Hertfelder: Bumbling At The Beehive

The Beehive Enduro is the best-attended enduro on the East
Coast Enduro Association Schedule. I asked Shirley to go with
me this year because I wanted her to see other motorcyclists
besides those who park their motorcycles neatly spaced,
identically angled, with identical sidestand leans and handlebars
turned just so, outside bars on Saturday when there is no threat
of rain. I also wanted to ride to see if whatever I did to my right
foot in a squeeze play with a tree stump was worth investing in
another bottle of Demerol.

I was also hoping one of my tens of readers would ask for an
autograph or something.

We arrived on Saturday at noon and parked at a prime spot—
just far enough from the Porto Potties that you couldn’t smell
them and close enough to the firehouse to fetch coffee and hot
dogs home before they congealed. Ed Baker came over and
told us EVERYTHING that had happened to him in the past
year. He did not ask for an autograph.

They were telling me there were over 600 riders signed up
already when I saw a rebel contingent from Virginia circling
their wagons on, naturally, the south side of the road. I told Big
George, one of the lead rebels, that the armistice ended the
following midnight and he better get his Confederate butt below
the Mason/Dixon line before we opened fire. When I asked him
how many riders were with him, he told me ten (actually what
he said was TAY-EN).

I took Shirley on a ride over paved, gravel, and dirt roads, then
onto the path across a salt marsh to watch the sun set into
Delaware Bay. The last over water sunset I’d watched was in
Mexico. This time the seabirds flapping in to nest didn’t have
Spanish accents. I thought Shirley was look at me with rapt
attention; I was wrong, she was watching two deer on the path
behind me.

This is a lady who always answer a question with a question.
When I thought I’d pin her to a yes or no answer to my
marriage proposal, she hesitated a minute then asked, “When”?

It was dark when we returned and some troops had a canvas
pop-top screened-in trailer under my stylish awning.

Seven or eight riders were inside playing cards and using the
“F” word an awful “F wording” lot; the loudest was my adopted
son. They were nice enough to turn the volume down after I
leaned inside and threw the “N” word at them a few times. No
one asked for an autograph.

Enduro folks bed down early and those that don’t speak softly,
as if there were sleeping Grizzlies around. Come to think of it a
rudely awakened heavyweight “A” rider might be a lot meaner
than a grizzlie. I know it’s dangerous to approach them if their
motorcycle breaks.

Next morning Shirley was up and out early to beat the lines at
the Porto Potties. When she discovered the empty two-gallon
Mobil oil can I use as my private Porto Potty, she prayed that
she would be reincarnated as a male, if for no other reason
than to avoid head colds from sloshing in the grass in her
stockinged feet first thing in the morning. With 650 riders and
their crews, the Beehive is a miniature Daytona—without the
jammed traffic and exhibitionist-type badasses who are always
GOING somewhere. When I parked my big Honda on the edge
of the crowd I revved before shutting off then yelled, “Form a
line for autographs!” Four or five fellows turned, smiled, then
gave me the finger.

It’s nice to be recognized.

A two-stroke was being pushed off the line and I unwrapped
my towrope as spectators pushed it down the paved road. With
my motorcycle I can tow it AND the van it came in. The
spectator’s legs, lungs and resolve were about gone when I
pulled alongside and handed over the towline. We went about a
half-mile before the towee fired up and shot past me, yanking
my bike to the left and his to the right because the rope was
still attached to his handlebar. You can’t come any closer to
crashing and NOT, believe me. Before leaving, one snot-nosed
kid asked for an autograph. I asked him why he wanted it.
“Because,” he said, “Baker told me you were Terry
Cunningham’s uncle.”

I taught him all he knows, too.