The Trailrider
THE TRAILRIDER
IT WAS RAINING Sunday morning, and I had known it long before the alarm went off at 5:30. It always rains on the second day of the Berkshire Trial. It wasn’t even light when I awoke to the sound of the downpour.
I had to get up early because today, as yesterday, I was to go out into the Berkshires on my bike ahead of the competitors in the Berkshire Trial, checking arrows and replacing those vandalized. Despite Eames’ best efforts at local public relations, arrows still were taken down. And the competitors seldom used route sheets in this FIM type event.
I left at 7:15, 45 minutes before the first rider. I used to leave only 30 minutes early, but I’m slowing down, and the one thing I have to do is stay ahead. The checkpoints every 25 miles or so help me a bit, for fast moving early riders cannot pass through the checks until their due time, and I could pretty well keep up the required schedule. After all, I knew the route intimately, and had that head start. AÍ would be out checking the known trouble spots, cutting the course as needed to get to the sure bets for problems.
The arrows had been up over a week, and on the past Thursday we had ridden the routes and replaced arrows that had been removed. This made us aware, also, of where we were likely to have trouble. The previous weekend’s woodland traffic would not be out again until today, and the gray, driving rain would keep most nature fans indoors. Just the enduro bikes would be out.
Things were pretty much OK until I hit Rt. 9 in Cummington. Here we knew the local state highway supervisor would have removed the arrows. Friends in the area always called when he went through taking them down. Only a couple of miles here, just three or four arrows, and the turnoff corner markers.
We knew the troubles would be up in parts of Colrain. Most of the morning as I wended my way over into Buckland and Conway, and then into Shelburne again, only an occasional marker was down. Other things were happening, though. My Triumph had run its rear wheel bearings on Saturday with 30 miles to go, and AÍ had come along to finish it off. Today I had Howie’s Yamaha 360, and now after about 50 miles the water was getting at it, and it was misfiring at anything over halfthrottle. I didn’t really have much time to mess with it, one plug change was no help, a quick drain of the float bowl helped, but water was getting in through the air filter and the rain overhead was matched only by the muddy water underwheel.
Over in Conway I met some spectators on Roaring Brook Rd., an old woods way. They told me one of their number was ahead on the trail, “trying out” an Ossa. A good thing I knew about him, for soon enough he came shooting around a bend ahead, right at me, oblivious of the fact that many riders would soon be along. It was early, so it was OK to fool around. I didn’t need a crash right then.
The Catamount had some missing arrows. People go hiking in this state area weekends, and seem to rip off arrows in a random way. They’d get a corner arrow, but not the next confirming marker. As I came into Griswoldville, I stopped to gas up at Streeter’s store. By now I’d come to terms with the Yamaha. If I avoided too much throttle it would keep moving. AÍ Eames pulled in as I was gassing up. He’d been over toward Adamsville checking markers at one spot where the route made sort of a “U” turn from one downhill dirt road, past a house on pavement, then up an adjacent dirt road. The people in that house apparently were unhappy with the whole thing, though they refused to answer the door the week prior when AÍ had stopped to explain to them what was happening. We were on public roads at that point, and they had no right to touch our markers.
BOB HICKS
AÍ agreed, reluctantly, to check the Griswoldville powerline hill, a loop of 5 miles that included the big, scary downhill. I was running late, only 15 minutes ahead of the first riders now, due to the rain, my concern with not losing it, and the reluctance of the Yamaha to run well. I was off toward Heath, and the dreaded Heath powerlines, a 6-mile stretch of rough service road, every hollow full of mud and water, every high spot a ledge. This gave me an extra 15 minutes, with Al spot checking the big hill.
In Adamsville, the arrows just put up were down again already. The people were there, but again they would not come to the door. OK, so I’ll fix it for sure. I ran my bike up to the chosen poles for arrows, stood on the seat, reached as high as I could, and banged in about 20 staples in each arrow. Trusting to their now habitual actions, I then backed up a pole or two each way, and banged up more arrows. Then up the wrong road a half-mile and up went the big “W” for wrong. Now the troublemakers were going to need strong fingernails and a ladder. In the rain they might now give it up.
AÍ caught up to me as I got to the longest stretch on the Heath powerline, Pasimino’s section, the one with the big, fast moving brook to ford. AI was worried about that brook. Three days earlier it had been knee-deep and turbulent. Now it could be a stopper for the whole run. In the teeming rain we
decided to bypass it, and a frantic session of rerouting along the nearby road took place. We finished up OK, and then headed into the final section, still usable, but mud, what mud!
The route down Bill Brown’s road in Rowe crossed the powerline farther up, and the construction equipment had been through. Here we met our Waterloo. I was ahead again, still doing the whole route. I had no more than 10 minutes in hand, and only the terrible going was keeping the leading riders from catching me. As I tried to cross the deep, sucking mud on the powerline, I stuck the Yamaha solid. Almost as soon as the engine stopped, I heard a bike. It was Al’s Triumph, to my relief.
Al came up, his face wearied and worried. Riders were now only minutes away, and up ahead there were missing arrows. I tried to direct him to a better point to cross the mucky barrier, but he, too, stuck the Triumph. We both pitched in to get him out, as the first riders arrived—Tom Penton, Brian Inman and Mike Whitney. I don’t think they realized they were overtaking the front runners, as they got over the muck in short order.
Desperation now drove us. We heaved the Triumph out, and Al was on his way. About 8 miles ahead, the route came out on State Rt. 2, followed it down Florida Mountain, and turned up Savoy way. No arrows would be up here, as the state highway guys would have removed them. AÍ had planned to get there plenty early, but rerouting around the Heath section had taken too long. By road, AÍ could reach the turnoff to Savoy hopefully before the riders now ahead of him.
I got the Yamaha out, and soon caught Al in the mud on Bill Brown’s road. He wasn’t risking any tumbles in his advanced state of weariness. Once on the hard road, though, he soon passed my 40mph bike, and was gone. I carried on along the route, just to be sure. About five riders were now ahead of me. We hoped the arrow turning onto Rt. 2 would still be in place.
It was, when I got there, and at the turn onto the Savoy road was an arrow, and a warning before it, hung on a bush. Al had made it, and as I carried on the final 25 miles, I felt the pressure easing off.
Yes, Al had made it. When he got to the River Rd. in Zoar, he was only a half-mile from the turnoff on Rt. 2, but over the Deerfield River. To reach his goal, he had to travel east 3 miles to the nearest bridge, then 3 miles west up Rt. 2. As he hung the arrow on the bush, he heard the bikes, and down the wet, winding, switchback road, passing the traffic, came the Pentons, and soon the next leaders, Mike and Brian. AÍ stood in the rain like a traffic cop, and pointed the way to these leaders, the rush of relief easing the tensions of those last hurried miles. The Triumph had never run so fast, it seemed, and Al’s heart had never been so far up into his mouth. Missing that turn would have brought the riders into Charlemont, where they’d have picked up arrows from the morning route, and started around the course again!
Later at the Middlefield headquarters, the Penton boys were asking AÍ, “How is it you always manage to be out there where we need you?” How indeed!
