The Legend of the Lumberjack

The Legend of

By Joseph N. Persons Produced by Lumberjack Publications

The Legend of the Lumberjack

By Joseph N. Persons

On a dark and stormy night in 1978 a bunch of us in the Polish Pathfinders Enduro Club decided we would tackle the Foggy Mountain Trial staging from Tellico Plains, Tennessee. The event had just been added to the American Motorcyclist Association’s National Reliability Trials Series. It promised 150 miles of challenging terrain, including steep tight mountain single track, rocky stream beds littered with slick algae covered rock, several special tests and enough fast, twisty rapidly ascending, horrifically descending gravel roads traversing the Great Smoky Mountains to keep flatlanders from Florida on the ragged edge of their comfort zone all day.

Plans were made and lies were told to our spouses, girlfriends and parents. Promises were made…. some kept, some broken and others simply blew up in our faces.

On Sunday, September 10, less than a week before we were to embark on our journey to Tellico Plains, we Polish Pathfinders decided we needed to take one more ride around our trails near Raiford, Florida to fine tune the bikes and ourselves. Jimmy Thornton (34) and Pat Horgan (33) were each riding a ‘77 Penton 400 GS6, Don Roof (16) and Charlie Fuchs (33) were each riding XT500 Yamahas, I (37) was on my ‘76 7-speed Hercules 350 (255cc) GS/7, and Al Roof (weeks away from his twentieth birthday) was riding his ’76 Hercules 175 GS/7.

As usual, we met at the secluded Thornton Family Compound in the great metropolis of Raiford, Florida and headed for the woods with Jimmy leading and me riding clean-up, bringing up the rear of the pack, since none of the other riders had a clue where we were or how they got there. Since the National Trial was the next Sunday and we didn't want to hurt the bikes or ourselves we stayed off of the tough technical trails and were mainly riding on Jeep roads.

A short time into the ride, I came around a fast, sweeping right corner to find Al lying face down off in the brush on the left side of the sandy Jeep trail, unconscious, not breathing, with arms and legs outstretched, and facing his crashed bike.

Al had just mounted a newly released Barum front tire that had knob that wrapped completely around.

They looked trick, but, as Al found out that day, would suck you into a rut like a slot car on its track.

Instead of riding loose on the bike as one should when riding deep sand ruts, Al had tensed up while traveling about forty-five miles-per-hour, pulling the bars to the left when his Herc felt as though it was falling to the right. At that instant the rut ended, with Al and his trusty steed making a sharp left into

one of the 4-inch round planted pines that lined each side of the trail. He hit the tree with such force that it was knocked out of the ground, and at such a rate that the whiplash broke about seven or eight feet out of the tree. The tree top came straight down, like a spear, and stuck in the ground beside him, narrowly missing him. Al was ejected from the bike into a second tree several feet away, impacting with first a glancing blow to the head, then a direct impact to his left shoulder, at which time his body spun around 180º, sending him face first away from the point of impact. The impact bent the Ceriani leading axle forks to the point the front tire was rubbing on the frame and a chunk broke out of the fork leg where the axle was clamped by pinch bolts.

Don in tow. Since we older fellows had gone that far into the ride, we gave them directions and sent them on their way to load both bikes and drive back to Lake City, which is about 30 miles. I don’t think Don had a driver's license yet, but he had to take over driving when the delayed effects of the blow to Al’s head rendered him too woozy to drive. To this day, Al remembers nothing after the Liberty Bell rang in his ears upon impact into the second tree, other than the recollection of those, like me, who were there. The boy had a concussion and we shouldn't have allowed him to drive anything, but then we would've missed the rest of the ride.

Thus goes The Legend of Lumberjack.

My first thought was, "If he's dead, what am I going to tell his mother?" His younger brother Don and the burley Viet Nam veteran Charlie were still sitting on their bikes, idling, slack jawed and staring at Al‘s lifeless body, when I arrived. Both appeared in shock, with Don muttering something akin to “What am I gonna tell my Mama? What am I gonna tell my Mama? What am I gonna tell my Mama?”

I jumped off my Herc, ran over to Al, kneeled down beside him, leaned over just as he moaned, started to move, and struggled to inflate his lungs, which had all of the wind knocked out of them. I put my hand down on top of his helmet and told him to stay still, which he did. My first words to him were, "Where does it hurt?". He said, "Everywhere!" I said, "Wonderful", thinking that I'm not going to have to face his mother after all. Since young Al wanted to make an impressive fashion statement for his appearance at the upcoming National Trial, all of his gear, including his shoulder pads, was spit shined and polished, safely packed away in his Jofa gear bag at home. The boy was riding in dungarees, brogans and a T-shirt. Needless to say, the boy has led a rather charmed life. Thank the good Lord above, he always wore a good helmet. At that very instant Al earned the right to share 1978 AMA 500cc Motocross Champion Rick Burgett’s nickname “The Lumberjack”.

Somehow, we managed to secure the front axle to the forks with wire, and zip-ties well enough for Al to ride slowly back to Jimmy's place with only brother

The Author - Joseph N. Persons - Circa 1982 Now, 44 years after that fateful day, you can order your very own Lumberjack T-shirt at https:// metroracing.com/lumberjack-tee/