Hertfelder: Do-It-Yourself Appendectomy

It's not often that I come up behind a rider who is slower than I
am. Usually the engine is sputtering, and the rider is pointing to
his tank or fuel petcock on its RESERVE setting as I squeeze
past.

Last weekend I came up behind a rider who was so out of
shape that he looked like he was planning a do-it-yourself
appendectomy. The trail was lined with "punjii sticks" left by
someone who had cleared the face slappers with a machete.
If he fell off, he wouldn't slide far, and he would certainly get
some new ventilating holes in his magenta and orchid enduro
jacket, the kind designed by a dry cleaning franchise. Just as I
looked down and saw his rear axle nut backed off and hanging
on the last thread, the chain came off the rear sprocket,
jammed the wheel to a stop and he went into a lovely
all-crossed-up slide as he hung out over the front fender, all the
time wondering if he was going to die in the punjiis, get
tenderized by the thumper that had been tailgating him for the
last mile, or get tenderized by the thumper AS he died on the
punjiis.

I got off to help him because he'd stopped with his front wheel
up on a ridge of dirt, had his left toe on the ground and the bike
balanced under his right knee which was stretched two feet
higher than humanly possible and slowly losing its grip on the
motorcycle seat. In these situations I would normally pull out my
little Olympus camera, but I didn't do it this time because the
bike could very well fall over and break the guy's ankle. Plus I
was out of film.
I got between him and his motorcycle and he sort of shinnied up
my back as I held the machine. First thing he did was rearrange
his twisted pants and shorts. Second thing he did was
rearrange his pants and shorts AGAIN because the 'split' had
pulled his inner thigh muscles really bad.

After I let him rest for 20 or 30 seconds I got him to steady his
bike and hold the front brake on while I grabbed under the front
tire to lift it off the ridge. This didn't work too well, however,
because the wheel spun. He was holding the front brake lever
but the only effect it had was to squeeze bubbles of brake fluid
from a crack in a hose fitting that looked like it had been
chewed by a large angry carnivore.

I told him to lift one fork leg as I lifted the other. As we set the
thing down on level ground I noticed the fork on my side was
bent like a hockey stick for a tall center. Someone MUST have
suggested he turn the legs around and hit the same tree at the
same speed to straighten the tubes again, so I didn't bother.

As I pushed his bike backwards off the trail he duck-walked
along digging the chain from between the sprocket bolts and
swingarm. The handlebar felt sloppy, and I noticed a distinct
wobble in the steering head bearings, a missing allen head bolt
on a clamp and maybe four missing spokes in the front wheel.
It felt like there were between two and two and a quarter
pounds of air in the front tire. When I shook the handlebar the
bike felt like a foam-rubber imitation of a motorcycle.

Just out of curiosity, I hung around to watch him adjust his rear
wheel and tighten the axle nut. He had just one tool, a 19 inch
pair of Vice-Grips with an unusual modification; he had used it
once to clamp something on to a three rail trailer he was arc
welding together and some stray amperage had gotten to it and
welded it solid. He slid the immovable jaws onto that axle nut,
slid a nickel and a dime under one jaw to take up the slack and
cranked the nut until it "scrunched" tight. Then he stomped it
tighter with his boot. "To give it foot-pounds," he explained.
He had to back off on the rear brake adjustment because the
new wheel position had pulled the brake full ON and the wheel
wouldn't turn. He adjusted the wing nut, which only had one
wing remaining, with two pennies, a quarter and a flat washer
jammed in the Vice-Grips.

When I asked how the rear brake shoes were holding up he
said they were just fine, just fine, he only had to shim out the
cam twice, once with a strip cut from a Pennsylvania license
plate and once with two strips cut from a Pennsylvania license
plate.

One glance at the original paint on the oil filter screws
convinced me that this motorcycle should be laid to rest ASAP.
So I stuck my foot so far into my mouth I deep-throated the
whole boot by saying, "Guess you'll be trading this old baby in
soon, huh?"

"Are you crazy, baldy?!!" he screamed back. "I've still got three
more payments to make on THIS one."