for an experienced off-roader, but it didn't resemble anything I'd ever encountered on a motocross track. Of course, I eventually got stuck at the bottom of a bank. Then something amazing happened. Karel parked his bike and came back for me. Maybe I was wrong about the guy. Maybe I'd misinterpreted everything he'd done. Maybe he was going to get me and this bike unstuck from this stream and... Then he stopped. Maybe...? He whipped out his camera, gave me advice-just until my goggles fogged-and put the camera to eye. His sinister smile was visible below the Canon. Karel Kramer is the worst kind of mean. -Pete Peterson (Peterson is Dirt Rider's new web producer and third hire from our "Extreme Job Interview." That's all we really know about the guy.)