alligator

The magic word "Daytona" means that you can see the light at
the end of the winter tunnel, the time when a new season of
trail riding will begin with sunshine, warmth, clear skies, and all
things good and wonderful.

Things like those new sharp edged grab-hold-of-anything tires,
new sprockets and a chain that isn't dragging on the ground.
And maybe a hope that the low-rate health club membership
you've been sweating with all winter would help you out-point
that fat guy from Millville who was always waddling off with the
trophy that YOU missed by three seconds at a #@%*!!
emergency check. Daytona to us trail riders means the Alligator
enduro and the Alligator dual sport rides; the dual sport is for
all the old worn out gimpy battle scarred folks who USED to
ride the Alligator enduro but can't cut the mustard anymore.
Some of us can't even get the jar open.

One nice thing is that the Alligator dual sport starts and finishes
in the same fenced-in meadow where the Alligator enduro
riders pick up their route sheets and number stickies, and it
sure is fun stepping around the same piles of cow patties that
the REAL riders are stepping around as they mope around
pissing and moaning about their riding number.

For us old farts it's a once a year gathering to start
motorcycles that probably haven't been running for months.
Sometimes whole families of spiders get blown out of the
exhaust pipes, then seem to crawl around wondering where all
the snow went.

That reference to old farts is accurate; those guys have been
on the road eating fast food for days and the popping of an
occasional "barking spider" causes a lot of turning around to
accuse others of excessive flatulance. Occasionally some
sad-faced self-appointed ghoul will wander up and start a
conversation with: "guess who died"? then begin to rattle off
last year's AMA obituary list. I usually chase them off with a
good long squirt from a fresh can of WD-40; and I suspect
they'll be very happy to announce Hertfelder's demise.

When my Bernice came back with the obligatory tee shirt I saw
that this was the fifth running of the dual sport. It's been my
pleasure, more by luck than good planning, to have ridden all of
them. The first year they came up with the eight and a half inch
wide route sheet but corrected it the second year when I
threatened to show up with a paper towel holder mounted on
my handlebar. Kawasaki used to provide breakfast, but in a
frenzy of corporate downsizing have reduced this to char boiled
hot dogs on stale rolls at the ferry crossing.

And let me tell you that after 87.6 miles of Florida sand, tar,
and dirt roads (with a two-bit creek crossing thrown in for
laughs) they are the most delicious dogs ever!

Suzuki was on-line with soft drinks, chain lube and friendly Mark
Hyde who has the tools and expertise to fix any brand, any
year, motorcycle. He DID have a bit of bother with a 1966
Bultaco, but got it running good enough to finish the 150.8 mile
ride. Later, the Bultaco was propping up a FOR SALE sign on
the impound fence and younger riders were looking at it as if it
were a moon rock.

Did he say FERRY CROSSING!?

You bet. It's a flat barge that's probably designed for the car of
the rare off-beat motorist, overloaded with cameras and sun
screen, looking for the elusive REAL FLORIDA. The barge is
motivated by an old, narrow beamed boat roped against one
side. We found out that the boat was built in 1918 and they've
long ago lost count of how many engine replacements it had.
Present kicker was a four cylinder diesel from a wrecked
Renault.

They squeeze maybe forty motorcycles on the thing and it's
sort of neat to rub handlebars with the great riders, the
near-great riders, some used-to-be-great riders and many
wished-they-were great riders. I pointed out REALLY great
Burleson to my good friend Norm White, and Norm proceeded
to take a photo of Burleson's new friar-type hair style which
Norm himself is adopting and I have taken to it's ultimate motif.

Hair today and gone tomorrow is the way it goes, and if you
ever get to the Alligator; bring a hat! And don't step on the cow
patties.