| 2000 Race Reports |
 |  |  |
September 17, 2000
Winterset, Iowa
1st of 9 in Open B (2nd overall B)
First of all, the obvious question here is what in the hell was I doing racing in
Winterset, Iowa. The answer is, I don't have a clue. All I know is that I had the largest
deal of my banking career soundly rejected during the prior week and just wanted to
get out of town, far away. My schedule showed the Winterset enduro, so I went. A
six-hour drive gives plenty of time for deep thought and inner reflection and all that
crap. Plus, I had a place to stay the night before -- a co-workers' parents have a
house about an hour from Winterset and offered me a bed to sleep in.
As most people know, Winterset is famous for the fictional account of covered
bridges, adultery, farm wives, covered bridges, out-of-state photographers, adultery,
and some beautiful covered bridges (did I say that already?) in Madison County,
Iowa. Let me tell you, there were no Meryl Streep lookalikes in Winterset. And the
worst part is that none of the gas stations sell 93-octane gas. When I pulled into the
staging area, the guys at the gate said they hadn't had a drop of rain in a month, and
to expect plenty of rocks. I'm in the heart of the corn belt and there's rocks? How can
that be?
As I was setting up, I took a leak just down the trail from the staging area, which was
hard as rock (the trail, that is...you pervert), and noticed about 5 vultures circling
overhead. I didn't take that as a good sign. Then the motorcycle wouldn't start, and
when it finally did, it was sluggish. More bad juju. But unlike most enduro starts, I
was reasonably timely in getting ready and warming up the bike. Three other guys
started on my row, and as our minute started, the guy on a Yamaha jumped out to
lead, and I followed his dust for several miles. It's been awhile since I've seen dust
that bad. Otherwise the trails were in good shape. The guys at the gate were correct
about the rocks, but they were nothing like Missouri. The first section was about 10
miles long and I dropped several points, but I was riding pretty well. After the second
reset I jumped ahead of the other guys on my row and lead for another 10 miles or
so. In a dusty race, being in the lead is the only way to get clean air, and it sure felt
good.
The first loop ended after 35 miles, and at that point I had dropped about 20 points.
The bike was still a bit sluggish, so I changed the spark plug while a chatty lady
parked beside me summarized her life history. I tried to be polite and listen, but by
the time I was ready to go I was a minute late. Actually, she was very nice but I was a
bit distracted at the time. At the next check I lost two points, which shouldn't have
happened. Shortly thereafter I saw my spare inner tube (poorly duct-taped to the front
fender) flopping around, and eventually it broke free and the front wheel tossed it high
up in the air. For an instant I thought about reaching out and grabbing it mid-flight,
but then what was I supposed to do with it? In my mind, no spare tube was a
guaranteed flat tire.
Fortunately neither tire went flat and I finished the race, scoring a 49. I rode well
enough to be fairly confident of winning a trophy, but then again I had never raced in
Iowa. Maybe the farm boys were faster than my usual competition. After an eternity of
waiting for the results to be posted, I found the Open B class scorecards,
clothes-pinned to an old wire corn crib that doubled as promoters' headquarters.
Whenever the club guys put up the results at one of these races, there's always a
mass of riders crowding around to find their scores, so I had to strain to locate mine.
By some miracle it was hung up on the far left end of the Open B class cards, which
suggested a first place finish. Now I'm thinking, something must be wrong here.
Could it be that I had it all mixed up and I actually finished last? I never win, so surely
that's what happened. The Iowa boys must have been super fast. Then, common
sense set in and I looked at my 49 score, compared it to the others in my class, and
realized that I had won my class. First place!! After that I wanted to know how I
compared to the other B classes, since Open B is usually the least competitive. The
250 class always seems to be made up of guys who are one season away from
moving up to the A class. The first place guy in the 250 B class scored...50!! I beat
the 250 B class winner! Then I had to look at the 200 B class...shore 'nuff, beat that
class winner, too. So now I'm thinking, is this possible? Did I get the Overall B class
win? Well, not quite. The winner scored a 44 and they must have separated his card
from the other scores. Even so, a win is a win and it felt pretty darn good after 6 years
of trying.
September 24, 2000
Fosterburg, Illinois
2nd of 3 in Open B
Funny thing, winning a race. Makes you feel like you have to win the next one, too.
Matt and I traveled to Fosterburg for our annual mud race there. Last year it started
out dry and dusty and finished wet and muddy. This year it started out wet and muddy
and stayed that way. Matt brought his new Y2K KTM 300EXC for its inaugural ride,
and I had to admit it looked very tasty, compared to my '99 300EXC that looked exactly
the way it had been ridden for the last two years: rough and nasty (like my women).
We got to the club early so Matt could get his bike broken in a little, and while he did
that I spent a couple hours walking most of the course. A light rain continued for
most of the morning, making the hills very slippery. The mini-bikes began their race
at 10:00 and I watched them struggle up a hill that I was sure would give the big
bikes even more problems. The boys do get frustrated when they can't make it up a
hill. Some get whiney and almost start crying, others just cry.
At the starting line of the big bike race, only one other guy showed up to race the
Open B class besides me and Matt. I didn't know it at the time, but he was the same
guy who beat me by a minute at White City this year. The promoters made us start in
that goofy straddle-the-front-fender position with our bodies facing the rows of riders
behind us. As each group waited for their start, the flag guy took a position behind
the row to be started, a departure from the normal position well in front of the riders
who, under more common starting routines, sit on their seats, looking forward with
legs up on the kick-start levers, eyes fixated on the green flag, bodies forward, tensely
waiting for the flagman to lower his arm and drop the flag. The best riders have the
engine started by the time the flag drops to its lowest position and a fractional
second later are quickly moving down the trail to fight for position at the first turn. With
the fender-straddle start, the flag dropped, but instead of an immediate rumble of
engines coming to life, for about two seconds the only sounds originated from a
scurrying of bodies to the other sides of the motorcycles, guys jumping on the seats
and throwing down the kick-starter.
My technique was a bit rough, and after a couple of kicks I was comfortably near the
back of the pack heading into the first turn (our row also included about 6 riders in the
200B class). Within a minute I had caught up to Matt and was trying my best to make
my front tire rub his rear tire. Traction was less than ideal, but the rain had apparently
not saturated more than an inch or two of ground. The thirty or so riders ahead of us,
in many trail sections, had already cleared out the mud and left us with a nice loam.
On a tricky, root infested hill, I passed Matt and set my sights on the leader in our
class. Within 5 minutes I passed him, but throughout the race we would change
positions several times. In the second lap I slid out around a corner, dropped the
bike, and saw Matt pass me. During the next 6 laps I never saw him again but tried
my hardest to catch him. I rode pretty well and felt like I was in contention for the win,
but at the finish Matt was already back at the truck, so I figured he got the win. As it
turned out, he had run out of fuel and finished a lap down, and the other guy in our
class had passed me in the last lap and beat me by 24 seconds. Even so, the race
was very enjoyable and I beat Matt, so it was a good day.
October 1, 2000
Festus, Missouri
6th of 14 in Open B
These Missouri races are all the same. Miles of rocks, get your body beat to a pulp,
put a few new dings on motorcycle parts, go home tired, shower, and then sleep it off.
The only good thing I did was get a great start, with only one guy ahead of me in the
woods. I hung with the lead pack until it got really rocky, then fell off the pace and
settled into 6th place for the whole race. Festus has a lot of gullies to cross, and you
can cross them one of two ways: slow down and ride through them or get brave and
pop up the front wheel, losing no speed as the motorcycle basically jumps the gap.
However, the landing on the other side can be harsh. I hit one at speed and lightly
kissed the steering damper. I didn't realize it at the time, but the impact was hard
enough to push my forks up in the clamps until they rubbed the handlebars. Just
before my last lap, the lead guys in the pro class lapped me just before the final
check. The first one got around, and I didn't realize the second-place guy was right
on his tail. I sort of blocked him while going into the scoring gate, and vaguely
remember a "fan" (more like a member of his pit crew) shouting at me, loud enough
to suggest that I was creating mass anarchy and generally causing the end of the
world as we know it. All I can say is...Ooops, you redneck a**hole. It's a friggin' bike
race.
I don't even remember if I stuck around to see the results. At least with the Internet
posting, I always can find out where I finished.
Winterset, Iowa
1st of 9 in Open B (2nd overall B)
First of all, the obvious question here is what in the hell was I doing racing in
Winterset, Iowa. The answer is, I don't have a clue. All I know is that I had the largest
deal of my banking career soundly rejected during the prior week and just wanted to
get out of town, far away. My schedule showed the Winterset enduro, so I went. A
six-hour drive gives plenty of time for deep thought and inner reflection and all that
crap. Plus, I had a place to stay the night before -- a co-workers' parents have a
house about an hour from Winterset and offered me a bed to sleep in.
As most people know, Winterset is famous for the fictional account of covered
bridges, adultery, farm wives, covered bridges, out-of-state photographers, adultery,
and some beautiful covered bridges (did I say that already?) in Madison County,
Iowa. Let me tell you, there were no Meryl Streep lookalikes in Winterset. And the
worst part is that none of the gas stations sell 93-octane gas. When I pulled into the
staging area, the guys at the gate said they hadn't had a drop of rain in a month, and
to expect plenty of rocks. I'm in the heart of the corn belt and there's rocks? How can
that be?
As I was setting up, I took a leak just down the trail from the staging area, which was
hard as rock (the trail, that is...you pervert), and noticed about 5 vultures circling
overhead. I didn't take that as a good sign. Then the motorcycle wouldn't start, and
when it finally did, it was sluggish. More bad juju. But unlike most enduro starts, I
was reasonably timely in getting ready and warming up the bike. Three other guys
started on my row, and as our minute started, the guy on a Yamaha jumped out to
lead, and I followed his dust for several miles. It's been awhile since I've seen dust
that bad. Otherwise the trails were in good shape. The guys at the gate were correct
about the rocks, but they were nothing like Missouri. The first section was about 10
miles long and I dropped several points, but I was riding pretty well. After the second
reset I jumped ahead of the other guys on my row and lead for another 10 miles or
so. In a dusty race, being in the lead is the only way to get clean air, and it sure felt
good.
The first loop ended after 35 miles, and at that point I had dropped about 20 points.
The bike was still a bit sluggish, so I changed the spark plug while a chatty lady
parked beside me summarized her life history. I tried to be polite and listen, but by
the time I was ready to go I was a minute late. Actually, she was very nice but I was a
bit distracted at the time. At the next check I lost two points, which shouldn't have
happened. Shortly thereafter I saw my spare inner tube (poorly duct-taped to the front
fender) flopping around, and eventually it broke free and the front wheel tossed it high
up in the air. For an instant I thought about reaching out and grabbing it mid-flight,
but then what was I supposed to do with it? In my mind, no spare tube was a
guaranteed flat tire.
Fortunately neither tire went flat and I finished the race, scoring a 49. I rode well
enough to be fairly confident of winning a trophy, but then again I had never raced in
Iowa. Maybe the farm boys were faster than my usual competition. After an eternity of
waiting for the results to be posted, I found the Open B class scorecards,
clothes-pinned to an old wire corn crib that doubled as promoters' headquarters.
Whenever the club guys put up the results at one of these races, there's always a
mass of riders crowding around to find their scores, so I had to strain to locate mine.
By some miracle it was hung up on the far left end of the Open B class cards, which
suggested a first place finish. Now I'm thinking, something must be wrong here.
Could it be that I had it all mixed up and I actually finished last? I never win, so surely
that's what happened. The Iowa boys must have been super fast. Then, common
sense set in and I looked at my 49 score, compared it to the others in my class, and
realized that I had won my class. First place!! After that I wanted to know how I
compared to the other B classes, since Open B is usually the least competitive. The
250 class always seems to be made up of guys who are one season away from
moving up to the A class. The first place guy in the 250 B class scored...50!! I beat
the 250 B class winner! Then I had to look at the 200 B class...shore 'nuff, beat that
class winner, too. So now I'm thinking, is this possible? Did I get the Overall B class
win? Well, not quite. The winner scored a 44 and they must have separated his card
from the other scores. Even so, a win is a win and it felt pretty darn good after 6 years
of trying.
September 24, 2000
Fosterburg, Illinois
2nd of 3 in Open B
Funny thing, winning a race. Makes you feel like you have to win the next one, too.
Matt and I traveled to Fosterburg for our annual mud race there. Last year it started
out dry and dusty and finished wet and muddy. This year it started out wet and muddy
and stayed that way. Matt brought his new Y2K KTM 300EXC for its inaugural ride,
and I had to admit it looked very tasty, compared to my '99 300EXC that looked exactly
the way it had been ridden for the last two years: rough and nasty (like my women).
We got to the club early so Matt could get his bike broken in a little, and while he did
that I spent a couple hours walking most of the course. A light rain continued for
most of the morning, making the hills very slippery. The mini-bikes began their race
at 10:00 and I watched them struggle up a hill that I was sure would give the big
bikes even more problems. The boys do get frustrated when they can't make it up a
hill. Some get whiney and almost start crying, others just cry.
At the starting line of the big bike race, only one other guy showed up to race the
Open B class besides me and Matt. I didn't know it at the time, but he was the same
guy who beat me by a minute at White City this year. The promoters made us start in
that goofy straddle-the-front-fender position with our bodies facing the rows of riders
behind us. As each group waited for their start, the flag guy took a position behind
the row to be started, a departure from the normal position well in front of the riders
who, under more common starting routines, sit on their seats, looking forward with
legs up on the kick-start levers, eyes fixated on the green flag, bodies forward, tensely
waiting for the flagman to lower his arm and drop the flag. The best riders have the
engine started by the time the flag drops to its lowest position and a fractional
second later are quickly moving down the trail to fight for position at the first turn. With
the fender-straddle start, the flag dropped, but instead of an immediate rumble of
engines coming to life, for about two seconds the only sounds originated from a
scurrying of bodies to the other sides of the motorcycles, guys jumping on the seats
and throwing down the kick-starter.
My technique was a bit rough, and after a couple of kicks I was comfortably near the
back of the pack heading into the first turn (our row also included about 6 riders in the
200B class). Within a minute I had caught up to Matt and was trying my best to make
my front tire rub his rear tire. Traction was less than ideal, but the rain had apparently
not saturated more than an inch or two of ground. The thirty or so riders ahead of us,
in many trail sections, had already cleared out the mud and left us with a nice loam.
On a tricky, root infested hill, I passed Matt and set my sights on the leader in our
class. Within 5 minutes I passed him, but throughout the race we would change
positions several times. In the second lap I slid out around a corner, dropped the
bike, and saw Matt pass me. During the next 6 laps I never saw him again but tried
my hardest to catch him. I rode pretty well and felt like I was in contention for the win,
but at the finish Matt was already back at the truck, so I figured he got the win. As it
turned out, he had run out of fuel and finished a lap down, and the other guy in our
class had passed me in the last lap and beat me by 24 seconds. Even so, the race
was very enjoyable and I beat Matt, so it was a good day.
October 1, 2000
Festus, Missouri
6th of 14 in Open B
These Missouri races are all the same. Miles of rocks, get your body beat to a pulp,
put a few new dings on motorcycle parts, go home tired, shower, and then sleep it off.
The only good thing I did was get a great start, with only one guy ahead of me in the
woods. I hung with the lead pack until it got really rocky, then fell off the pace and
settled into 6th place for the whole race. Festus has a lot of gullies to cross, and you
can cross them one of two ways: slow down and ride through them or get brave and
pop up the front wheel, losing no speed as the motorcycle basically jumps the gap.
However, the landing on the other side can be harsh. I hit one at speed and lightly
kissed the steering damper. I didn't realize it at the time, but the impact was hard
enough to push my forks up in the clamps until they rubbed the handlebars. Just
before my last lap, the lead guys in the pro class lapped me just before the final
check. The first one got around, and I didn't realize the second-place guy was right
on his tail. I sort of blocked him while going into the scoring gate, and vaguely
remember a "fan" (more like a member of his pit crew) shouting at me, loud enough
to suggest that I was creating mass anarchy and generally causing the end of the
world as we know it. All I can say is...Ooops, you redneck a**hole. It's a friggin' bike
race.
I don't even remember if I stuck around to see the results. At least with the Internet
posting, I always can find out where I finished.
Winterset, Iowa
Fosterburg, Illinois
Festus, Missouri
Fosterburg, Illinois
Festus, Missouri