| 2003 Race Reports |
 |  |  |
June 22, 2003
Knob Noster, Missouri
8th of 10 in Vet
I am an angry KTM owner.
In my garage sits an engine-less '02 300MXC, ridden for barely 6 months, victim of a
factory assembler in a hurry. The same inattention to threadlock that brought about
the Steve Crews last second pass at Marshfield also appears to have caused the
premature end of my day at Knob Noster. Except this time, it wasn't my fault. No,
really. I swear. A bolt, a simple 10-cent part, backed its way out of the shift drum and
left me stuck in second gear. I should understand and accept these things, for I own
a KTM, with its quirks and oddities generating some of the most active KTM-specific
internet message boards in the motorcycle cyber-world. Online support groups, more
or less, for those who bleed orange.
The day started out well enough.
I picked up Matt in the morning and drove to the beautiful, rock-deficient race site near
Knob Noster. The MHSC apparently decided that Warrensburg is a more user-friendly
name for this venue, as it had been shown on past schedules as Knob Noster. The
property is about halfway between the two towns, and I can only assume that the
promoters grew weary of phone calls and e-mails from racers wanting to know where
they could find Bald Costas and other variations of town that is home to the B-2
Stealth Bomber. Those tiresome conversations, not unlike the one I am currently
hearing between two coworkers discussing a golf ball shanked into a sand trap,
must have prompted the name change to Warrensburg. I prefer Knob Noster, and
this is my story, so that is what it shall be called. [author's note: Yes, I sometimes
write these reports at work...nothing produces creativity like analyzing how many dead
cows it takes to make a truckload of dog food.]
The Knob Noster course was 8-9 miles of bike-only singletrack, and was laid out in
reverse, more or less, of last October's hare scramble. On the practice lap I liked
what I saw, although the trails were slightly drier and choppier than the Fall '02 race.
Matt and I caught up to The Holeshot King, #4 Doug Stone, as he did a lazy trail ride
around the course. While my practice lap was designed to get a feel for the course at
near-race speeds, Doug's primary objective was to scout for passing opportunities.
Turns out we were both able to accomplish our goals while riding at about the same
speed.
The previous Friday I had officially entered the digital age with the purchase of a
digital camera, and I handed off this pricey electronic toy to my buddy Jeff Smith who
came along for the ride with Open B racer Mike Goforth. My instructions to Jeff were
simple: make me look good. He positioned himself at the far end of a relatively small
starting area and took some excellent shots of The Holeshot King beating the rest of
the Pro class to the first corner. When the board dropped for the Vet class start, I got a
reasonably decent jump off the line and was about 4th going into the first turn. A
quarter-mile into the course, as we passed by the pits, the engine bogged and began
to die. In classic Stichnoth fashion, I had forgotten to turn on the gas. The entire class
passed me by as I flipped the petcock to its correct position and attempted to kick the
engine back to life. Ten kicks later it fired up and I began charging towards the pack,
now about 30 seconds ahead.
Over the next two miles I caught up to a few guys in the Vet class and drag-raced a
Kawasaki through a pasture straightaway. Here's a bit of advice to slower riders who
hold me up in the woods and then want to race hard through the open fields: Don't
make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry. Resistance is futile. You will be
passed. [minor rant now done...that felt good]
At the midway point of the lap, I could see K-Ruck #94 about 15 seconds ahead of me
as we approached a drop-down into a narrow, winding creek bed. The creek was dry
but full of odd-shaped rocks, and the same spot that challenged me on the practice
lap got me again. I lost some time pushing the bike over a tree root and Kevin was
out of sight.
Later in the first lap I began to feel the heat, as temperatures were close to 90
degrees. With cool weather throughout the Spring and few opportunities to "heat
train" on the mountain bike, my body was a bit out of shape for a hot race. But I felt
good on the course. I ended the first lap in 4th place, about 15 seconds behind #383
Neal Soenksen and K-Ruck. At the beginning of the second lap, the first creek section
had been re-routed and I read the course arrows wrong. I lost more precious
seconds getting myself back on the trail.
Eventually I caught up to K-Ruck and waited for an opportunity to pass. Kevin's speed
makes him tough to get around, but I took an inside line on a corner and made the
pass. Later on I passed Neal and trailed only #76 Gary Mittleberg, back in fighting
form after a nasty injury last year. As I passed through the scoring lane for the second
time, I accelerated hard in the open field that had served as the starting area. I
missed the shift from second to third gear, and with the engine still racing I tried
again. Still no third gear. One more try, with more effort and strange noises from the
transmission, I jammed it into third gear. However, after that it would barely shift. I
found 2nd gear and passed through the re-routed creek section, but it became clear
that further shifting would be a fruitless effort. Rather than abuse my clutch for another
hour, I decided to call it a day. The next night I discovered the shift drum bolt had
come loose, revealing perfectly clean threads that suggested threadlock had not
been applied at the factory. A brief search of the KTM owners' cyber-world showed
that this was not an isolated occurrence. Grrrrr.....
Doug Stone took the overall win, followed closely by Chris Thiele. In the Vet class,
Gary Mittleberg won the race, with Steve Crews about a minute behind. Although I did
only two laps, Jeff Smith did exactly as requested...yeah, I looked good.
July 27, 2003
Florence, Missouri
4th of 11 in Vet
Post-race conversation with God:
Dear Lord,
Forgive me, for I have sinned. A lot. You see, it's summertime in St. Louis and the
National Association of Female Personal Trainers just finished up a week-long
conference at the convention center, just across the street from my office. All day long,
the streets were filled with thousands of highly toned and tanned bodies of young
women from across our fine nation, dressed appropriately for the hot Midwest sun.
While I could argue that I was simply expressing my appreciation for the physical
beauty you've bestowed upon this great earth, that beauty being supplemented by a
pair of exquisitely installed Mentor 275cc implants (my own estimation of volume; she
apparently disagreed), a Commandment or two may have been compromised.
However, I humbly propose that what I experienced today might be considered
adequate punishment for last week's transgressions, and maybe another year or two
of future offenses. Hopefully you will agree. Please allow me to explain....
The morning was already hot and humid when I loaded up the bike at 6:30 a.m. The
KTM was finally back in running order and ready for its first race since the Knob
Noster transmission debacle last month. The bottom end of the engine took a
leisurely 3-week vacation at a local dealer while I missed two rounds of the MHSC
series. The good news is that I learned how to use my new digital camera during that
time and spent one afternoon getting up close and personal with Missouri's state
insect, the tick, while shooting pictures of MHSC racers at Flat River. The bad news is
that I didn't do much of anything during that time except contemplate the purchase of
a new, non-KTM dirt bike.
Lord, you know that I appreciate all your gifts of nature, especially 99-degree
temperatures on cloudless days with 82% humidity, gently rolling hills with an infinite
assortment of sharp-edged rocks embedded in hard, dry soil, and of course, dust. Oh,
Praise the Dust! On the practice lap, a few diabolic phrases may have been uttered in
response to the scorched earth left by the 4-wheeler race, but I could not help myself
for I am a weak man and ATV's really are evil. I am confident that if I should be so
fortunate to someday join you in heaven, God, it will be devoid of fat-tired vehicles.
The effects of my four-week layoff showed in the practice lap, leaving me tired and
beaten. Not a good sign. During the week I had picked up a cold that was sticking
with me like bad luggage and caused an above-normal amount of time cleansing
myself of evil stuff inside the sauna-like port-a-potties. I single-handedly reduced the
overall supply of T.P. to dangerously low levels just prior to race time. Our normal
12:30 starting time came and went as the promoters searched for a missing quad
rider in the woods. Just after 1:00, in the heat of the afternoon the bike racers
gathered along the fringe of the starting area, laying claim to any spot resembling
shade. When we finally lined up in our respective rows, the sun baked my left
(sun-facing) boot to about 150 degrees, medium rare by most professional
standards but in my book, hotter than Stifler's mom at the lake house.
When the Vet class finally left the line at 1:22 p.m., the temperature was nearly 100
degrees. My usual mid-pack start was in a cloud of dust with virtually no vision
whatsoever beyond my front fender. The first stretch of trail was a high-speed pasture
section, a wonderful way to start a dusty race. Put 15 bikes together and let them
blindly drag race WFO for a quarter-mile. Nice. Even worse was the first woods
section, where I followed about 6 other riders and could just barely make out the back
tire of the guy in front of me. Putting along in 1st gear, the lead riders were long gone
within the first 5 minutes.
Further in the woods, the pack spread out somewhat and I was able to make a few
passes. Each was a struggle, as the course was incredibly rough. Near the midpoint
of the first lap I lost my balance trying to take a shortcut around some riders and
dropped the bike on a side hill. All of the guys who I had worked so hard to pass were
now ahead of me again. By the time we neared the last couple miles of the infernal
first lap, I was choking on dust and coughing so hard I nearly hurled up the turkey
sandwich I'd eaten for lunch. The water level in my Camelbak was dropping at a
dangerously fast rate.
I hope you can forgive me for the exclamation of creative metaphors that resulted
from blowing through the yellow tape that marked the first turn in the starting area.
You see, at the start of that second lap I expected arrows to point me in the right
direction, but the hand of Satan must have removed them. Or maybe the club
assumed that we were smart enough to remember how to ride that section. Either
way, I was upset and frustrated and wanted to hurt someone. Well, not really, maybe
just scare someone really bad, but not a Manson-like psychotic type of fright (choose
your Manson, either one applies); more of a wet-your-pants kind of scare.
Two rows behind, Matt had already caught up to me while I fumbled my way back on
the course. I don't really remember much about that second lap, other than dust and
heat and fatigue. I was clearly out of shape for that level of heat, and it made me
angry. Last year I prided myself on my heat tolerance and never "bonked" during a
race. But today I was definitely feeling a serious bonking coming on. Others were
already there, with many riders parked along the trail trying to cool down.
One the third lap, the pack had thinned out enough to make the trail a little easier to
see, and I finally settled down and rode better. I had been following #73 Open B fast
guy Mark Kendall and got around him on a tricky hill, then caught back up to Matt, who
was leading the Open B class. He stalled his bike and I passed him while shouting
out a warning that Kendall was right behind us. I kept up a decent pace but fell a
couple times on that lap.
The pace I maintained and mistakes made on the third lap cost me some stamina,
and on the fourth lap I was running out of energy. The trail was still horribly rough but
not much worse than the prior 3 laps. Kendall eventually passed me, which meant he
was a couple minutes ahead overall. I figured that his pace would be fast enough to
finish in the top 20, which was my goal for the day. But to accomplish that, I would
need 5 laps. Near the end of the 4th lap, my watch indicated at least 10 minutes until
the two-hour mark, so it was clear that I'd be riding another lap. I thought about calling
it a day, knowing from experience what I would feel like after the race if I did another
lap. But somehow the sight of #30 Adam Ashcroft pulling off the trail was an incentive
to keep going. Adam is a strong racer, which is a testament to just how hard this race
was. I wanted to tough it out.
Two events made toughing out the 5th lap even tougher. The first was that sickening
feel of sucking on the Camelbak tube and getting nothing but air. The second was the
feel of a loose gear shift lever. I stopped a couple of times to hand-tighten the shifter
bolt, but after a few minutes it would loosen again. Eventually the lever fell off and I
rode to the finish in 2nd gear. I felt beaten in every imaginable way. I couldn't move.
Matt had to load up the bikes while I forced myself to drink (back home, the scale
showed that I was about 8 pounds lighter, which meant I had lost 5% of my body
weight). We didn't bother to stick around for the results. We just wanted to get the hell
out of the most hellish course this side of Kahoka.
In summary, the Catholics call it Purgatory, but I call it Florence. Amen.
Knob Noster, Missouri
8th of 10 in Vet
I am an angry KTM owner.
In my garage sits an engine-less '02 300MXC, ridden for barely 6 months, victim of a
factory assembler in a hurry. The same inattention to threadlock that brought about
the Steve Crews last second pass at Marshfield also appears to have caused the
premature end of my day at Knob Noster. Except this time, it wasn't my fault. No,
really. I swear. A bolt, a simple 10-cent part, backed its way out of the shift drum and
left me stuck in second gear. I should understand and accept these things, for I own
a KTM, with its quirks and oddities generating some of the most active KTM-specific
internet message boards in the motorcycle cyber-world. Online support groups, more
or less, for those who bleed orange.
The day started out well enough.
I picked up Matt in the morning and drove to the beautiful, rock-deficient race site near
Knob Noster. The MHSC apparently decided that Warrensburg is a more user-friendly
name for this venue, as it had been shown on past schedules as Knob Noster. The
property is about halfway between the two towns, and I can only assume that the
promoters grew weary of phone calls and e-mails from racers wanting to know where
they could find Bald Costas and other variations of town that is home to the B-2
Stealth Bomber. Those tiresome conversations, not unlike the one I am currently
hearing between two coworkers discussing a golf ball shanked into a sand trap,
must have prompted the name change to Warrensburg. I prefer Knob Noster, and
this is my story, so that is what it shall be called. [author's note: Yes, I sometimes
write these reports at work...nothing produces creativity like analyzing how many dead
cows it takes to make a truckload of dog food.]
The Knob Noster course was 8-9 miles of bike-only singletrack, and was laid out in
reverse, more or less, of last October's hare scramble. On the practice lap I liked
what I saw, although the trails were slightly drier and choppier than the Fall '02 race.
Matt and I caught up to The Holeshot King, #4 Doug Stone, as he did a lazy trail ride
around the course. While my practice lap was designed to get a feel for the course at
near-race speeds, Doug's primary objective was to scout for passing opportunities.
Turns out we were both able to accomplish our goals while riding at about the same
speed.
The previous Friday I had officially entered the digital age with the purchase of a
digital camera, and I handed off this pricey electronic toy to my buddy Jeff Smith who
came along for the ride with Open B racer Mike Goforth. My instructions to Jeff were
simple: make me look good. He positioned himself at the far end of a relatively small
starting area and took some excellent shots of The Holeshot King beating the rest of
the Pro class to the first corner. When the board dropped for the Vet class start, I got a
reasonably decent jump off the line and was about 4th going into the first turn. A
quarter-mile into the course, as we passed by the pits, the engine bogged and began
to die. In classic Stichnoth fashion, I had forgotten to turn on the gas. The entire class
passed me by as I flipped the petcock to its correct position and attempted to kick the
engine back to life. Ten kicks later it fired up and I began charging towards the pack,
now about 30 seconds ahead.
Over the next two miles I caught up to a few guys in the Vet class and drag-raced a
Kawasaki through a pasture straightaway. Here's a bit of advice to slower riders who
hold me up in the woods and then want to race hard through the open fields: Don't
make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry. Resistance is futile. You will be
passed. [minor rant now done...that felt good]
At the midway point of the lap, I could see K-Ruck #94 about 15 seconds ahead of me
as we approached a drop-down into a narrow, winding creek bed. The creek was dry
but full of odd-shaped rocks, and the same spot that challenged me on the practice
lap got me again. I lost some time pushing the bike over a tree root and Kevin was
out of sight.
Later in the first lap I began to feel the heat, as temperatures were close to 90
degrees. With cool weather throughout the Spring and few opportunities to "heat
train" on the mountain bike, my body was a bit out of shape for a hot race. But I felt
good on the course. I ended the first lap in 4th place, about 15 seconds behind #383
Neal Soenksen and K-Ruck. At the beginning of the second lap, the first creek section
had been re-routed and I read the course arrows wrong. I lost more precious
seconds getting myself back on the trail.
Eventually I caught up to K-Ruck and waited for an opportunity to pass. Kevin's speed
makes him tough to get around, but I took an inside line on a corner and made the
pass. Later on I passed Neal and trailed only #76 Gary Mittleberg, back in fighting
form after a nasty injury last year. As I passed through the scoring lane for the second
time, I accelerated hard in the open field that had served as the starting area. I
missed the shift from second to third gear, and with the engine still racing I tried
again. Still no third gear. One more try, with more effort and strange noises from the
transmission, I jammed it into third gear. However, after that it would barely shift. I
found 2nd gear and passed through the re-routed creek section, but it became clear
that further shifting would be a fruitless effort. Rather than abuse my clutch for another
hour, I decided to call it a day. The next night I discovered the shift drum bolt had
come loose, revealing perfectly clean threads that suggested threadlock had not
been applied at the factory. A brief search of the KTM owners' cyber-world showed
that this was not an isolated occurrence. Grrrrr.....
Doug Stone took the overall win, followed closely by Chris Thiele. In the Vet class,
Gary Mittleberg won the race, with Steve Crews about a minute behind. Although I did
only two laps, Jeff Smith did exactly as requested...yeah, I looked good.
July 27, 2003
Florence, Missouri
4th of 11 in Vet
Post-race conversation with God:
Dear Lord,
Forgive me, for I have sinned. A lot. You see, it's summertime in St. Louis and the
National Association of Female Personal Trainers just finished up a week-long
conference at the convention center, just across the street from my office. All day long,
the streets were filled with thousands of highly toned and tanned bodies of young
women from across our fine nation, dressed appropriately for the hot Midwest sun.
While I could argue that I was simply expressing my appreciation for the physical
beauty you've bestowed upon this great earth, that beauty being supplemented by a
pair of exquisitely installed Mentor 275cc implants (my own estimation of volume; she
apparently disagreed), a Commandment or two may have been compromised.
However, I humbly propose that what I experienced today might be considered
adequate punishment for last week's transgressions, and maybe another year or two
of future offenses. Hopefully you will agree. Please allow me to explain....
The morning was already hot and humid when I loaded up the bike at 6:30 a.m. The
KTM was finally back in running order and ready for its first race since the Knob
Noster transmission debacle last month. The bottom end of the engine took a
leisurely 3-week vacation at a local dealer while I missed two rounds of the MHSC
series. The good news is that I learned how to use my new digital camera during that
time and spent one afternoon getting up close and personal with Missouri's state
insect, the tick, while shooting pictures of MHSC racers at Flat River. The bad news is
that I didn't do much of anything during that time except contemplate the purchase of
a new, non-KTM dirt bike.
Lord, you know that I appreciate all your gifts of nature, especially 99-degree
temperatures on cloudless days with 82% humidity, gently rolling hills with an infinite
assortment of sharp-edged rocks embedded in hard, dry soil, and of course, dust. Oh,
Praise the Dust! On the practice lap, a few diabolic phrases may have been uttered in
response to the scorched earth left by the 4-wheeler race, but I could not help myself
for I am a weak man and ATV's really are evil. I am confident that if I should be so
fortunate to someday join you in heaven, God, it will be devoid of fat-tired vehicles.
The effects of my four-week layoff showed in the practice lap, leaving me tired and
beaten. Not a good sign. During the week I had picked up a cold that was sticking
with me like bad luggage and caused an above-normal amount of time cleansing
myself of evil stuff inside the sauna-like port-a-potties. I single-handedly reduced the
overall supply of T.P. to dangerously low levels just prior to race time. Our normal
12:30 starting time came and went as the promoters searched for a missing quad
rider in the woods. Just after 1:00, in the heat of the afternoon the bike racers
gathered along the fringe of the starting area, laying claim to any spot resembling
shade. When we finally lined up in our respective rows, the sun baked my left
(sun-facing) boot to about 150 degrees, medium rare by most professional
standards but in my book, hotter than Stifler's mom at the lake house.
When the Vet class finally left the line at 1:22 p.m., the temperature was nearly 100
degrees. My usual mid-pack start was in a cloud of dust with virtually no vision
whatsoever beyond my front fender. The first stretch of trail was a high-speed pasture
section, a wonderful way to start a dusty race. Put 15 bikes together and let them
blindly drag race WFO for a quarter-mile. Nice. Even worse was the first woods
section, where I followed about 6 other riders and could just barely make out the back
tire of the guy in front of me. Putting along in 1st gear, the lead riders were long gone
within the first 5 minutes.
Further in the woods, the pack spread out somewhat and I was able to make a few
passes. Each was a struggle, as the course was incredibly rough. Near the midpoint
of the first lap I lost my balance trying to take a shortcut around some riders and
dropped the bike on a side hill. All of the guys who I had worked so hard to pass were
now ahead of me again. By the time we neared the last couple miles of the infernal
first lap, I was choking on dust and coughing so hard I nearly hurled up the turkey
sandwich I'd eaten for lunch. The water level in my Camelbak was dropping at a
dangerously fast rate.
I hope you can forgive me for the exclamation of creative metaphors that resulted
from blowing through the yellow tape that marked the first turn in the starting area.
You see, at the start of that second lap I expected arrows to point me in the right
direction, but the hand of Satan must have removed them. Or maybe the club
assumed that we were smart enough to remember how to ride that section. Either
way, I was upset and frustrated and wanted to hurt someone. Well, not really, maybe
just scare someone really bad, but not a Manson-like psychotic type of fright (choose
your Manson, either one applies); more of a wet-your-pants kind of scare.
Two rows behind, Matt had already caught up to me while I fumbled my way back on
the course. I don't really remember much about that second lap, other than dust and
heat and fatigue. I was clearly out of shape for that level of heat, and it made me
angry. Last year I prided myself on my heat tolerance and never "bonked" during a
race. But today I was definitely feeling a serious bonking coming on. Others were
already there, with many riders parked along the trail trying to cool down.
One the third lap, the pack had thinned out enough to make the trail a little easier to
see, and I finally settled down and rode better. I had been following #73 Open B fast
guy Mark Kendall and got around him on a tricky hill, then caught back up to Matt, who
was leading the Open B class. He stalled his bike and I passed him while shouting
out a warning that Kendall was right behind us. I kept up a decent pace but fell a
couple times on that lap.
The pace I maintained and mistakes made on the third lap cost me some stamina,
and on the fourth lap I was running out of energy. The trail was still horribly rough but
not much worse than the prior 3 laps. Kendall eventually passed me, which meant he
was a couple minutes ahead overall. I figured that his pace would be fast enough to
finish in the top 20, which was my goal for the day. But to accomplish that, I would
need 5 laps. Near the end of the 4th lap, my watch indicated at least 10 minutes until
the two-hour mark, so it was clear that I'd be riding another lap. I thought about calling
it a day, knowing from experience what I would feel like after the race if I did another
lap. But somehow the sight of #30 Adam Ashcroft pulling off the trail was an incentive
to keep going. Adam is a strong racer, which is a testament to just how hard this race
was. I wanted to tough it out.
Two events made toughing out the 5th lap even tougher. The first was that sickening
feel of sucking on the Camelbak tube and getting nothing but air. The second was the
feel of a loose gear shift lever. I stopped a couple of times to hand-tighten the shifter
bolt, but after a few minutes it would loosen again. Eventually the lever fell off and I
rode to the finish in 2nd gear. I felt beaten in every imaginable way. I couldn't move.
Matt had to load up the bikes while I forced myself to drink (back home, the scale
showed that I was about 8 pounds lighter, which meant I had lost 5% of my body
weight). We didn't bother to stick around for the results. We just wanted to get the hell
out of the most hellish course this side of Kahoka.
In summary, the Catholics call it Purgatory, but I call it Florence. Amen.
Knob Noster, Missouri
Florence, Missouri
Florence, Missouri
| Florence, Missouri Hell's Best Kept Secret |