Issue link: http://trailridermagazine.uberflip.com/i/105496
T he drive from my home north of Boston to Mike Lafferty's place in South Jersey is an unsteady orbit between the emotional poles, marked by enthusiastic fist pumps as I skirt New Haven traffic via back roads, or endure white knuckle frustration while parked 200 feet above the Hudson River along the George Washington Bridge. Aggravation or elation hangs in the balance as I approach Deptford, NJ with its potentially congested streets and traffic lights. The drive down his road is an entirely differently world. The forest canopy blankets the road below and the houses are set back off the pavement, lending an isolated, rural feel to this part of Millville. A tidal marsh presses in from the East while turkey and deer frequent the forest between the marsh and road. A stretch of whoops runs parallel along the road revealing the back of Mike's garage and the top of the Factory Husaberg rig behind it. His driveway is covered in red sand stone while the yard is an eclectic, unkempt, mix of grass species, sand and pine trees. His garage is sealed up like a shipping container with yellow light streaming through the sole window that only a small child could fit through. It's also well within the field of fire from his bedroom window. Large rounded logs delineate an oversized parking area between the house and garage. It's a driveway built with the purpose of accommodating several guests, along with the enormous Factory Husaberg rig. Upon easing into his driveway, his two dogs, Berg and Charlie, are piqued by the sound of my tires crunching over the driveway. Both trot to the front of my usual parking spot and sit while I ease the truck to a stop. I barely have the door open when Berg is wiggling his way under my legs, muzzle deep into a sub wrapper that was once on the passenger side floor. Charlie has now climbed over me and is into the back seat, pawing into the opening of my gear bag, his endeavor much less lucrative than Berg's. Within seconds, paw prints cover the cab of the truck and I make a hasty exit before Berg tries for one of his famous open mouth kisses (he waits for you to say something and then launches himself toward your face in mid sentence.) It's been determined that Charlie is the brains of the duo. But whatever Berg lacks in smarts, he makes up for in room clearing flatulence. Mike is now three quarters of the way across the driveway and closing fast. In one hand, a piece of toast. In the other, a cup of coffee. He 40 Trail Rider www.TrailRider.com