My First Time Riding Enduro, How Hard Could It Be?

What it’s like riding enduro bikes for the first time as an ADV rider.

Nestled between the Sierra Nevada and Inyo Mountains of California lies a land of towering summits flanked by glaciers, the bases of which are contrasted by sweltering deserts that harbor less life than the bottom of the ocean. Massive boulders look as though they were cast down by some ancient, monolithic beast, while countless springs spew mineral-rich water from the earth. This really is a land of geologic extremes. One might question the logic of introducing a first-timer to the world of enduro riding in this inhospitable place, but that’s exactly what happened.

Over the past four and a half years, I’ve been able to ride adventure motorcycles through untold regions and environmental conditions. I’ve pushed myself well beyond my physical limitations numerous times, witnessed countless awe-inspiring scenes, and overcome things both mental and material that I would have considered taboo if not outright impossible before I began riding. The experience I’ve amassed over nearly half a decade of muscling mid-sized ADV bikes around has put me in an ideal spot to leap into the world of enduro riding. The confidence and skill I’ve gained in that same time should have prepared me for anything, but oh man, was I wrong.

In October, I was offered the incredible opportunity to try out KTM’s 2024 500 EXC-F in a theatrically stunning region in California’s Owens Valley, a place where the Southern end of the Great Basin Desert slams face-first into the nose-bleed-inducing peaks of the Eastern Sierra. This land is home to everything from glaciers, hot springs, numerous 14,000-foot peaks, ruins from ancient natives, high deserts, and more trails than you can shake a stick at. I didn’t think much about the offer before unequivocally agreeing to go on this trip because, honestly, who would say no to such a thing?

With a plan set for us to meet in late November, we would have three days to ride all manner of trails in an area between the White Mountains and the Sierra Nevada. Ultimately, I was told, our goal was to get my feet wet into a bit of everything to gain a well-rounded feel of what it takes to ride enduro. We all ended up in the town of Bishop by about mid-afternoon. This town makes a fantastic place to stage because of its many accommodating hotels, restaurants, auto parts stores, and anything else you may need for bashing on bikes for a long weekend. Once settled, I prepared myself for the completely unknown.

A sub-40-degree morning greeted us, and a sense of nervousness set in as we geared up. We fueled the bikes up and immediately sped South toward the White Mountains. Right off the bat, the 500 EXC-F impressed me with how easily it made power throughout the rev range (especially down low) and how nimble it felt. Our first task of the day put us into some sandy tracks, and this is where it became immediately apparent that Enduro Bikes simply do loose tracks a hell of a lot better than any ADV Bike ever will. Those gains are not without some drawbacks though, as I felt the lack of weight and shorter wheelbase resulted in some loss of the stability I’m used to having on an ADV Bike. I also felt a notable increase in how much the bike throws you around. But with its clear weight advantage and a set of aggressive Dunlop EN91 DOT knobby tires, this bike clawed through sand effortlessly. This is a greatly unfamiliar thing to me, as I’m far more accustomed to exerting much more energy to propel 400+ pound bikes through similar conditions.

By this point, I had already begun to experience some discomfort riding though, mostly due to my complete inexperience on such a machine. Still, I’d also later discover that the unadjusted ergonomics on the KTM had a role to play. We’d later correct this, but that would not happen until the next day. For now, I was saddled upon one of the most powerful machines money can buy in the Enduro segment, navigating loose, rock-infused tracks and washes, unable to stand for more than a few short sections before my core simply couldn’t keep up. Amazingly, though, I still managed.

The shale-coated track steepened considerably as the trail rose above the wash below. With my rear tire fighting for grip, I made it part of the way up the steepest climb I’ve ever been on before losing momentum. ADV Pulse contributor Mike Massucco made it a short distance further while Senior Editor Rob Dabney came up from behind and effortlessly sped to the top. Mike followed shortly after restarting from a stall, leaving me with the task of figuring out how to continue up this seemingly insurmountable climb by myself.

I’ll admit I was struggling. GPS would later reveal we were on a section that rises nearly 1,000 feet in about two-thirds of a mile. A 30%+ gradient is difficult enough without inexperience and unstable ground fighting you, so my struggle continued. Eventually, Rob picked his way back down the hill to give some pointers, and this is where the importance of body position on this lightweight machine became abundantly clear. While I struggled for 5-7 minutes, making very little progress, Rob simply suggested I shift back on the saddle a couple of inches. At the time, the cynic in me thought, “What the hell is that going to do?” Lo and behold, the Dunlop tires suddenly began clawing away at the terrain and pushing the useless sack of meat atop this otherwise flawless machine toward the top of the hill. Exasperated and devoid of energy, at the top, I was surprised at how easy the hill became simply by shifting my weight no more than an inch or two. However, this brief elation was spoiled when Mike pointed out the next section, which appeared twice as long and even steeper than what we had just overcome. With some experience in my utility belt, we pressed on.

I’d be lying if I said anything other than the next climb was a complete blur; by this point, I was already fighting a combination of bad habits, poor body position, and just general inexperience, but soon I was looking at the top where my companions were waiting for my arrival. There, we broke for a moment, and I was given an opportunity to discuss the ride so far. It was clear at this point that I was way outside of my element. Although the bikes are vastly more capable, the riding discipline is an entirely different animal when compared to swinging a leg over an adventure bike. Needless to say, I was a fish out of water.

Rob assured me that the hills we had just tackled were among the most demanding obstacles we’d do the entire trip, which was somewhat reassuring. Still, my energy reserves were tapped by this point, and my confidence waned as I frequently began questioning myself, seeking the answer to how I got myself into this mess. The experience gained over those miles of grueling ascent soon proved valuable when the tracks ahead mellowed slightly.

Ahead, we found ourselves ascending into a forest of ancient Bristlecone Pines, and for the first time, I started to feel a bit “at home” on this otherwise magnificent machine. It’s a challenge to compare riding an adventure bike to this KTM 500 – things that are normally “things” on a larger, heavier machine simply cease to exist. The challenges people have riding overtly loose terrain, such as deep sandy washes, just disappear when you subtract a couple hundred pounds of weight and toss on sticky, knobby tires. Sure, anything can become a challenge with a bit of speed, but I couldn’t help but marvel at how easily the bike tackled anything we threw at it, even if I wasn’t nearly as capable.

With the forest of ancient trees behind us, the terrain opened up to Papoose Flat. Without GAIA GPS running on the bars, it would have been easy to forget that we were just below 9,000 feet as the surrounding area could just as easily be mistaken for a desert landscape or perhaps a portion of the Alabama Hills rather than a high plain nestled between numerous mountain summits. Here, we stopped to recharge and take in some of the incredible scenery, where the only reminder that we were at cloud level was the blistering cold that set in once we became stationary. As we enjoyed the scenery between handfuls of trail mix and meat sticks, it became apparent that staying much longer would result in frost-bitten fingertips. I thought, perhaps naively, that at least this would mark the part of the day where we’d begin making our way back.

East of Papoose Flat, the track slaloms through a sand wash, and despite the frigid temperatures, my lightweight Alpinestars Venture R enduro gear was shockingly effective at keeping the cold out. Perhaps it was my accelerated heart rate on account of my being a crap rider or just the overall construction of the kit, but the jacket and pants really impressed me with how it was handling a late November trip above 8,000 feet. Equally surprising was how it managed to keep me cool when tackling the earlier hill climbs by simply cracking a few vents open. We continued, and the sand wash turned into a rock-laden stream bed. While I’m usually keen on riding embedded rock slabs and the like, the fatigue was setting in by this point of the day. To my surprise, we arrived on a highway a short while later.

At this point, it was already 3 in the afternoon with sunset coming around 4:45 pm over the high mountains, and mentally, I had already accepted we would be taking this stretch of pavement straight down the mountain West toward Big Pine, but oh boy, was I wrong. With a few infamously uttered words, we pointed our bars East and set off deeper into the wilderness. I’d be lying if I remembered much of this section, but I can’t conjure up much from memory. Chalk it up to me blocking out trauma or just being a general wuss, but I was far beyond exertion, something only exacerbated when the track suddenly became more akin to a narrow hiking trail clinging onto a cliff edge, than one suitable for motorcycles.

We’ve all seen photos of narrow single-track zig-zagging its way down the side of a mountain through several 180-degree switchbacks, but few get to ride such tracks, and fewer still do it on their first day on an enduro. In hindsight, I’m a bit proud that I pushed through, but this was, without a doubt, type 2 fun. At the first switchback, Rob stood by to assist, and though I was absolutely gassed, I insisted on navigating this first particularly nasty switchback on my own. Still, his support and a helping hand on the bars to ensure I didn’t go over the edge was almost certainly requisite to my making it off the mountain in one piece.

I was beginning to get the hang of a few of these switchbacks later, though I’m not entirely sure if any skills were gained. My body and mind were in survival mode, but thankfully, I managed to do just that. In front of me, Mike reached the next switchback and got it wrong. It became one of those moments in slow motion — the front tire of Mike’s bike barely going over the edge, and he and his machine sliding off the scarcely 12″ wide track down the steeply sloping embankment. The only thing between him and total disaster was the remnants of a long-deceased Bristlecone that had likely sprouted before Europeans made it to the Americas. As though I had been hit with a shot of adrenaline, I flipped my 500 around, got it set safely against the mountainside of the track, and scrambled down to give Mike an assist.

Initially, we tried to maneuver the bike so that it was pointed back toward the track, though this quickly proved futile. Incredibly, Mike decided he’d just ride down the side of the mountain. This seemed to be a fool’s errand to the uninitiated, but he and his Beta picked their way down the side of the mountain with low effort to reach a point further ahead on the trail below us.

Back above, I tossed a leg back over the KTM and made my way down the remainder of this harrowing single track. Rob would later refer to the track as a “5 out of 10” on his scale of difficulty, which sounds mundane on the surface, but then I recall that this man has raced Baja, among other things. Suddenly, 5 of 10 sounded like a hell of an achievement for a first-timer.

Some more two-track and docile single-track later, and we were again at the edge of a paved road, only now it was dark. Just when I was prepared to breathe a sigh of relief, my 500 began to sputter and as we passed a slow moving big-rig, then she died completely. Inevitably, my ability to leverage gravity faded as the descent leveled out, and there I sat on the side of the road at the crux of the single most exhausting day I’ve ever experienced on 2 wheels, all alone in the  in the dark, cold, vastness of Inyo National Forest out of fuel just a two miles from the gas station.

Eventually, my companions would realize I was missing and circled back to find me. A quick splash of fuel would get us back to home base. Relieved to be done with what I can only describe as having your shoelaces tied to one another and then being asked to run a marathon, we began rolling down Highway 163 toward Big Pine. I would later remark that it was obvious which days I had the most fun by the number of photos I took on a given day. On day 1, I took only 5, almost all in the first 30 minutes of our day.

Determined to start earlier than the prior day, we began our second riding day at dawn’s break. This proved a wasted effort when Rob’s battery gave out, and he realized the thing we saw sparking down Highway 395 the night prior was actually his kickstart lever. We attempted to borrow the lever from Mike’s Beta, which worked until Mike’s battery gave out too at the filling station. It would end up being 10 in the morning before we could begin the day once we found that the local AutoZone in Bishop stocked the correct battery for Rob’s 2012 KTM 500 EXC. Trying hard to forget the aches and pains I developed the day before, we finally set off into the Sierra Nevada mountains.

We ascended quickly, stopping only to observe our surroundings and make a small adjustment to the bars on my KTM 500 — rotating them forward just enough to get my body over the bars and allowing my legs to straighten. This in turn put less strain on my back and allowed me to find that blissful neutral riding position. As it turned out, this would be the catalyst needed to finish the day in less pain.

We continued up the track toward Coyote Flats, reminded by the dusting of powder on the surrounding hills that we’d likely see quite a bit of moisture along the way. A deeper-than-expected creek crossing and some slightly muddy tracks later, the road turned icy. Rather graciously, the waterproof Tech 7 Enduro Drystars kept my lower extremities dry through the 21″ tire swallowing crossing, which was a relief because wet toes in this extreme climate would have been nothing short of miserable. As winds howled and swirled, the powder drifted in any cavity the surrounding terrain revealed. It was here that I began having uninterrupted fun for the first time on this trip.

The altimeter didn’t take long to read above 10,000` as the track quickly climbed through snow drifts. The Dunlops clawed their way through flats of powder more than a foot deep and drifts more than twice that. We pushed beyond the point where most would have turned back long before. A few strategic line choices later, we were perched more than a mile above Bishop at 11,400 feet.

Our reward was a stunning view of the surrounding terrain, albeit one cloaked in an incoming Winter storm. We elected not to waste much time to avoid getting stuck on the mountain and began going back down, though a clearer day would have revealed that we were gazing down at Inyo National Forest’s South Lake. We picked our way down the trail with one more stop on the agenda. With my newfound confidence, I sped ahead into the white abyss.

Man’s hubris is often our downfall, as it was mine on our return. As I confidently blasted through the snow, my luck eventually ran out when things went crossways, and I managed a low side at speed on the track. Luckily, the ice kept things frictionless, and I managed to slide to a stop before quickly propping my legs up on the bike as if to play off the fact that I had just eaten it hard.

The steed and I both survived without a scratch, though my ego was slightly tattered, given this marked my first drop of the trip. We continued down, more cautiously than before, until a crossroads turned us back North. What lay in front of us was the leading edge of a large, late fall storm, pummeling the higher altitudes of the Sierra Nevada. If not for the storm, Rob insisted we’d have a glimpse of Palisade Glacier. We took a moment to grab a snack and admire nature, but within a few minutes, the sun that had previously warmed our backs had been pushed out by the darkening skies.

Wind and cold temperatures quickly reminded us how fierce the mountain can be, so we plunged into the snow-laden tracks, this time with our bikes aimed back toward Owens Valley. We would again climb to nearly 10,500` to get there, where the day’s challenge began. The ascent to this final pass wasn’t all that bad, though some deep snow on a steep slope makes for a lot of high revving and practice of ideal body position; no, the real issue was the more-than-a-mile of altitude we’d need to lose over 6 miles of track.

This began innocently through a mucky meadow as snow flurries chased us away from the mountain slopes. The further we got from the meadow, the drier and rockier the track became until we soon descended through a series of boulders. Ahead of me, Mike managed to lose balance and go down. I, with my vast inability to do anything other than a white knuckle, soon found myself struggling to stop in time and, too, went down like a sack of rocks. With the bike uprighted and undamaged, I continued, albeit more slowly, to avoid repeating my prior fault.

This continued for what seemed like an age, steep descent after steep descent, with just enough level ground in between to regain control; all the while, Rob and Mike made it look easy. Ironically, the steepest stretch of track was the very last section, which dropped at near enough to a 45-degree angle. This is where years of riding ADV bikes paid off, as I’m somewhat accustomed to simply letting the bike do the work, and if there’s one thing a lightweight enduro is damn good at, it’s doing the work.

On the way back, something piqued our interest from just off the side of the highway. It’s not entirely uncommon in the Eastern Sierra to see puffs of steam coming up from the ground, often from hot springs littering the area. As it turns out, we stumbled upon one, and what better way to relax and have an introspective moment after a weary day than to do so in mineral-rich, hot spring water fed fresh from the very mountains that, a short time before, we were trying to freeze us out.

It was here that I really began to appreciate the capability of these enduro machines. Riding them, especially as a first-timer, is a trade-off. You forgo the comforts of an ADV machine for a tool that can take you places that aren’t possible on a larger bike. Simply swinging my leg over a different, more purpose-built machine had suddenly allowed me to reach heights both literal and figurative that I could have previously only dreamed of. Sure, my ass, bones, muscles, and head were all beaten to a pulp, but I had just finished riding with friends to the edge of a Glacier in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in late November. Who else can claim such a thing? And the truth is, I have this buzzing, masterpiece of an enduro machine to thank for that, and with one more day of riding ahead, I’d have more time to enjoy it.

The sun’s warm glow brought uninterrupted views of the freshly snow-coated Sierra Nevada to the West. Expecting this and paired with the fact that we’d all need to drive a few hours each to get home later that same day, we opted to remain in the valley for a softer final day of my intro to enduro. The morning saw us riding North towards Crowley Lake, a place impossible for me to pass on Highway 395 without singing a classic Ozzy tune.

The tracks promised to be timid, and they started that way; first drifting us towards a wetland in the center of this otherwise barren landscape to a place that serves as the only home on the planet to a specific species of fish, and then by following these stunning sandy tracks to the relatively unknown Fish Slough Petroglyphs. The day began as promised – gentle and otherwise un-intimidating – until we left the petroglyphs.

The road turned North, and quickly, something about the substrate changed. We began riding over what I can only describe as embedded volcanic rock – massive slabs of it, separated by stretches of sand. At first, it wasn’t a problem, but the further into the expanse we rode, the rougher the track became. Imagine the worst washboard gravel road you’ve ever ridden and amplify it considerably.

We finally slowed to take in the majesty of the slowly eroding volcanic ruins that swarmed around the track when Rob noticed that his GoPro was missing. A frantic search for a camera followed, which is easier said than done when you’ve ridden 4 miles into an unfamiliar desert. I rode ahead, backtracking towards Fish Slough, with Rob sweeping for a second scan of the Martian surface. I took no particular pleasure in this as it meant riding back over the tracks that had already beaten me to a pulp. Still, the camera’s contents were too valuable to accept that it had become one with the surrounding terrain.

I had ridden nearly back to Fish Slough when something caught my eye in the distance and soon it was clear I’d found the GoPro!. I quickly scooped it up, tossed it in a bag. As Rob approached, I dejectedly asked, “Do we really need to keep looking?” Rob began trying to explain the importance of the camera, to which I responded that it seemed like a long distance to go. Our back and forth went on for about 30 seconds until I finally said, “I still don’t understand why you need to keep looking for a camera I already found.” He paused momentarily as the realization set in and called me a few names before we both began laughing. A small prank was the least I could do after the hell I had been put through over the past few days.

As we continued further exploring the valley, the path slowly climbed until we reached an intersection. With sleeves rolled up, the mighty KTM and I tackled one last daunting challenge after reeling from days of riding well above my skill level. This final test was one I took with little chagrin, however. In three short days, I had been through so much on this bike that this last rock and ledge-strewn climb over a 7500 ft peak seemed almost mundane. Sure, I was exhausted beyond belief, but by then, you stopped focusing on the pain and exertion and kept chugging through. Yes, I would have probably preferred at the moment to ride the Pole Road back to Bishop, but instead, this final ascent rewarded us with the best views of the Eastern Sierra we’d manage to witness for the entire trip.

Over the next few miles, we’d take smooth gravel roads toward Crowley Lake, inevitably emptying back onto 395 to make our final return to Bishop. The 30-minute ride back left me plenty of time to ponder the weekend’s events in between bouts of warming my gloves next to the bike’s radiator, though my conclusion nearly brings as many questions as it does answers.

An enduro bike is undeniably the most effective way to explore impassable terrain on two wheels. There’s no arguing the merit and capability a machine like KTM’s impeccable 500 EXC-F has on offer. The ability as a rider to approach something that would otherwise make you turn tail and flee home and instead ride over it with little effort is mind-boggling, and the confidence it, in turn, gives you to tackle new types of terrain on a larger bike, knowing it can be done, is simply invaluable.

There were times I was ready to throw in the towel on this trip — the visceral nature of it all, the lack of comfort, and my being about as effective as a lead weight atop a class-leading enduro machine. Still, there were many more moments where, when tested physically and emotionally, this machine gave me the courage and confidence to continue plowing ahead. Looking back, the pain and mentally trying moments were all more than worth it. The experience and skills gained are all things I can return to my adventure bike with and will make me an objectively safer and more capable rider.
Does this mean I will sell my adventure bikes and switch to team enduro? Perhaps I can find room to add one more bike to the stable. That said, if you find yourself in a position of wanting to improve as an adventure rider and feel as though your talents and ceiling have topped off, a bike with half the weight, 50% more suspension travel, and a great deal more ground clearance might just be what the doctor ordered.