It's a Sunday in late September, it feels like 90 something —– the sticky humidity makes it hard to believe that the summer is drying out. I pull over on Monument Street for a Deer Park.
"D, what's good bro?" My homie Day Day says as we trade handshakes, before being interrupted by the roar. A good roar — a roar that's familiar to any Baltimore resident.
"The pack out!" I yell like a little kid. A fleet of dirt bikes explodes over the hill as we both look north. The pack is like a wild storm; you hear it before you see or feel it, but when it hits, it hits hard.
Some dudes stand up straight on the seats of their bikes, some 12...