You might look at the picture above and get the impression that this was just a designed obstacle in a racetrack—it was not. Our posse came to a grinding stop right at the very edge of the mud pit, so no, getting stuck like that was not an accident (think about that for a minute, I’ll let it sink in—pun intended).

We all stopped safely, right before the pit, but the engine was running, the adrenaline was pumping, and my brain was obviously switched off.

I had been riding well and conquering all sorts of obstacles all morning long, so I suppose a reality check was long overdue by then.

My thinking was that if I wheelied into the pit, I would carry enough momentum for the front wheel to land safely on the other side.

That failed miserably. Rather, it was a text book “expectations versus reality” moment: the wheelie part was ok, but the “sticking the landing” part was a little too literal. As soon as the rear wheel touched the muck, the wheel got violently seized, and all of that forward momentum I thought would safely carry me across the mire became an instant, massive downward pull that nearly ripped my arms out of their sockets. I just was not expecting that to happen for some reason—a classic case of “not thinking straight.”

Everyone else seemed to enjoy the stunt, not so much I. Funny how such a liquid-looking thing felt like hardening cement all of a sudden.

It only took me a second to realize I was properly stuck, so I immediately did the next clever thing… I dismounted… Yes... I didn’t think that through either.

I remained stranded for some time, almost knee-deep in the mud, until I finally decided to trade the comfort of clean, dry socks for mobility and freedom. I pulled my feet out of my boots and then “wiggled them boots” out of the mud one after the other.

It was very fortunate that, on that particular day, we had been joined by a well-know character in the Enduro scene of El Salvador at the time: Cerebro.

A trait, perhaps, unknown to most, Cerebro was massively strong and, to everyone’s amazement, was able to pull my KLX out of the mud all on his own.

He took a firm grip on the front wheel of the bike and started tugging frantically while the rest of us were still trying to organize a rescue in true motley-crew fashion.

The bike fell on its side, which not only increased the contact base, but also caused the ProTaper handlebar and the Acerbis barkbuster to also sink deep in the mud. That obviously increased the resistance but, this guy, Cerebro, just kept dragging the thing out of the swamp until, at last, it was finally out.

I know that everyone was in awe—myself included—, but nobody said anything about the feat we had all just witnessed; everyone just saddled up and cranked their engines alive again. Trini, who would later that year have a terrible dirt-bike accident that nearly killed him, did say to me quietly: “Tiene fuerza este Cerebro.”

Cerebro, Trini, and I became good friends during this period. All three of us were part of the Board of Directors of the Enduro Club of El Salvador at that time, and part of our duties included choosing and marking the race routes.

If you can imagine… with enduro races being over 100 kilometers long of pure wilderness, it would sometimes take us weeks to mark every segment of a race, and so we would divide these segments among ourselves. Cerebro and Trini would do the most dangerous parts of the race routes, and I would do the parts I knew I could handle. I was a decent rider, don’t get me wrong, but Cerebro and Trini were two tiers up from were I was, and there is just no faking it in this sport.

Some guys did linger too long in the lower tiers, if you ask me, just to, undeservingly, score a few trophies for showing off. Of course, as the Secretary of the Enduro Club, I didn’t like that at all; I moved on when it was time to move on and always called it out whenever I spotted someone trying to get the easy pickings.

There were, of course, others, in the board of directors, who worked just as hard, if not harder, but I didn’t get to spend as much time with them because… you know… we did’t get along… more like… we actually clashed every time.

There was the Teletubby, who I didn’t actually have any issues with, rather, I admired the guy because of his very thick skin—he seemed impervious to the most offensive jokes. He was alright. There was also Adelso, the Treasurer, and Simón, the President of the Club.

The story of Simón is tragic… so very deeply tragic, I do not dare to talk about it here.

Except for the love we both shared for our sport, we had nothing in common, Simón and I, but we worked together where we could and sometimes even spoke through proxies at our worst. Still, I did admire and respect Simón. He was a hard-working family man; a good, loving husband; a good, loving father; and a good sport too. Simón didn’t mind at all the occasional, deep cutting jokes we were all necessarily the victims of, if we wanted to remain in the club. Those days were pure, unhinged fun.

Rest in peace, Simón, and please don’t mind if I now call you “my friend.” We did have a good, honest laugh or two together; I think that counts.