| 2005 Race Reports |
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June 26, 2005
Culver, Indiana
In my somewhat limited hare scrambling in Indiana, for some odd reason I often
experience a “first” of one sort or another (although first place has not been one of
them). In my pre-LASIK days, I lost a contact lens at Cayuga. Both times I competed at
Kingman, the races were restarted shortly after they began. And at the Culver hare
scramble, one of the B classes started on the front row. Some things might be
different in Indiana, but the sameness of Hoosier sand was all over the course.
The north-central Indiana sand factor was one I’d forgotten in the many years that had
passed since I’d ridden a very enjoyable Roselawn-style enduro here. A set of
Michelin S-12’s, firmly planted to the KX's rims since moving to Chicagoland, were up
to the task. I, on the other hand, wasn't entirely comfortable with 95 degrees and dust
rivaling a Missouri hare scramble in July (read: Florence). After the race I heard
mumblings about the course being the most dangerous ever ridden by some, due to
the dust. Obviously those individuals have not spent much time in Missouri during the
summer.
The unpredictability of Indiana hare scrambles turned into familiarity on the starting
line. Most races held in extreme heat have one thing in common: the amount of time
spent waiting for the promoter to make his way to the starting area is directly
proportional to the temperature. The girlfriend of the young guy lined up next to me felt
the need to remind us of the heat. “I’m hot,” she said over and over while dressed in
short-shorts and a “I spent $100 on a belly button piercing and I’ll be damned if I ain't
gonna show the whole friggin' world, biotch” shirt, this in front of 100 guys covered
head-to-toe in 20 pounds of riding gear, kind of like whining about the heat at a 4th of
July parade while the color guard passes in full dress. Oh, to be 17 and a complete
idiot.
Never have I seen so much dust at race east of the Mississippi. The start was a
grass track in an open field, straight ahead for a couple hundred yards and then zig-
zagging through a mowed path. If riding 35 mph in 3 feet of visibility doesn't scare the
bejesus out of you, then you’re my hero. A really stupid hero. Inside the woods, the
dust didn't let up. It hung in the air, clogging my lungs and painting my face a dark
shade of peppercorn-poop brown. I passed a few of the B riders that jumped out to
better starts, but each time was an effort. The course was made up of the tight, twisty
trails typical of Indiana. The only time I shifted into third gear was in the dusty grass
tracks.
The course was 8 or 9 miles long and took a little over 30 minutes to complete a lap.
In less dusty conditions the trails would have been awesome, but today they were not
awesome. All I did was try to survive for what I thought was to be two hours. When I
checked into the scoring barrels the second time, one of the ladies said “One more
lap!” Never had three words meant so much. I wanted to stop and give her a hug.
Instead, I decided I would charge through the grass track with aggression, since I
was finally alone in a world of dustless pleasure. Then I realized I still had seven
miles to go and enough energy for about two. I backed off a bit and concentrated on
doing the nearly impossible – riding smart. One minor crash later I decided I’d just
ride to make it to the finish in one piece.
At the end of my third lap I passed through the barrels one last time and spotted a kid
with a garden hose. I pulled up to him and asked him to let the water flow down my
back. A half-hour earlier I’d thought that being told I only had one more lap was the
best feeling in the world. Now, the best feeling was that cold water. When I reached
down to grab the kick starter, I could feel some intense heat coming off the radiators
and engine. Back at the truck, coolant was dribbling from the lower front of the engine.
I’d banged the pipe against a stump, which created a huge dent and pushed the pipe
against the radiator hose coming off the water pump. The heat of the pipe melted a
hole in the hose and out went the coolant. While the engine didn’t show any telltale
signs of overheating, it was probably getting close. The shortened race may have
saved the cylinder (the piston got replaced after the race).
All I wanted to do after the race was jump into an air conditioned truck and hit the
road. Which I did, but not before burning my bare feet on the sand and frying my ass
on the tailgate. On the way home, several bank thermometers showed 98 degrees.
Now that’s hot.
July 3, 2005
Casey, Illinois
5th of 7 in Vet A
There is dry, and then there is Casey in July after many weeks with hardly a drop of
rain. The 2005 version of the Cornstock 100 was its polar opposite of last year’s
inaugural hundred-miler. Mired in mud at the ’04 race, I managed only a few laps
before my rear brakes gave out. This year would be a battle with blinding dust on a
course already chewed up by the ATV race a day earlier.
The good part about racing at a motocross-centric venue is that they usually know
handle dust. Or at least some of it. The motocross track and the pit area had been
dampened by a large tractor-pulled water wagon. Unfortunately, they neglected to
water the trails. After signup, I took a quick walk through the trails while the Junior
class completed their race, and a Florence-like fine powder had built up at the edge
of every berm. The dust kicked up by the Juniors just hung in the air, barely a breeze
to be found inside the woods.
Riding blind at high speeds is something the average non-riding person would have
a hard time appreciating. Actually, I don’t know anyone who really appreciates it,
because for the most part, it sucks. How much does it suck, you ask? In the immortal
words of one Wayne Campbell, it sucks donkey. That bad, yes. The only time when it
doesn't suck as much is when you get the holeshot and make everyone behind you
eat your dust. But since “holeshot” and “Stichnoth” are uttered in the same breath
about as often as “Dick Cheney” and “Public Appearance”, I fully expected to eat dust
at the start of the Cornstock. And I didn't just eat it, I devoured it like chicken wings on
Hooters Air.
The Lincoln Trail woods have little of what I would call pure singletrack, and none of it
was used in the Cornstock. Not that it would have been much better with more
singletrack, as every dirt particle on the course had already been loosened up by the
ATV’s. Visibility in most places was about five feet, just far enough to keep in sight the
rear fender of the bike ahead of me. Complicating the dusty conditions was a spongy
front brake that didn't serve me well as I tried to avoid rear-ending bikes that seemed
to appear out of nowhere.
The first lap was all about survival. I followed freight trains of bikes, choked on dust,
and could hardly tell where the trail was. Most of that lap was reactive riding, just trying
to hang on as unseen objects (and there were many) tried to separate me from the
KX. I made a few passes, then dumped the bike and watched most of the guys pass
me back. The lap ended at the motocross track, watered a bit but hard as concrete in
most places. I was following two guys for a couple of miles before we entered the
track, got around one and then watched the other get sideways on a small jump and
take a nasty crash just before we reached the scoring barrels.
With as much dust as I inhaled on the first lap, I began to wonder how long my air
filter would last before hopelessly clogging with dirt. Before the race I’d chatted with
perennial fast guy Rick Kinkelaar, who mentioned that he brought a spare filter. This
thought did actually cross my mind the morning of the race, yet I made a conscious
decision to leave my freshly oiled spare filter on the kitchen counter. Another dusty lap
lay ahead, although slightly less so as the bikes began to spread out. Wherever there
was a bike, a long trail of dust followed. I caught up to a few bikes on the second lap
and struggled each time to find a way around.
On the third lap I felt the irritating pain that is the beginning of a blister. I’d forgotten to
put on my PalmSavers and a blister was forming on my clutch hand. I knew I needed
to get those PalmSavers on my hands, so I reluctantly pitted at the end of the lap. I’d
hoped to do 4 or 5 laps before pitting, but that wasn't going to happen. I filled up with
gas, pulled on the PalmSavers and headed back out for my fourth lap. By this time I
was catching lappers, most of who moved over quickly. Even so, I still had to deal with
their dust trails. As soon as I came upon the dust, I’d ride about a quarter-mile before
I could see a bike.
The next two laps were a blur of dust, although there was actually decent visibility in a
few spots. At the end of my 6th lap, three hours and 50 miles into the race, I decided
that lap 7 would be my last. I just wasn't in the mood for a 6-hour ride. The KX is
generally good for about 3 hours, then it becomes a handful. The KTM probably would
have been a better choice, but even then I probably wouldn't have done all the laps I
had coming. As with the hot, dry Culver race the weekend before, I packed up and
headed for home with only two desires: a cold shower and a long nap. Rick Kinkelaar
used his spare air filter wisely and won the Vet A class, while Jeremy Smith took the
overall win.
Culver, Indiana
In my somewhat limited hare scrambling in Indiana, for some odd reason I often
experience a “first” of one sort or another (although first place has not been one of
them). In my pre-LASIK days, I lost a contact lens at Cayuga. Both times I competed at
Kingman, the races were restarted shortly after they began. And at the Culver hare
scramble, one of the B classes started on the front row. Some things might be
different in Indiana, but the sameness of Hoosier sand was all over the course.
The north-central Indiana sand factor was one I’d forgotten in the many years that had
passed since I’d ridden a very enjoyable Roselawn-style enduro here. A set of
Michelin S-12’s, firmly planted to the KX's rims since moving to Chicagoland, were up
to the task. I, on the other hand, wasn't entirely comfortable with 95 degrees and dust
rivaling a Missouri hare scramble in July (read: Florence). After the race I heard
mumblings about the course being the most dangerous ever ridden by some, due to
the dust. Obviously those individuals have not spent much time in Missouri during the
summer.
The unpredictability of Indiana hare scrambles turned into familiarity on the starting
line. Most races held in extreme heat have one thing in common: the amount of time
spent waiting for the promoter to make his way to the starting area is directly
proportional to the temperature. The girlfriend of the young guy lined up next to me felt
the need to remind us of the heat. “I’m hot,” she said over and over while dressed in
short-shorts and a “I spent $100 on a belly button piercing and I’ll be damned if I ain't
gonna show the whole friggin' world, biotch” shirt, this in front of 100 guys covered
head-to-toe in 20 pounds of riding gear, kind of like whining about the heat at a 4th of
July parade while the color guard passes in full dress. Oh, to be 17 and a complete
idiot.
Never have I seen so much dust at race east of the Mississippi. The start was a
grass track in an open field, straight ahead for a couple hundred yards and then zig-
zagging through a mowed path. If riding 35 mph in 3 feet of visibility doesn't scare the
bejesus out of you, then you’re my hero. A really stupid hero. Inside the woods, the
dust didn't let up. It hung in the air, clogging my lungs and painting my face a dark
shade of peppercorn-poop brown. I passed a few of the B riders that jumped out to
better starts, but each time was an effort. The course was made up of the tight, twisty
trails typical of Indiana. The only time I shifted into third gear was in the dusty grass
tracks.
The course was 8 or 9 miles long and took a little over 30 minutes to complete a lap.
In less dusty conditions the trails would have been awesome, but today they were not
awesome. All I did was try to survive for what I thought was to be two hours. When I
checked into the scoring barrels the second time, one of the ladies said “One more
lap!” Never had three words meant so much. I wanted to stop and give her a hug.
Instead, I decided I would charge through the grass track with aggression, since I
was finally alone in a world of dustless pleasure. Then I realized I still had seven
miles to go and enough energy for about two. I backed off a bit and concentrated on
doing the nearly impossible – riding smart. One minor crash later I decided I’d just
ride to make it to the finish in one piece.
At the end of my third lap I passed through the barrels one last time and spotted a kid
with a garden hose. I pulled up to him and asked him to let the water flow down my
back. A half-hour earlier I’d thought that being told I only had one more lap was the
best feeling in the world. Now, the best feeling was that cold water. When I reached
down to grab the kick starter, I could feel some intense heat coming off the radiators
and engine. Back at the truck, coolant was dribbling from the lower front of the engine.
I’d banged the pipe against a stump, which created a huge dent and pushed the pipe
against the radiator hose coming off the water pump. The heat of the pipe melted a
hole in the hose and out went the coolant. While the engine didn’t show any telltale
signs of overheating, it was probably getting close. The shortened race may have
saved the cylinder (the piston got replaced after the race).
All I wanted to do after the race was jump into an air conditioned truck and hit the
road. Which I did, but not before burning my bare feet on the sand and frying my ass
on the tailgate. On the way home, several bank thermometers showed 98 degrees.
Now that’s hot.
July 3, 2005
Casey, Illinois
5th of 7 in Vet A
There is dry, and then there is Casey in July after many weeks with hardly a drop of
rain. The 2005 version of the Cornstock 100 was its polar opposite of last year’s
inaugural hundred-miler. Mired in mud at the ’04 race, I managed only a few laps
before my rear brakes gave out. This year would be a battle with blinding dust on a
course already chewed up by the ATV race a day earlier.
The good part about racing at a motocross-centric venue is that they usually know
handle dust. Or at least some of it. The motocross track and the pit area had been
dampened by a large tractor-pulled water wagon. Unfortunately, they neglected to
water the trails. After signup, I took a quick walk through the trails while the Junior
class completed their race, and a Florence-like fine powder had built up at the edge
of every berm. The dust kicked up by the Juniors just hung in the air, barely a breeze
to be found inside the woods.
Riding blind at high speeds is something the average non-riding person would have
a hard time appreciating. Actually, I don’t know anyone who really appreciates it,
because for the most part, it sucks. How much does it suck, you ask? In the immortal
words of one Wayne Campbell, it sucks donkey. That bad, yes. The only time when it
doesn't suck as much is when you get the holeshot and make everyone behind you
eat your dust. But since “holeshot” and “Stichnoth” are uttered in the same breath
about as often as “Dick Cheney” and “Public Appearance”, I fully expected to eat dust
at the start of the Cornstock. And I didn't just eat it, I devoured it like chicken wings on
Hooters Air.
The Lincoln Trail woods have little of what I would call pure singletrack, and none of it
was used in the Cornstock. Not that it would have been much better with more
singletrack, as every dirt particle on the course had already been loosened up by the
ATV’s. Visibility in most places was about five feet, just far enough to keep in sight the
rear fender of the bike ahead of me. Complicating the dusty conditions was a spongy
front brake that didn't serve me well as I tried to avoid rear-ending bikes that seemed
to appear out of nowhere.
The first lap was all about survival. I followed freight trains of bikes, choked on dust,
and could hardly tell where the trail was. Most of that lap was reactive riding, just trying
to hang on as unseen objects (and there were many) tried to separate me from the
KX. I made a few passes, then dumped the bike and watched most of the guys pass
me back. The lap ended at the motocross track, watered a bit but hard as concrete in
most places. I was following two guys for a couple of miles before we entered the
track, got around one and then watched the other get sideways on a small jump and
take a nasty crash just before we reached the scoring barrels.
With as much dust as I inhaled on the first lap, I began to wonder how long my air
filter would last before hopelessly clogging with dirt. Before the race I’d chatted with
perennial fast guy Rick Kinkelaar, who mentioned that he brought a spare filter. This
thought did actually cross my mind the morning of the race, yet I made a conscious
decision to leave my freshly oiled spare filter on the kitchen counter. Another dusty lap
lay ahead, although slightly less so as the bikes began to spread out. Wherever there
was a bike, a long trail of dust followed. I caught up to a few bikes on the second lap
and struggled each time to find a way around.
On the third lap I felt the irritating pain that is the beginning of a blister. I’d forgotten to
put on my PalmSavers and a blister was forming on my clutch hand. I knew I needed
to get those PalmSavers on my hands, so I reluctantly pitted at the end of the lap. I’d
hoped to do 4 or 5 laps before pitting, but that wasn't going to happen. I filled up with
gas, pulled on the PalmSavers and headed back out for my fourth lap. By this time I
was catching lappers, most of who moved over quickly. Even so, I still had to deal with
their dust trails. As soon as I came upon the dust, I’d ride about a quarter-mile before
I could see a bike.
The next two laps were a blur of dust, although there was actually decent visibility in a
few spots. At the end of my 6th lap, three hours and 50 miles into the race, I decided
that lap 7 would be my last. I just wasn't in the mood for a 6-hour ride. The KX is
generally good for about 3 hours, then it becomes a handful. The KTM probably would
have been a better choice, but even then I probably wouldn't have done all the laps I
had coming. As with the hot, dry Culver race the weekend before, I packed up and
headed for home with only two desires: a cold shower and a long nap. Rick Kinkelaar
used his spare air filter wisely and won the Vet A class, while Jeremy Smith took the
overall win.
Culver, Indiana
Casey, Illinois
Casey, Illinois