Greenhorn

GREENHORN

Mike Kinsella

SUMMER WAS over in the Sierras, but the sun still blazed down on the pine covered ridges and grassy meadows; the air was still and any movement along the dry, powdery logging roads raised plumes of dust which hung like fog for a long time over the roads. Only the cold, rocky bedded mountain streams were quick and eager. Deer grazed silently in shadowy glens hidden from the early heat of the day. Not far away humans made preparations to break the silence, ford the streams, climb the ridges and plunge through dust clouds along the roads under the hot sun.

Bill Saunders blipped the throttle of the old Kawasaki 250 trail bike a few times just to let off some nervous energy and then looked down the line of riders to the start/finish line where a red banner hung between two trees. Under the banner five riders straddled their bikes tensely waiting their minute mo start the enduro. A man wearing a black and white checkered vest over blue overalls motioned them to get ready and a second later the group sprang forward like lean, hungry lions off on a chase. They passed under the banner and screamed down the narrow, tree lined trail. They were soon gone from sight and five more riders took their places under the banner. Bill turned to his buddy, Ted, and asked in a worried tone: “Do you think I’ll get a finisher’s pin on my first one?” It was Bill’s first enduro and way in the back of his mind a sensation very much like panic was beginning to build.

“Look, you’ve worked hard all summer learning to ride, you’ve busted your ass in a lot of hard falls, and you’ve replaced more parts on that bike than most dealers sell in a good month. If you’re not ready for it now, you never Kvill be,” Ted answered.

“I’ll have to admit,” Bill said, while adjusting the chin strap of his helmet for the sixth or seventh time that morning, “that I’m pretty scared.”

“That’s good, it gets your adrenalin going.”

“I guess I’ll need all I’ve got.”

“You sure will. Just remember...concentrate on the trail in front of you and keep moving ahead. Don’t worry about people passing you, because a lot of them are going to. All you have to do is finish.”

“Well, I’m sure I can do that.”

“I think you will, but you’ve got a lot to learn. Come on, let’s move up; it’s almost time for us to start.”

Bill Saunders was 24 years old and a novice trail rider. His friend Ted had introduced him to the sport last spring soon after they had become acquainted at the place where they worked. They worked next to each other on the assembly line and because the work was boring and because it was good to talk about things which really interested them to keep them going through the day, Ted had told Bill about the enduros he had ridden.

His accounts of challenges and excitement contrasted sharply with the bleak industrial surroundings and Bill developed an interest in off-road biking. It seemed to him that riding might offset the deadening effects of factory work. As Ted always reminded him, it was a lot more fun than watching TV or spending the weekend slopping up beer in the bars. So Bill bought a secondhand bike and began the hard task of learning to ride dirt.

After a long summer of riding, falling down, getting up and riding again he found himself this Sunday morning at the start line of his first enduro. And it wasn’t easy now; as he moved ever closer to the start line he realized that this was going to be a difficult test of skill and will. He wanted very much to prove to himself and others that he could stand up to the rigors of an enduro and finish the course. He wasn’t so sure why he wanted to prove it... maybe he would find that out in the doing of it.

“Well, good luck Bill,” Ted said as they came to the banner; they and two others were the next to leave.

“Thanks; you too,” he answered and then turned to the flagman and waited to be waved off. He felt isolated now that the time was coming. Each rider must feel alone with his bike and the trail, he thought. He and the others started their engines and the cacaphony of sound made him feel even more cut off from the world and the others. It was like going into some kind of deep, concentrated meditation. He was alone on a difficult journey.

The flagman’s hand came up slowly as he gazed at the clock which was set up next to the banner. Go! His hand slashed down; engines revved high and the bikes spit out on to the trail, but Bill sat dazed as the others sped off down the trail. He had let the clutch out too fast and killed the engine; the little edge of panic at the back of his mind leaped out like a tidal wave. “Oh shit,” he swore, “I wish I’d never gotten into this.” He was out in the open where everybody could see his weak points and failures. If he was bad everybody knew it. He couldn’t hide a mistake. He sat there confused and embarrased as the others looked on.

“Crank it over and go!” the flagman shouted. He kicked clumsily at the starter lever a few times and the engine came to life. He got control of himself by sheer force of will and let the clutch out slowly; then moved cautiously out into the clouds of dust which rose up like some omen of doom over the trail. In those first few moments he had forgotten everything he had learned about riding, but he picked up speed and began to careen along the trail like a berserk elephant; scraping against bushes, slipping on sharp turns, and skittering down into nearly every rut> along the route. Riders began to pass him and he became desperate.

“I’ve got to catch up with Ted, got to go faster!” he cried out loud. A short time passed and he was hot and coated with dust. The dust was in his mouth and up his nose. He tried to swallow but couldn’t; it was like trying to swallow talcum powder. This was it, he realized. This is the way it’s going to be for hours and miles to come.

He rode on and eventually lost any awareness of time passing or miles accumulating on the bike’s speedometer because there was nothing more important now than the next few feet in front of him and his mind was clear of everything except the trail which rushed up before his eyes. He concentrated on riding over the obstacles and when he lost concentration he fell. He fell again and again, only to get up and go on. He pulled into the first checkpoint. His card was marked. He was 24 minutes late. “I’ll go faster, I’ll catch up with Ted if it kills me,” he repeated over and over to himself as he left the checkpoint.

Twisting the throttle viciously and moving faster over the bumps and ruts, he peered ahead looking for the red arrows which marked the way. He •nearly over rode the next arrow which pointed to the left where a skinny trace left the logging road and plunged down a steep ridge. He braked hard to make the turn and rode down into a cool, shadowy pine woods. Shifting down to first gear and hitting the compression release—slowing his progress to a crawl—he wound his way slowly down the tortuous path around saplings, dodging around or going over logs which barred his way and banging the bike’s bash plate against the naked rock outcroppings which were everywhere. Other riders passed him as if they were flying so he shifted to second gear and then third. “Too fast, slow down,” he screamed as the bike hurtled along nearly out of control. He tried desperately to downshift but couldn’t get his effort coordinated in time to avoid the large, rotting logs which suddenly loomed up out of the dust. He locked up the back wheel and hit the front brake. As the front wheel hit the logs, the impact sent him flying over the handlebars. He hung on until he felt the forward momentum take him in its grip and flip him over in the air. He landed on his knees and slid down the path until he hit a bush and came to rest. The bike continued on past him as he lay sobbing in anger and frustration. “Screw it, that’s it!” he moaned. “This is stupid, just stupid.”

His knees hurt, and he touched them with his fingers to find out if they were still in place. They hurt so much he thought that he might have busted them. As he comforted himself with the knowledge that they were indeed still in place and unbroken another rider came down the path and stopped.

“Are you all right?” It was unmistakably the voice of a young girl coming from behind the helmet, goggles, face guard and dirty sweatshirt.

“I think so.” He was embarrassed at this unexpected situation and began to recover his composure.

“Need any help?” she asked sweetly.

“I’m O.K. Just a little fall.” He tried to sound nonchalant.

She nodded and pushed off down the hill to where his bike lay by the trail. She dismounted, picked up his bike and propped it against a tree. “It seems to be all right,” she shouted to him, then mounted and was gone.

Bill rose and stumbled down the slope to his bike, crawled onto the seat and started the engine. Aside from some dents and a bent front fender it looked serviceable. He took off, this time in low gear, and crept down to a stream which was very close now. In a moment he was into the water crossing. He plowed through the cylinder-head-deep water and made the other side, where he struggled up the steep, muddy bank, nearly slipping backward into the rushing stream. Steam billowed up from the engine as he headed up a short stretch of fire road to where the red arrows pointed to the path that climbed up the opposite ridge.

He stopped at the base of the ridge and watched other riders struggle up. The precipitous, twisting course had forced many riders to let up on the throttle and lose momentum; they were stalled on the hillside or pushing and shoving their bikes in an agonizing attempt to top this nearly unclimbable obstacle. Some riders fought their way up from the bottom by storming the ridge with engines screaming wide open in first or second gear and clawing for traction in the soft, loose dirt with both feet. They looked like desperate, crazy men to Bill and he knew that if they were having trouble then he would most certainly never make it over.

The young girl was nowhere in sight and the nagging fear that she may already have made the climb urged him on. If he went up real slow in first gear he might make it. The Kawasaki wasn’t much on handling, but it had a low end like a Caterpillar tractor. He began to grind his way up the slope edging past fallen riders and bikes. Slowly, carefully he negotiated the tight, spiraling turns and crept over the logs and debris which lay across his way. He was making it, he could see the crest a hundred feet or so up. The engine groaned under the stress, then began to emit an odd, dull, clattering sound.

Bill slid off the seat and began to push on. It was like trying to roll a boulder up Mount Everest. Foot 1^ foot, by foot...his head reeled, sweS surged down his face and his legs turned slack like old newspapers tumbling in the wind. One more foot, each foot a torture...go, go, rest at the top...lie in the shade...oh, that’s it. He dropped the bike over on the lip of the descent and fell down in a clump in the shade of a bush. From where he lay at its side the trail led straight to a grove of tall pines where a large group of riders were filling their bikes’ tanks from a gas truck. The gas point, halfway. He got to his feet unsteadily, picked up the bike and headed for the checkpoint, wondering how late he was.

^^fe pulled into the checkpoint and a woman took his card and marked it. He was a little dizzy and had trouble speaking fluently.

“How late am I?” he asked the scorer.

“About an hour and 20 minutes,” she answered.

“Oh?” he said in dumb despair.

For a moment there as he had crested the ridge hope and confidence had returned, he was going to go all the way. But now there was nothing to go

on for at all. He had ridden so hard. All that pain and frustration for nothing. It all amounted to zero, because he was already disqualified for a finisher’s pin. Might as well go back to the start area by the easiest route possible. He pushed his bike over to the side of the trail and leaned against it as other riders pulled in and out of the checkpoint. He felt a little embarrassed and so began to fiddle with the carburetor. He didn’t want the others to think-he had quit. He was bent over, intent on faking big problems, when he heard a bike pull up beside his.

“Got problems?” someone asked and Bill straightened up to face the stranger.

“Yeah...I mean no...that is, nothing

serious. Just checking,” he mumbled self-consciously.

“What’s your number?” the older man asked.

“Thirty-one,” Bill answered. The man looked to him to be well past 40. Kind of meek looking, not the kind of guy you would expect to find riding an enduro.

“Uh, uh. Mine’s 32. I was in back of you when you had that trouble getting started.”

“Well, this is my first enduro,” he replied rather defensively.

“I guess we’re both a little behind our minutes,” the man said, suddenly (Continued on page 107)

Continued from page 53 smiling.

“I can’t seem to go fast enough to make up for the time I lost.”

“I’ve got the same problem.”

“Do you know the way back to the start area? I mean if a person had to go back instead of finishing.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you could follow the gas truck when it leaves. It’ll follow the main road, it would be easy.” “I’ve been out a pretty long time; I’m afraid my friend might be wondering if I’m O.K.”

“Yeah, I see, ” the man said noncommittally.

“I wonder if the course will be a little easier from now on.”

“I doubt it. It’ll probably get worse.” “Are you going on?”

“Sure.”

“Why? You’ll never catch up and you can’t get a finisher’s pin.”

“That’s not as important as it seems.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are a novice.”

“Well, what the hell is this sport all about? So far all I’ve done is fall down, crash and give myself a hernia. Why do people do this?”

“Because once in a while, once in an enduro or once in maybe 10 enduros you are going to experience a moment of perfection when everything is clicking. You will feel a micro-second sensation of harmony, like flying or music, when you lose awareness of yourself. That’s when you are a free man. That’s when you are your own man.”

Bill shifted uneasily and fingered the strap of the helmet which he held in his hands. He didn’t want to go on, he wanted to go back the easy way and sit in the shade and drink a cold beer. He wanted to be clean. He would have traded the bike for a shower and a clean set of Levis.

“I’ve got to get going now, my rest break is about over,” the man said quietly. “The gas truck will leave pretty soon, so if you’re going to finish you’d better fill your tank.”

“Thank you,” Bill said. The man mounted his bike and set off down the trail to where the riders were being sent off on the last half of the course.

Bill stood pondering the man’s little speech on the meaning of enduroing. He’s silly; sounds like some kind of fairy—“like music,” “awareness,” “freedom.” What a laugh! Well, there goes the checkers and the gas truck, guess I’d better get on the stick, pretty tired anyway. It’s probably better to head back...I’ll be tired all day at work tomorrow as it is...*. ©