Issue link: http://trailridermagazine.uberflip.com/i/105496
holds the cup out, and for a moment it appears to be an offering. The cup is half full and I realize it's not for me. He's now pulling both dogs from the cab of my truck, trying to sound perturbed, but it's easy to see that he is thoroughly amused. Then the handshakes: "What's happenin' Captain?" It seems to be the standard greeting for me now. I approve. It's an upgrade from earlier greetings where I am likened to a feminine hygiene product. Our rapport has definitely improved. He leads the way in to his garage where Adam Burke, his mechanic, is preparing the practice bike for a local race. It's late March and there is a four week break until the next National Enduro in Louisiana. The mood is light as Mike currently sits in second overall, despite a few instances that could have changed things for the better. Lee Rogers, Mike's training partner, owner of Bicycle Therapy, Inc. and general Man of Leisure is standing proudly aside his new 150, trying to convince me that it isn't the shitbox we say it is - an argument that pre-dates this visit. Mike and Lee must have pedaled hundreds, if not thousands of miles during the off season and through the first several rounds of 2012, as evident by Mike's baggy jeans. His jeans must be two sizes too small. The unfortunate consequence is that they now ride much, much too low around his waistline. I warn him that if I see the real estate beyond his lower back one more time, Berg and Charlie are going to enjoy a warm rendition of my lunch. I recommend that he invest in a belt. He then moves across the room and slides into his office chair. He's thirtysix now and in that moment, he looks it. Not old exactly, more like a guy who's seen some shit. His movements contradict his age. His motion is fluid and swift, unencumbered by 19 years of professional off road racing. He is so fluid that he might as well be wearing slippers. In fact, he is wearing slippers. They're not really slippers though, more like something resembling a thick burlap bag stitched to a sliver of dual sport tire. And there he is; "The Big Man" as Lee sometimes calls him. Leaner, thinner, and it ought be said, more tan than anyone ought to be at this point in late March. In the glinting angle of his shop's lighting he brings to mind someone remarkably refreshed. If there were ever an example of a late career renaissance, this might be it. Car doors slam outside and Paddy Holloway eventually makes his way into the room, his Venice Beach idiom betraying his rural Virginia upbringing. Berg and Charlie make a hasty exit in hopes of scoffing a crumb from the ground around Paddy's car door. Time flies, and before it registers, Mike, Adam and I are heading toward Route 55 and his riding area, Lee and Paddy in tow. The tires chirp their farewell to the quietude of the neighborhood and we wrench into the weekend traffic. Question number one is: What's so different about this year? He speaks. He laughs. And does just about anything he can to try and deflect attention from himself. Getting Mike to discuss any success he's having is like herding cats. For the moment, I table the discussion. I know him just well enough to know that he'd rather have you understand him through action rather than words. He speaks about himself only when he has to, and right now I haven't pressed the issue. I'll play his game for a while and gather what I can. Kevin Novello Photo Action October 2012 41