Trail Rider Magazine

12 Trail Rider www.TrailRider.com Enduro Heaven By Rick "Super Hunky" Sieman Stop me if you've heard this one. It seems that there was this enduro rider who died and went to heaven. It turned out that he'd been a good man in his earth- ly existence. He'd never cut the course … not even once. And many mes he'd stop and lend a hand to a fallen rider. He was generous with his chain lube and even lent tools out to strangers, knowing full well that he'd never see them again. He always pre-entered events and had his bike ready to go when his friends picked him up in the morning. Here was a man well-liked by all and hated by none. It's sad, indeed, that a largish cement truck decid- ed to back over him while he was taking a nap in the shade of an old oak tree, on his break at the construc on site where he was working one warm spring day. He suffered not, for the truck was full to the brim with nine yards of Portland's best. Our friend the enduro rider passed from this life to the next and found himself standing in front of the Pearly Gates, somewhat confused. He knew that he was no longer with the living and wondered just what was to become of him. Cau- ously, he knocked on the gates. Moments later, they swung majes cally open. A gray-haired and heavily bearded old man with a clipboard in his hand greeted him. He was wearing a long, white robe with several JT and DG patches neatly sewn on the sleeves. "Hi. I'm Saint Peter. You must be the new arrival. Right?" Our friend stammered acknowledgement and asked, "Is this heaven?" "Yup, you got it, sport. This is that Pie in the Sky you've heard so much about in all those old songs. Come on in. I'll show you around." "Sure, great. But, what do you do here? I mean, what's it like in heaven?" Saint Peter smiled and said, "Look around you. What do you see?" The enduro rider looked around and gasped. Bel-Ray banners were strung from the fences. Hi-Point arrows were stapled to the trees. Colorful vans and trucks were all over, with casually neat rows of enduro bikes just about everywhere. The se ng was idyllic … huge, green pine trees lined the sky. Large oak and maple trees spread heavy branches low, offering shade. Li le brooks babbled their fool heads off. Birds twi ered. Squirrels chased lady squirrele es through the foliage. Near every bike was a fully stocked, double-decker, red Snap On toolbox. A nitrogen bo le and a very expensive set of torches flanked the giant toolboxes. Gleam- ing rows of sockets bris- tled from the par ally open drawers. Heavy hits so ly carried out from the tape decks in the vans. Full coolers were everywhere. And, wonder of wonders, there were no lines at the porta-johns! It hit him like a ton of skid plates!!! This was enduro heaven!!! "Wow! This place is neat. What do we do here?" Saint Pete smiled. "What else? You ride as much as you want, whenever you want. And you get all the free beer you can handle a er the ride. Not bad, eh?" Stunned, our friend just nodded mutely. A er they made the rounds and he got ou i ed with a new Griff riding jacket, some Malcolm Smith leathers and a new Electro helmet, he asked, "What do we do for bikes?" "Bikes? You want bikes? Take your pick." With that, Saint Peter opened up a huge, golden garage door and waved his hand drama cally at the contents. There, in the garage, were lined up dozens of the finest enduro mounts the world has known. There were KTMs and Buls and Ossas and Huskys and ITs and PEs and XRs and Jawas and … and the list was endless.

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