Let me start by saying—if you’re easily offended by foul language or the occasional adult reference, this might be your cue to quietly back out. No hard feelings. For the rest of you, grab a chair.

A couple of years ago, I started following a Facebook group called Michigan Motorcycle Trail Riders. At first, it was just another way to get my dirt fix from behind a screen. But then I noticed something odd—post after post from one group of guys, all declaring the same thing:

“The Best Day Ever!”

At first, I thought, Well, that’s cool. But then it kept happening. Week after week. Post after post. These guys weren’t just tossing around a catchphrase—they were living it. And apparently, they were riding a lot. I’m talking two to three times a week!

Now, I live in Bend, Oregon, and I can barely get a ride together once a month without someone’s kid getting sick, a schedule conflict, or someone claiming their bike’s still in pieces (again). So I had questions.

Who are these maniacs?

Do they really ride that often?

And how the hell do I get in on it?

I had to find out more.

If you know me, you know I grew up in Michigan, and my immediate family still lives there. Every summer, I make the trip back to catch up with family, reconnect with old friends, and—most importantly—ride my dirt bike on the trails I grew up on. That’s exactly why this group of diehard trail riders caught my attention in the first place.

So, in the summer of 2024, I sent a message over to the “Kingpin” of the group, Jim Justin, asking if I could tag along on one of their rides.

Crickets.

The summer came and went, and I quietly moved on, figuring I must’ve been ghosted by the off-road mafia. In hindsight, I don’t think he ever got my first message-I’m going with that.

Fast-forward to the summer of 2025. I thought, what the hell, and gave it another shot. Once again, I messaged Jim and asked if I could ride with them.

This time, he immediately responded with an enthusiastic, “YES!”

I was in.

The day had finally arrived—I was about to meet up with the crew for my first ride. We were gathering at the Leota Trailhead, just north of Harrison. I’d ridden there plenty as a kid, but the trails had changed over the years—thanks mostly to the addition of ATV access, which had chewed up and widened what used to be tighter singletrack. But I digress… back to the ride.

A few days before, Jim had texted me a link to WhatsApp—that’s where all the group communications happen. And as ride day drew closer, that app lit up like a damn Christmas tree.

Riders were chiming in with their yays or nays, tossing around logistics, and sprinkling in a healthy dose of pre-ride smack talk. Half of it went over my head—inside jokes and nicknames I hadn’t earned yet—but I was already starting to get the vibe: this wasn’t just a riding group, it was a tribe.

I was told kickstands go up at 9:00 a.m. sharp, so I planned to be there a half hour early. The last thing I wanted to do as the “new guy” was be late on the first ride.

I pulled into the lot at 8:30 a.m., and there was already one truck waiting. In the bed: a spotless Beta, race numbers on the side panels and front plate—this wasn’t his first rodeo. The driver looked about my age. He stepped out, stuck out a hand, and introduced himself as Scott. We traded the usual pleasantries—where are you from, what are you riding, how often do you get out—until the rest of the crew started rolling in.

Within minutes, the place was buzzing—trucks, trailers, bikes, gear bags, and all of that pre-ride energy you can feel before a good day in the dirt. Jim made a beeline over, introduced himself, and then walked me around the horn to meet the rest of the guys. Names, nicknames, bikes, inside jokes—coming at me fast. It was clear: these guys had a rhythm. I was just hoping to keep up.

The nickname thing was downright comical.

I was getting introduced to guys with names like Dick-Head, Asshole, Spanky, Fucking Mike, and—wait for it—Herpies (because they couldn’t get rid of him). I wasn’t sure if I’d accidentally joined a biker gang or wandered into a roving comedy club.

Jim leaned in with a knowing grin and said quietly, “This is a full-contact group, if you haven’t figured it out already.”

I chuckled, not quite sure what that meant… but I’d find out later that day—once the ride was over.

We rolled out of the parking lot promptly at 9:00 a.m., just like Jim said. One by one, we funneled into the main trail. I took up the back marker position—I wasn’t sure where I fit in yet, and I wasn’t about to find out the hard way by throwing it away in front of someone in the first five miles.

It’s always an interesting dynamic when you ride with a new group. You quickly start to feel out who likes to twist the throttle and who’s just happy to be in the woods on two wheels. I’d say I’m somewhere in the middle. I’ve had my fast guy days, but fracturing my pelvis in three places back in the early 2000s slowed me down a bit. That, and being a little near-sighted, helps keep my senior-rider instincts in check.

Toward the end of the ride, we were all stopped at a trail marker with about two miles left to go. That’s when Spanky casually announced that Jim (aka Asshole) had to poop—and had taken off like he’d been shot out of a cannon to hit the outhouse before his moto gear turned into a hazmat situation.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that this was all part of a premeditated prank—carefully set up earlier by Jim and Brad (aka Herp).

After a few minutes of trail banter, we fired up the bikes and knocked out the last couple miles back to the lot. As we rolled in, there was Jim—standing there with his phone out, filming.

That’s when Scott pulled up to his truck and spotted it: a life-sized cardboard cutout of Dolly Parton standing proudly in the bed of his truck. And Dolly? She wasn’t alone. She was sporting a strap-on dildo that would’ve made John Holmes envious.

The place erupted. Guys were doubled over laughing as Scott—unfazed—posed next to his new trail romance like it was just another Monday.

As it turns out, Scott had made the critical mistake of once telling Jim about a dream he’d had as a young man—about Dolly Parton. In the dream, he was admiring her beautiful blonde hair, his eyes slowly panning down to her—well—ample assets… and then down a little further, where things took a hard left turn.

There it was. A penis.

Jim had laughed at the time—but, apparently, he never forgot the story. The Dolly cutout, the strap-on, the full parking lot audience—this was the long game in action.

Some stories are best kept to yourself. Scott learned that the hard way. And now… so have I.

After the ride, everyone pulled out their camp chairs, cracked open a few beers, and got right back to the smack talk. One thing I’ve found to be true about my moto brethren—they’re all cut from the same cloth. Most, if not all, have that adventurous spark, aren’t easily offended, and would drop everything to help a fellow rider in a jam. These guys were no exception.

I fit right in.

But something was starting to eat at me.

I knew, realistically, I maybe had four or five ride days with this group to make an impression. And while I was grateful just to be part of the action, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. Most of these guys had nicknames—some earned, some gifted, all legendary. I, on the other hand, was still stuck with the most dreaded label of all:

“The New Guy.”

And I didn’t want to be the New Guy anymore.

The question was, what could I possibly do—in such a short window of time—to earn a nickname and be liberated from my placeholder status?

It was midweek when the WhatsApp thread lit up with details about the upcoming Friday ride. This time, we were headed to the Higgins trail—a local favorite of mine. I’d ridden it plenty over the years and always loved the flow and variety it offered.

Friday rolled around and, one by one, the usual suspects started rolling into camp. Asshole showed up first, followed by Dick Head, Spanky, Herp, Fucking Mike, and so on. A few new faces joined the circus too—Big Mike, Cactus Dan, and a guy they called Lolliepop, though I didn’t want to ask why.

As everyone geared up, I felt a familiar rumble in my gut. You know the one. An intestinal emergency was imminent, and there was no way I was risking a tactical deployment in the van.

Thankfully, I always travel prepared.

I’ve got a trusty honey pot in the trailer—basically a 5-gallon bucket I line with a plastic shopping bag when nature calls. It’s not glamorous, but it gets the job done. And this job? It got done.

Now came the question: what do I do with the aftermath?

I couldn’t leave it in the trailer or the van—it’d turn the whole rig into a hazmat zone by lunchtime. And then it hit me. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I was going to slide it under someone’s truck seat. I didn’t know who yet, but I figured fate would decide. I had only been on one ride with these guys, but this? This was next-level shit—literally.

If this didn’t earn me a nickname, nothing would.

I decided to walk over to Dick Head and casually ask where I could “deliver my package.”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t put it in Jim’s truck.”

Naturally, I asked why.

“Because I already did that once,” he smirked. “And he’ll think it was me again.”

That’s all I needed to hear.

At first, it didn’t look like the mission would pan out—Jim was sitting in the bed of his truck, gearing up, and taking his sweet time. But I got impatient. The window of opportunity wasn’t going to open itself.

So, I snuck around to the passenger side, quietly cracked the door, and slid the contents of my “shit bag” under the front seat like a Navy SEAL planting C4.

I gently pushed the door closed and slithered back around the front of his truck to the other side of my trailer.

It was done.

The package had been delivered.

Now all I had to do… was sit back and let it go to work.

We decided to grab lunch at the Silver Dollar Saloon in Higgins Lake—the local watering hole just a few miles up the road. After packing up the bikes and gear, we caravanned over in the heat and humidity, the kind that would guarantee results only time could deliver.

I figured once we hit the bar, Jim would come flying out of his truck, “shit bag” in hand, demanding to know who planted the land mine. I was half-expecting to be confronted in the parking lot.

To my surprise… nothing.

Not a single word.

We circled up around the table, choked down burgers and a few tall drinks, and got into the usual trash talk. Lunch came and went. Goodbyes were said. Still no reaction from Jim.

Surely he’d discover it on the drive home, right?

He and his wife run a campground in Bad Axe, Michigan—a solid two-hour haul. That hot sun, sealed cab, and stewing payload would be reaching critical mass by the time he hit Saginaw.

All I could do was smile to myself and wait for the fallout.

I started to question what I had done. At first, it seemed brilliant—a surefire way to earn my nickname and break out of “new guy” status. But as the day wore on, guilt crept in. What if Jim’s wife got in the truck with him when he got home? What if she thought it was him?

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I picked up the phone and sent Jim a text.

“Hey man,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Just thought I should let you know—I saw someone… I can’t say who… but they may have, uh, slipped something under the passenger seat of your truck.”

Without missing a beat, Jim fired back, “Yeah, I found it.”

I played dumb. “Found what?”

“A bag of shit.”

I burst out laughing and sent him a 💩 emoji. His response? Silence.

Turns out, Jim had already called every single guy on the ride—except me—asking if they were the culprit. Dick Head cracked under pressure and told him it was me.

That following Monday, I couldn’t make the weekly ride. But at lunchtime, I got a message from Scott that read:

Chet (my current nickname), during today’s lunch/board meeting, it was unanimously decided that your “Best Day Ever” nickname has officially been upgraded… from “Chet” to “Shit Bag.”

This honorable title was awarded based on the fact that you strategically placed a bag of (still steaming) shit under “Asshole’s” passenger seat—in his brand new truck. He wondered what the hell stank all the way home. Congratulations from all of us Best Day Ever Bozos.

I had finally earned my place.

On next week’s ride, I could barely look Jim in the eye. I mean—I shit-bombed the guy’s brand new truck. But to my surprise, he just laughed and said, “I don’t get mad… I get even. Your day is coming!”

Gulp.

Later, while we were suiting up, I asked Jim and Dick Head how long it usually takes to earn a nickname in the group. Before they could answer, the guy next to me chimed in, “I’ve been riding with this crew for five years and I still don’t have one!”

Dick Head grinned and said, “You broke the record, man. Nobody’s ever earned a nickname that fast.”

Less than ten days. Two rides. One bag of steaming mischief. And now I was officially Shit Bag.

“Be careful what you wish for,” someone said.

I couldn’t have been more proud.

I rode with the group a few more times, and on the last day, I sat down—pen in hand—and decided to learn a little more about my new, adopted off-road family.

There’s Jim Justin, a.k.a. Asshole, and his right-hand man Don Clairhout, a.k.a. Asshole 2. Then there’s Scott Roerig (Dick Head), Steve (Spanky), Brad Goldsmith (Herp), Gary Seibert (Lolliepop), Ralph Schwartz (BDM), Scott Ruggles AKA Struggles, Mike Bukawski (Fucking Mike), Mike Mueller (Big Mike), and Nick Gordon (Thumper).

As it turns out, Don and Jim started riding together around 2005, hitting the trails religiously every Friday. The group’s original name was “The Dirt Dudes,” but Scott suggested “Soggy Bottom Boys” after watching O Brother, Where Art Thou?, and it stuck. Seems fitting, really.

Apparently, they got kicked off a group chat a couple of years ago for posting pictures of titties—go figure. That’s when they migrated over to WhatsApp, where they’ve managed to keep things barely under the radar.

They now ride together every Monday and Friday, all year long—even in the winter, as long as there’s six inches of snow or less. At last count, the WhatsApp group has around 50 members, though rides usually average between 5–10 regulars.

Jim told me he logged 105 rides in 2024, which is absolutely bonkers considering each ride clocks around 25 miles. That’s commitment. He also said they host a big spring and fall group ride every year—three days of trail riding, barbecues, bonfires, and enough bench racing to make your ears bleed.

All I know is… I’ve found my people. These guys are wild, unapologetic, hilarious, and most importantly—my kind of tribe.

They’ve inspired me to try and recreate something like this back home in Bend.

Get ready boys, I’m coming home. Get your boots on!