Hertfelder: Worst!

Records are kept on just how well the good guys are doing, so
it seems fair to keep them for the bad guys also.
The reputation I have as the WORST dirt rider has reached a
new low and should be documented in case some other wimp
goes for the title.

My original low of never placing better than 44th Mediumweight
B in an enduro has progressed over the years to not reaching
the second checkpoint (’97 Alligator), to missing the first
checkpoint (’97 L.A. to B to V), to crashing the bike when the
ramp slid sideways as I was rolling the 600 out of the truck
(New Years Day ’98).

It ain’t easy to get worse than that, but it happened, and Norm
was responsible. Norm is the kinda fellow who rides enduros
just to get the result sheets because he wants to get
SOMETHING in the mail that doesn’t have Ed McMahon’s
picture on the envelope.

Every winter Norm and I spend a three-day weekend getting an
overdose of trail riding and doing our bit to help preserve our
lovely New Jersey pine forests. Fire is the main hazard to these
sweet smelling trees, especially when they dry out during the
summer months. These fires, often started by lit cigarettes
thrown from automobiles, creep slowly along the pine needle
mulch until they are stopped by a fire cut. Hopefully, this
happens before the wind rises.

Fire cuts are made by a large plow and are maybe two feet
deep and three feet wide. They twist and turn along the forest
floor, swooping around stands of trees but always returning to
the same compass heading. After the fall and winter winds, the
fire cuts are often bridged by fallen trees or large branches and
fires could easily cross from one area to another.

So, during our weekend, Norm and I get up early and ride late
clearing fire cuts. We’ve found that clearing forty miles of
interconnecting cuts is just about right and, Lord knows, the ride
back is a thousand percent more enjoyable than the stop-and-
go and lift-and-tug of the ride out.

This year, we had a Saturday ride, dawn until dusk, in light rain
in temperatures just above freezing. I clocked 82 miles and
Norm’s speedo read 79, which indicated to me that Norm was
using too much front brake and slid the wheel a lot. Sunday was
below freezing and dry, with a stiff breeze blowing the last of
the Canada geese to Fort Lauderdale where they belong.

We had trouble all day breaking fallen trees loose from the
frozen ground but running the front wheel of my 600 up the side
of a firecut and ramming the lumber with the skidplate
persuaded the immovable objects to reconsider.

Norm lost track of his mileage on Sunday, so I lied to him a little
and he got back to the trucks with his Yamaha 200 on
RESERVE and his mind in I’M GOING TO HAVE TO PUSH
THIS THING mode. We did 92 miles.

My lips weren’t feeling that bad on Saturday, but by noon on
Sunday they began splitting and peeling. On Monday morning I
looked in the mirror and recalled having seen better-looking lips
on an Egyptian mummy at the university museum. I had what
we call tangerine-slice trauma, with hard little strips curled out
from the devastation. Sliding into a T-shirt, I noted this was one
of the few times I had been thankful for having a big nose. Early
Monday morning I called Norm’s house and asked wife Gladys
how Norm’s lips were holding up. She said something to the
effect that kissing Norm was now exactly the same as kissing
the edge of a pinochle deck.

I arrived first at our meeting place near the Atco dragstrip and
went to the back of my van to start the Honda before it lost all
the heat from the ride down. Every time I kicked down on the
cold-soaked starter the van’s right rear wheel settled deeper
into the loose sand. On the tenth kick the engine went “woof”
one time and I knew this would soon progress to two “woofs”
then three, then four and so on until she warmed up. Maybe if I
hadn’t removed the choke cable it would start easier but this
way I know the big single isn’t flooded.

Encouraged by the “woof”, I lit into the start pedal for the next
kick, unfortunately I hadn’t allowed for just how far the van was
settling. The motorcycle and I slowly tilted over against the side
of the van and the hard little hooks of dried skin on my lips
stuck in the carpeting on the van wall!
Norm cut me loose five minutes later. He said it was the first
time he’d seen a rider stuck BEFORE he got his motorcycle
started.