| 2001 Race Reports |
September 30, 2001
Smithville Lake, Missouri
7th of 19 in Open B
Word to the wise: it is very helpful not only having directions to a race you've never
been to before, but also having the correct directions. Especially when it's a four hour
drive each way. In Missouri, there is a slight difference between U.S. 69 and U.S. 169.
One will get you to Smithville Lake; the other will get you to Des Moines, which is
where we were headed before stopping at a gas station to get directions. Of course,
Matt and I only resort to stopping for directions after many, many miles have passed.
Fortunately we only drove 30 minutes or so out of our way, but we arrived too late to do
a practice lap.
On the start, I jumped out to my best first-corner position of the year, settling in behind
who I assumed were the two Open B class leaders. A mile later I blew a turn and a
couple guys got around me. Same thing happened a few miles later, and another
couple guys got around me. Soon, Matt passed me, then PizzaMan. I felt
demoralized. The course was definitely not to my liking, with mostly open grass
tracks, very high speeds (numerous 5th gear WFO pasture sections), and not enough
tight woods. I lost the most time in the grass tracks that weaved back and forth, some
in pastures with terraces that were fun to jump. The course was full of thorn trees that
made me look like a maximum security prison escapee after the race.
I was able to pass PizzaMan again and stayed ahead of him, but I never saw Matt
again until the end of the race. He finished about two minutes ahead of me in 4th
place, his best finish this year. I fell back to 7th place despite riding hard the whole
time but not being able to master the grass tracks. A practice lap probably would have
helped, but Smithville felt like my Tebbetts of years past.
October 21, 2001
White City, Illinois
5th of 8 in Open B
Gotta hand it to the Cahokia Creek club. They know how to slowly, steadily demoralize
a person. Riding the White City enduro is like attending an Al Gore public address:
somewhat interesting and moderately entertaining for the first half-hour, then you just
want to get it over with and go home. The Cahokia Creek guys still hold to the "old
school" philosophy that only the toughest, fastest guys should finish an entire enduro
course. Because of the weather, last year's race was one of the more obscenely
tough enduros I've ever attempted. This year promised to be better but still difficult
due to its length. The route sheet showed 100 actual ground miles, the longest I had
ever seen. During the previous week I had spent a large amount of time and effort
getting moved into a house, so mentally I wasn't as focused on the race as I would be
normally. I got about as much sleep the week before as those crazy people who
compete in adventure races.
The course began with 10 miles through the club grounds over very familiar terrain
(I've probably raced more times at Cahokia Creek than at any other venue). From
there, some country roads lead to woods sections that roughly paralleled I-55. About
30 miles into the race, the course jumped to the other side of I-55 via more country
roads and then began a 20-mile jaunt through the tightest woods in Illinois. The
bonus round, had I made it that far, was a repeat run through the same 20 miles.
After that, a few more miles of country roads linked up with the club grounds and a
final pass through the 10-mile section on which the course began. Sounds easy,
right?
Here's how the Cahokia Creek club makes this race such a mental challenge. The
club grounds that make up hare scrambles courses can be some of the most
enjoyable I've ever ridden, other than during or immediately after rain, when they
become as slick as snow-pack. Naturally, the skies broke loose about 90 minutes
before the race but didn't hurt the course. In fact, the trails were tacky and I spent most
of the first 10 miles in 2nd and 3rd gear. I was on row 25 and the "AA" guys (the pros)
were a couple of minutes behind me. So I had a few chances to see how it's
supposed to be done. Jeff Fredette passed me about 5 miles into the course and I
admired his fluid style for about 3 seconds before he disappeared ahead of me. The
other fast guys gradually caught up to me and I was able to do several more 3-second
evaluations as they sped by.
The second stage was where the mental challenge began. On the road section
following the club grounds, I missed a turn and went about 3 miles before realizing
my mistake. So that set me back 5 minutes, needlessly, and forced me to ride faster
than I should have. Plus, the woods got real tight real fast, making it tough to get any
kind of rhythm going. The first time-consuming problem was a deep gully that
became nearly impassable. There went 10 minutes. Then I got stuck in a creek
crossing...another 10 minutes lost. Plus, the woods were mostly 1st and 2nd gear
trails, the speed average was 24mph, and the checks were few and far between. A
flawless ride through this second section would have normally cost me 20-30 points
from riding too darned slow, but my foul-ups caused me to drop somewhere around
45 points in that section alone. Even a reset and a long road section weren't enough
to get me back on time before the next check. During this stage, Lee Lankutis caught
up to me in the tight stuff and I attempted to let him by around a corner, but he came
into the corner hot and dropped his bike trying to avoid me. I felt bad, but after we
exited the section and crossed I-55, he was pulled over on the road with an apparent
mechanical problem.
Near the end of the second section, I noticed that my left handguard had come
unscrewed at the handlebar and was flopping uselessly. Hmmm...wondered why my
left fingers were so darned sore. The first gas stop was at some random point along
a country road, 40 miles into the course. By this time I had been on the bike about 3
hours. I found the van of the nice lady who had offered to transport my gas container
to the refueling spot. She offered me some food, but the just the thought of eating
made me feel ill. While filling my tank, I learned a lesson in proper refueling
technique: when your gloves are caked with creek-bottom silt (from one of my bike
excavations), it is better to remove them before unscrewing the gas cap and guiding
the gas can nozzle into the tank. Evidently, it never occurred to me that the silt would
fall off my gloves and into the tank. I stared longingly at the fuel filter on the bike parked
nearby, wishing I ever had the common sense to put one of those on my bike.
Another racer approached me and offered to let me use his spare handlebar insert so
that my hand guard would be functional again. He had broken a clutch cable and was
done for the afternoon, so his problem was my good fortune.
The third stage consisted of a long stretch of woods, including the area where I broke
my ribs two years ago. I struggled through that section, getting hung up a few more
times before the trail straightened out over some cornfields. Funny thing about the
cornfields...I was only counting 15 or 20 tire tracks ahead of me, which suggested that
the attrition rate was high once again. I finally reached the culvert underpass that was
very difficult last year. It was full of water and silt, just like last year. Although I was
able to navigate my way through, the bike sunk wheel-deep at the exit. A club guy was
there to help pull me out, but he watched me struggle for about 5 minutes before
lending a hand. By that time, I was confident that I would hour out at the next check, so
I rode at a trail rider pace for the next several miles.
A few miles before the final checkpoint (for me), I came upon a gully about 3 feet deep
and 6 feet across. The club had built a bridge, but it had been destroyed during the
race. Four other guys were already there, trying to decide how to get across. None of
us were brave enough to attempt jumping the gap, so we each eased our bikes down
into the gully, one by one, and the team of us pushed, pulled, cursed, heaved, cursed
some more, and shoved the bikes up to the other side. After doing that 5 times, I was
dead tired and limped along until the last check. Had I not houred out, I would have
repeated that whole 20-mile section and then headed back to the club for the last 10
miles of woods. The group of us who had met at the gully rode back to the club,
where I changed clothes and took a long nap in the truck. I couldn't even move, I was
so tired. My stomach was upset, and each time I would try to walk I felt nauseous.
This went on for a couple of hours. During one period of sleep the guy who had lent
me his handlebar insert came by and removed it from my bike, but I never saw him or
had a chance to say thanks.
Eventually I gathered enough strength to check my results and drive home. I slept
well and felt glad to be done with the racing season. Some day, I will conquer the
White City enduro.
------------------------------------------------------------------
All in all, it was a fairly successful year. I finished 3rd in the MHSC Open B class
series, which is quite an accomplishment considering how poorly I rode in the
rocks when I moved to Missouri 3 years ago. Next year, I hope to do even better.
Smithville Lake, Missouri
7th of 19 in Open B
Word to the wise: it is very helpful not only having directions to a race you've never
been to before, but also having the correct directions. Especially when it's a four hour
drive each way. In Missouri, there is a slight difference between U.S. 69 and U.S. 169.
One will get you to Smithville Lake; the other will get you to Des Moines, which is
where we were headed before stopping at a gas station to get directions. Of course,
Matt and I only resort to stopping for directions after many, many miles have passed.
Fortunately we only drove 30 minutes or so out of our way, but we arrived too late to do
a practice lap.
On the start, I jumped out to my best first-corner position of the year, settling in behind
who I assumed were the two Open B class leaders. A mile later I blew a turn and a
couple guys got around me. Same thing happened a few miles later, and another
couple guys got around me. Soon, Matt passed me, then PizzaMan. I felt
demoralized. The course was definitely not to my liking, with mostly open grass
tracks, very high speeds (numerous 5th gear WFO pasture sections), and not enough
tight woods. I lost the most time in the grass tracks that weaved back and forth, some
in pastures with terraces that were fun to jump. The course was full of thorn trees that
made me look like a maximum security prison escapee after the race.
I was able to pass PizzaMan again and stayed ahead of him, but I never saw Matt
again until the end of the race. He finished about two minutes ahead of me in 4th
place, his best finish this year. I fell back to 7th place despite riding hard the whole
time but not being able to master the grass tracks. A practice lap probably would have
helped, but Smithville felt like my Tebbetts of years past.
October 21, 2001
White City, Illinois
5th of 8 in Open B
Gotta hand it to the Cahokia Creek club. They know how to slowly, steadily demoralize
a person. Riding the White City enduro is like attending an Al Gore public address:
somewhat interesting and moderately entertaining for the first half-hour, then you just
want to get it over with and go home. The Cahokia Creek guys still hold to the "old
school" philosophy that only the toughest, fastest guys should finish an entire enduro
course. Because of the weather, last year's race was one of the more obscenely
tough enduros I've ever attempted. This year promised to be better but still difficult
due to its length. The route sheet showed 100 actual ground miles, the longest I had
ever seen. During the previous week I had spent a large amount of time and effort
getting moved into a house, so mentally I wasn't as focused on the race as I would be
normally. I got about as much sleep the week before as those crazy people who
compete in adventure races.
The course began with 10 miles through the club grounds over very familiar terrain
(I've probably raced more times at Cahokia Creek than at any other venue). From
there, some country roads lead to woods sections that roughly paralleled I-55. About
30 miles into the race, the course jumped to the other side of I-55 via more country
roads and then began a 20-mile jaunt through the tightest woods in Illinois. The
bonus round, had I made it that far, was a repeat run through the same 20 miles.
After that, a few more miles of country roads linked up with the club grounds and a
final pass through the 10-mile section on which the course began. Sounds easy,
right?
Here's how the Cahokia Creek club makes this race such a mental challenge. The
club grounds that make up hare scrambles courses can be some of the most
enjoyable I've ever ridden, other than during or immediately after rain, when they
become as slick as snow-pack. Naturally, the skies broke loose about 90 minutes
before the race but didn't hurt the course. In fact, the trails were tacky and I spent most
of the first 10 miles in 2nd and 3rd gear. I was on row 25 and the "AA" guys (the pros)
were a couple of minutes behind me. So I had a few chances to see how it's
supposed to be done. Jeff Fredette passed me about 5 miles into the course and I
admired his fluid style for about 3 seconds before he disappeared ahead of me. The
other fast guys gradually caught up to me and I was able to do several more 3-second
evaluations as they sped by.
The second stage was where the mental challenge began. On the road section
following the club grounds, I missed a turn and went about 3 miles before realizing
my mistake. So that set me back 5 minutes, needlessly, and forced me to ride faster
than I should have. Plus, the woods got real tight real fast, making it tough to get any
kind of rhythm going. The first time-consuming problem was a deep gully that
became nearly impassable. There went 10 minutes. Then I got stuck in a creek
crossing...another 10 minutes lost. Plus, the woods were mostly 1st and 2nd gear
trails, the speed average was 24mph, and the checks were few and far between. A
flawless ride through this second section would have normally cost me 20-30 points
from riding too darned slow, but my foul-ups caused me to drop somewhere around
45 points in that section alone. Even a reset and a long road section weren't enough
to get me back on time before the next check. During this stage, Lee Lankutis caught
up to me in the tight stuff and I attempted to let him by around a corner, but he came
into the corner hot and dropped his bike trying to avoid me. I felt bad, but after we
exited the section and crossed I-55, he was pulled over on the road with an apparent
mechanical problem.
Near the end of the second section, I noticed that my left handguard had come
unscrewed at the handlebar and was flopping uselessly. Hmmm...wondered why my
left fingers were so darned sore. The first gas stop was at some random point along
a country road, 40 miles into the course. By this time I had been on the bike about 3
hours. I found the van of the nice lady who had offered to transport my gas container
to the refueling spot. She offered me some food, but the just the thought of eating
made me feel ill. While filling my tank, I learned a lesson in proper refueling
technique: when your gloves are caked with creek-bottom silt (from one of my bike
excavations), it is better to remove them before unscrewing the gas cap and guiding
the gas can nozzle into the tank. Evidently, it never occurred to me that the silt would
fall off my gloves and into the tank. I stared longingly at the fuel filter on the bike parked
nearby, wishing I ever had the common sense to put one of those on my bike.
Another racer approached me and offered to let me use his spare handlebar insert so
that my hand guard would be functional again. He had broken a clutch cable and was
done for the afternoon, so his problem was my good fortune.
The third stage consisted of a long stretch of woods, including the area where I broke
my ribs two years ago. I struggled through that section, getting hung up a few more
times before the trail straightened out over some cornfields. Funny thing about the
cornfields...I was only counting 15 or 20 tire tracks ahead of me, which suggested that
the attrition rate was high once again. I finally reached the culvert underpass that was
very difficult last year. It was full of water and silt, just like last year. Although I was
able to navigate my way through, the bike sunk wheel-deep at the exit. A club guy was
there to help pull me out, but he watched me struggle for about 5 minutes before
lending a hand. By that time, I was confident that I would hour out at the next check, so
I rode at a trail rider pace for the next several miles.
A few miles before the final checkpoint (for me), I came upon a gully about 3 feet deep
and 6 feet across. The club had built a bridge, but it had been destroyed during the
race. Four other guys were already there, trying to decide how to get across. None of
us were brave enough to attempt jumping the gap, so we each eased our bikes down
into the gully, one by one, and the team of us pushed, pulled, cursed, heaved, cursed
some more, and shoved the bikes up to the other side. After doing that 5 times, I was
dead tired and limped along until the last check. Had I not houred out, I would have
repeated that whole 20-mile section and then headed back to the club for the last 10
miles of woods. The group of us who had met at the gully rode back to the club,
where I changed clothes and took a long nap in the truck. I couldn't even move, I was
so tired. My stomach was upset, and each time I would try to walk I felt nauseous.
This went on for a couple of hours. During one period of sleep the guy who had lent
me his handlebar insert came by and removed it from my bike, but I never saw him or
had a chance to say thanks.
Eventually I gathered enough strength to check my results and drive home. I slept
well and felt glad to be done with the racing season. Some day, I will conquer the
White City enduro.
------------------------------------------------------------------
All in all, it was a fairly successful year. I finished 3rd in the MHSC Open B class
series, which is quite an accomplishment considering how poorly I rode in the
rocks when I moved to Missouri 3 years ago. Next year, I hope to do even better.
Smithville, Missouri
White City, Illinois
White City, Illinois
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