| 2005 Race Reports |
 |  |  |
September 4, 2005
Eugene, Missouri
3rd of 10 in A Sportsman
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It’s an oft-repeated theory, generally
conjectured to a college girlfriend as justification for that month-long trip overseas
where you plan to screw your way through Eastern Europe but only manage to get to
third base with a Hungarian named Borbala. This theory could not have been more
true than in my 6-month absence from the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship.
My return to the MHSC was made courtesy of its scheduling the Eugene event over
Labor Day weekend. With an extra day of recovery for the return trip to suburban hell, I
planned a long Missouri weekend with old friends along a familiar theme: abuse of
body in the name of fun.
On Friday I met up with former MHSC #85 Jeff Wendel at the Berryman Trail in the
Mark Twain National Forest. Now a bicycling specialist, Jeff schooled me in the art of
mountain bike endurance. He is insanely fit. The kind of fitness where you figure he
leg-lifts Volvos before breakfast and squats pool tables over Happy Hour. After three
hours of thrashing, I wondered if I would be able to walk the rest of the weekend while
Jeff sipped a Corona. From there it was on to the Lake St. Louis Triathlon on
Saturday. Make no mistake, I am not a triathlete. If the running portion could be
substituted for something a bit less strenuous, like competitive horseshoes or
Scrabble, I might consider abusing myself to the levels seen that morning. My friend
Jodean, completing the 10K running leg of a three-person relay team, looked to be
having as much fun as a Superdome refugee and she was only doing one-third of the
race.
On Saturday night I hooked up with #791 Matt Sellers in Wentzville, took advantage of
Wendy’s home cooking and loaded up for Eugene on Sunday. Most of the usual
suspects were on hand, including the Ruckdeschell clan from Texas who looked
$3.20/gallon gas prices straight in the eye and said Screw you, we’ll just get
ourselves a second mortgage. Parked next to us was a guy on a poorly running
Honda XR, racing for the first time and asking the usual questions like What happens
if my ungodly heavy pig of a dirt bike doesn't make it up the off-camber climb up the
creek bank, and Why is that guy on the #32 Kawasaki being so insensitive to me and
my motorcycle?
I lined up in the center of the A Sportsman row, which was a straight-line approach to
a hole in the trees where we would enter the woods. My exceptionally slow reflexes
made the Yamaha to my left seem to explode when the 15-second board dropped.
He was a bike length ahead of me before I even moved. The Pythagorean Theorem
was developed more quickly than the time it took me to arrive at the woods. Not
helping matters was being pushed to the outside and entering at the back of the
pack. This narrow section of tightly spaced trees ran beside an old railroad grade
before dumping us back out into the pasture. Inside this section a couple of guys
tangled, allowing a few of us to pass.
After a brief grass track in the pasture, we dropped down into the infamous Creek
from Hell for a quarter-mile of what should be officially named Opportunity for
Disaster. There are two general line choices here: through the center or along the
edge. Most riders chose the latter, figuring the Opportunity for Disaster was lessened
by hugging the right bank. Anywhere else was filled with generous portions of foot-
deep black water. Like a Bush Administration agenda, from the surface it appeared
relatively harmless but you just knew there’d be something unpleasant below. But the
line of choice presented its own unique challenge. The right side was mostly slimy,
traction-less, flat rock. Grab some throttle through here and the rear wheel would
slide in more random directions than the tequila-inspired Twister contestants at Bill
Hanley's apartment back in ’91. I let #94 Kevin Ruckdeschell lead me through this
section and followed him to the off-camber climb up the creek bank. Stranded on the
hillside was #370 Ray Osia, and on my back tire was #26 Todd Corwin. With Todd
behind me, I managed to stall the engine while climbing the winding, rocky off-
camber trails that doubled back in the opposite direction of the route we’d just taken
down the creek. I lost just enough time to see Kevin disappear and hear a very
annoyed Todd behind me. We all caught back up near the end of this section, the
toughest of the course, and promptly cut about a minute off the course. We all went
straight ahead when we should have made a hard right. An honest mistake, but one
that none of us felt like correcting.
Todd worked his way around Kevin and I and eventually #553 Steve Dean. I followed
Kevin and Steve for most of the first lap, which was just the right combination of
moderately tight trails and faster, open woods. The third gear trails flowed easily and
made me remember how much fun racing can be. Not that the tight trails east of the
Mississippi aren't enjoyable, but there were times I’d suspect that, given the chance,
my KX250 might forget that it had three more gears. The Eugene course gave the
transmission a full workout while reinforcing the point that I was, in fact, riding a dirt
bike in Missouri. Rocks they were aplenty.
Kevin was visible through most of the first lap, and we checked into the scoring trailer
just a few seconds apart. After a sprint past the pits and a few cheers from the
Ruckdeschell & Co. clan, we dropped back down into the creek for our first complete
run through nearly the entire length of creek on the property. I seized the moment and
blasted by Kevin in a rocky section, hanging on just long enough to make the pass
stick. Another quarter-second of throttle and I just may have bathed the KX in the
murky water, most definitely blessed with some level of bovine fecal matter (that’s
cow turds to you and me). On my next passes by a particular section of the creek, the
smell was evidence enough that our tasty multi-stomached friends had been
frequent visitors.
The small gap between Kevin and I grew to the point that I couldn't hear his big KTM
thumper, but this silence was no comfort. In the years we've raced together, I've
grown to expect him lurking somewhere behind me like Elston Moore and Steve
Crews used to do back in the day, just waiting to capitalize on the smallest of
mistakes. After finishing the second lap without any major mistakes, I began the third
lap in 3rd place. But fast closing the gap was #373 Derek Kemp, who picked up the
pace in the second half of the race. Just after the nasty off-camber section, he flew by
with ease and pulled away quickly. At the front of the A Sportsman class, Steve Dean
took over first place on the previous lap and was now leading to begin Lap 3. Todd
Corwin dropped out after an overheated rear brake ended his day.
On hand as always was John “Crazy Jesus” Rohleder to document our
misadventures and give us all some extra encouragement. His best video
perspective was surely in the creek, perched a safe distance from what must have
been many cases of Bikes Gone Wild! I did my best to not provide any highlights for
the year-end video. Midway through the third lap I could hear a 4-stroke rapidly closing
in from behind. Was this Kevin? If it was, he had caught one heck of a second wind. I
summoned as much aggression as I had in me, charged ahead and listened as the
thumper’s exhaust note became louder. Finally I pulled to the side and was surprised
to see #76 Gary Mittleberg on his familiar Yamaha. Gary was advanced to the A
Intermediate class this year, which means he started a minute ahead of the A
Sportsman class. I tailed him for a couple miles, following his every move except
those which made him go faster than me. But eventually Gary slowed his pace and
let me lead again.
All throughout this lap I was very interested to know the time. The wristwatch I’d duct-
taped to the handlebars was moving around too much as I slammed through the
rocky course, rendering the display unreadable at any speed. Even though the course
was 10.7 miles in length, I was spending enough time in third gear to suspect I had
an outside chance at 5 laps. Eventually I slowed enough to see that I was about 1:55
into the race with at least 8 miles to go. So I hammered down, tried not to do anything
more stupid than reading a shaky wristwatch in 4th gear and finished up with what
appeared to be a very good ride. No crashes, just one stall and only a minor
whacking of my hand against a tree. All told, it was as close to a flawless ride as I’m
capable.
After the race, Gary Mittleberg suggested that I might have finished inside the top 15,
which seemed a bit optimistic. The best I’d ever finished at Eugene was 20th overall.
Considering the length of time I’d been out of the Missouri racing scene, I was just
happy to ride well and have an exceptionally fun race. Ultimately, Gary’s prediction
was correct. I held on to my 3rd position in A Sportsman and finished 13th overall.
Half a minute behind me in the 14th spot was 200B class winner #149 Ryan
Rohleder, making a strong case for a spot in the 3rd row in 2006. Steve Leivan held
off Caleb Wohletz to take the win and lock up yet another MHSC overall
championship. Will this guy ever slow down? The smart money says, don’t count on it.
September 18, 2005
Ottawa, Illinois
1st of 9 in 30+ A
Racers, ask yourselves: What makes a perfect hare scramble course? Before you
answer, it must be related to the actual course and not, say, the pit girl who
accidentally slipped out of her tube top while mastering the art of the dry break gas
system. Very impressive, yes, but I believe most racers’ responses to this question
would gravitate towards one common theme: if after two hours it takes a crowbar to
pry the smile off your face and you’d do a couple more laps if they’d let you, that’s
perfection. I've seen it in places like White City, Illinois and Newark, Missouri and
such was the case at the Variety Riders summer hare scramble near Ottawa, Illinois.
Ten years had passed since I last visited the Trumbo farm along the Fox River, and
the main difference between then and now was that this time I was racing. In 1995, I’
d broken my foot in Michigan and was hobbling around in a walking cast, wishing I
hadn't wasted half the summer trying to heal. I’ll never forget the reactions to the cast,
mostly simple glances at the hardware attached to my left leg and knowing nods in
my direction. At some point in racers’ lives, all will share in this type of pain. Mine at
that point was more psychological than physical, and the best I could do to deal with
an intense urge to ride was watch District 17 racers tackle the woods on both sides
of I-80. Soon I would be back on the bike, four weeks premature of my doctor’s
recommendation for returning to two wheeled adventures. When the addiction hits,
you just can’t shake it.
But today was race day and I’d spent half of Saturday prepping my tired but capable
KX250 for a couple hours of tight woods. Following the Eugene, Missouri hare
scramble two weeks prior, I changed the gearing back to the stock 13/49 sprocket
combo. East of the Mississippi, 14/50 just wasn't working. I no longer needed the raw
speed to keep up with big-bore four-strokes in wide open Missouri pastures. The
tight trails I’d ridden most of the summer barely required more than three gears.
On the south side of I-80, directly across the road from a fine entertainment
establishment called the Brown Bag Video store, was the Variety Riders staging
area. Had this minor directional detail had been included in the AMA’s American
Motorcyclist event description, I’d guess that few of us would have driven past the
staging area entrance (“I-80 to IL-23; right trn @ PORN SHOP” would be hard to miss,
no?). As it was, I whipped a U-turn and backtracked to the naughty store. In the
signup line I stood behind MX Tech owner and minor off-road celebrity Jeremy Wilkey,
who bears a striking resemblance to cousin-by-marriage and Whistler ’04 partner-in-
crime Jeff Murray. By its nature, Jeremy’s business is as much sales oriented as
technical, which required him to patiently listen while a fellow racer peppered him
with suspension-related questions that could have been answered with a five-minute
web search.
After signup I walked down to the long culvert under I-80 that would return us to the
south side of the interstate. Long was an understatement. I’d been through some
Gusse-style culverts at the Moose Run, but nothing like this. It ran under the entire
width of I-80 and then some, about 100 yards of blackness. A small trickle of water
flowed through the 6-foot square concrete, making the surface slicker than snot on a
rock. At the exit of the culvert were Missouri-style rocks in a creek we would follow
another 100 yards. So much for a rock-less Illinois hare scramble.
The 30+ A class lined up on the second row and blasted around a grass track before
turning sharply into the woods. Several riders overshot the turn and were attempting
to spin back around to the narrow opening as I edged myself in just ahead of all but
one rider. Inside the woods I was in second place, sandwiched between a pair of
guys named Tim - Farrell and Ryan. We stuck together through most of the woods on
the south side of I-80 until one Tim passed me and I got around the other. Still
sandwiched between Tim’s, I cruised through the singletrack with a bit of arm pump.
Loosening my kung fu grip on the handlebars was difficult while navigating narrowly
spaced trees, but eventually I didn’t notice my arms anymore.
About four miles into the six-mile course I blasted through the gravelly underside of
the I-80 bridge to negotiate the course on the north part of the Trumbo farm. The
tightest sections of the course were on this side, some trails cut through thickets that
most people wouldn't attempt to walk through. If there’s such a thing as tiptoeing
through the woods on a motorcycle, a couple of extremely tight turns were just that.
The turning radius of the KX250 was heavily challenged here and I thought for a brief
instant of the good old days of racing my sharp-turning KTM full time. Then I
remembered the crappy front brake. And the harsh front fork. And then I got whacked
in the head by a low hanging tree and forgot about the whole thing (no harm done).
Eventually I came to the long culvert and gently eased the KX into the concrete
square. As expected, it was slick in there and I couldn't see the sides. All I could do
was aim straight at the small square of light at the end of the tunnel. After I popped
out the other side, I steered my way through some wet, basketball-sized rocks
littering a 90-degree turn in the creek bed. It was Missouri all over again, except it
ended about 10 seconds later when I climbed up the bank and back into the trees.
From there it was on to an off-camber hill climb that could be cleared cleanly in 2nd
gear by a skilled rider. And that rider was not me. Only once in my 6 laps was I able to
make a mistake-free run up the side of this hill. And for the spectators lining the hill, I’
d like to think it looked pretty darned impressive. The other five attempts I’d like to
think I looked as if I had ridden a dirt bike sometime during the last 5 years.
Laps two and three were basically repeat performances of the first, all of which were
taking about 23 minutes to complete. The course was in beautiful shape with just
enough moisture to keep down the dust. A small group of C class riders appeared
near the end of the second lap, just after the long concrete culvert, and I made an
attempt at passing a couple of them in the worst of the rocks. It was one of those
moments where you could swear some sort of divine intervention kept the bike on
two wheels, because it certainly felt like I would be taking a rough spill in the creek.
This happened again on the fifth lap, and how I was able to keep the bike on two
wheels through there was just dumb luck. More divine intervention, apparently.
Another near-miss with a lapper came on the 4th lap in a section running parallel to
the Fox River, high up on a bluff and about a foot from the edge. One bad decision
would lead to a nasty tumble down the bluff, with only trees to stop a rider and its
bike. As I came through here, a guy on a 4-stroke was parked just off the trail after
either falling or resting. To my shock and horror, he chose to restart the bike and
jump back on the trail just as I was about to pass by. I usually do my best to not shout
vulgarities at lappers, but in this case I couldn't hold back. He came about 12 inches
from ending my day in a painful heap at the bottom of a steep bluff.
On lap five I began a long, interesting game of Follow the Leader with #109 Kiel
Mueller. He began the race a row ahead of me in the A class, and over the course of
90 minutes I caught up to him. In the next 10 miles we would pass and re-pass each
other about a dozen times. Kiel clearly had more speed than me but he also explored
a lot more of the trail than I did, particularly while on the side of his bike. He’d catch up
and I would let him around, only to see him fall behind again. On the 6th lap he finally
sustained a long enough streak of mistake-free riding to put half a minute between
us. At the finish, the scorers told me I was the only person in my class to get in 6 laps,
which was good enough for 1st place and about 4th overall. The Variety Riders put on
a gem of a race, thanks in part to fantastic weather and some of the best trails in
northern Illinois. I will be back.
Eugene, Missouri
3rd of 10 in A Sportsman
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It’s an oft-repeated theory, generally
conjectured to a college girlfriend as justification for that month-long trip overseas
where you plan to screw your way through Eastern Europe but only manage to get to
third base with a Hungarian named Borbala. This theory could not have been more
true than in my 6-month absence from the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship.
My return to the MHSC was made courtesy of its scheduling the Eugene event over
Labor Day weekend. With an extra day of recovery for the return trip to suburban hell, I
planned a long Missouri weekend with old friends along a familiar theme: abuse of
body in the name of fun.
On Friday I met up with former MHSC #85 Jeff Wendel at the Berryman Trail in the
Mark Twain National Forest. Now a bicycling specialist, Jeff schooled me in the art of
mountain bike endurance. He is insanely fit. The kind of fitness where you figure he
leg-lifts Volvos before breakfast and squats pool tables over Happy Hour. After three
hours of thrashing, I wondered if I would be able to walk the rest of the weekend while
Jeff sipped a Corona. From there it was on to the Lake St. Louis Triathlon on
Saturday. Make no mistake, I am not a triathlete. If the running portion could be
substituted for something a bit less strenuous, like competitive horseshoes or
Scrabble, I might consider abusing myself to the levels seen that morning. My friend
Jodean, completing the 10K running leg of a three-person relay team, looked to be
having as much fun as a Superdome refugee and she was only doing one-third of the
race.
On Saturday night I hooked up with #791 Matt Sellers in Wentzville, took advantage of
Wendy’s home cooking and loaded up for Eugene on Sunday. Most of the usual
suspects were on hand, including the Ruckdeschell clan from Texas who looked
$3.20/gallon gas prices straight in the eye and said Screw you, we’ll just get
ourselves a second mortgage. Parked next to us was a guy on a poorly running
Honda XR, racing for the first time and asking the usual questions like What happens
if my ungodly heavy pig of a dirt bike doesn't make it up the off-camber climb up the
creek bank, and Why is that guy on the #32 Kawasaki being so insensitive to me and
my motorcycle?
I lined up in the center of the A Sportsman row, which was a straight-line approach to
a hole in the trees where we would enter the woods. My exceptionally slow reflexes
made the Yamaha to my left seem to explode when the 15-second board dropped.
He was a bike length ahead of me before I even moved. The Pythagorean Theorem
was developed more quickly than the time it took me to arrive at the woods. Not
helping matters was being pushed to the outside and entering at the back of the
pack. This narrow section of tightly spaced trees ran beside an old railroad grade
before dumping us back out into the pasture. Inside this section a couple of guys
tangled, allowing a few of us to pass.
After a brief grass track in the pasture, we dropped down into the infamous Creek
from Hell for a quarter-mile of what should be officially named Opportunity for
Disaster. There are two general line choices here: through the center or along the
edge. Most riders chose the latter, figuring the Opportunity for Disaster was lessened
by hugging the right bank. Anywhere else was filled with generous portions of foot-
deep black water. Like a Bush Administration agenda, from the surface it appeared
relatively harmless but you just knew there’d be something unpleasant below. But the
line of choice presented its own unique challenge. The right side was mostly slimy,
traction-less, flat rock. Grab some throttle through here and the rear wheel would
slide in more random directions than the tequila-inspired Twister contestants at Bill
Hanley's apartment back in ’91. I let #94 Kevin Ruckdeschell lead me through this
section and followed him to the off-camber climb up the creek bank. Stranded on the
hillside was #370 Ray Osia, and on my back tire was #26 Todd Corwin. With Todd
behind me, I managed to stall the engine while climbing the winding, rocky off-
camber trails that doubled back in the opposite direction of the route we’d just taken
down the creek. I lost just enough time to see Kevin disappear and hear a very
annoyed Todd behind me. We all caught back up near the end of this section, the
toughest of the course, and promptly cut about a minute off the course. We all went
straight ahead when we should have made a hard right. An honest mistake, but one
that none of us felt like correcting.
Todd worked his way around Kevin and I and eventually #553 Steve Dean. I followed
Kevin and Steve for most of the first lap, which was just the right combination of
moderately tight trails and faster, open woods. The third gear trails flowed easily and
made me remember how much fun racing can be. Not that the tight trails east of the
Mississippi aren't enjoyable, but there were times I’d suspect that, given the chance,
my KX250 might forget that it had three more gears. The Eugene course gave the
transmission a full workout while reinforcing the point that I was, in fact, riding a dirt
bike in Missouri. Rocks they were aplenty.
Kevin was visible through most of the first lap, and we checked into the scoring trailer
just a few seconds apart. After a sprint past the pits and a few cheers from the
Ruckdeschell & Co. clan, we dropped back down into the creek for our first complete
run through nearly the entire length of creek on the property. I seized the moment and
blasted by Kevin in a rocky section, hanging on just long enough to make the pass
stick. Another quarter-second of throttle and I just may have bathed the KX in the
murky water, most definitely blessed with some level of bovine fecal matter (that’s
cow turds to you and me). On my next passes by a particular section of the creek, the
smell was evidence enough that our tasty multi-stomached friends had been
frequent visitors.
The small gap between Kevin and I grew to the point that I couldn't hear his big KTM
thumper, but this silence was no comfort. In the years we've raced together, I've
grown to expect him lurking somewhere behind me like Elston Moore and Steve
Crews used to do back in the day, just waiting to capitalize on the smallest of
mistakes. After finishing the second lap without any major mistakes, I began the third
lap in 3rd place. But fast closing the gap was #373 Derek Kemp, who picked up the
pace in the second half of the race. Just after the nasty off-camber section, he flew by
with ease and pulled away quickly. At the front of the A Sportsman class, Steve Dean
took over first place on the previous lap and was now leading to begin Lap 3. Todd
Corwin dropped out after an overheated rear brake ended his day.
On hand as always was John “Crazy Jesus” Rohleder to document our
misadventures and give us all some extra encouragement. His best video
perspective was surely in the creek, perched a safe distance from what must have
been many cases of Bikes Gone Wild! I did my best to not provide any highlights for
the year-end video. Midway through the third lap I could hear a 4-stroke rapidly closing
in from behind. Was this Kevin? If it was, he had caught one heck of a second wind. I
summoned as much aggression as I had in me, charged ahead and listened as the
thumper’s exhaust note became louder. Finally I pulled to the side and was surprised
to see #76 Gary Mittleberg on his familiar Yamaha. Gary was advanced to the A
Intermediate class this year, which means he started a minute ahead of the A
Sportsman class. I tailed him for a couple miles, following his every move except
those which made him go faster than me. But eventually Gary slowed his pace and
let me lead again.
All throughout this lap I was very interested to know the time. The wristwatch I’d duct-
taped to the handlebars was moving around too much as I slammed through the
rocky course, rendering the display unreadable at any speed. Even though the course
was 10.7 miles in length, I was spending enough time in third gear to suspect I had
an outside chance at 5 laps. Eventually I slowed enough to see that I was about 1:55
into the race with at least 8 miles to go. So I hammered down, tried not to do anything
more stupid than reading a shaky wristwatch in 4th gear and finished up with what
appeared to be a very good ride. No crashes, just one stall and only a minor
whacking of my hand against a tree. All told, it was as close to a flawless ride as I’m
capable.
After the race, Gary Mittleberg suggested that I might have finished inside the top 15,
which seemed a bit optimistic. The best I’d ever finished at Eugene was 20th overall.
Considering the length of time I’d been out of the Missouri racing scene, I was just
happy to ride well and have an exceptionally fun race. Ultimately, Gary’s prediction
was correct. I held on to my 3rd position in A Sportsman and finished 13th overall.
Half a minute behind me in the 14th spot was 200B class winner #149 Ryan
Rohleder, making a strong case for a spot in the 3rd row in 2006. Steve Leivan held
off Caleb Wohletz to take the win and lock up yet another MHSC overall
championship. Will this guy ever slow down? The smart money says, don’t count on it.
September 18, 2005
Ottawa, Illinois
1st of 9 in 30+ A
Racers, ask yourselves: What makes a perfect hare scramble course? Before you
answer, it must be related to the actual course and not, say, the pit girl who
accidentally slipped out of her tube top while mastering the art of the dry break gas
system. Very impressive, yes, but I believe most racers’ responses to this question
would gravitate towards one common theme: if after two hours it takes a crowbar to
pry the smile off your face and you’d do a couple more laps if they’d let you, that’s
perfection. I've seen it in places like White City, Illinois and Newark, Missouri and
such was the case at the Variety Riders summer hare scramble near Ottawa, Illinois.
Ten years had passed since I last visited the Trumbo farm along the Fox River, and
the main difference between then and now was that this time I was racing. In 1995, I’
d broken my foot in Michigan and was hobbling around in a walking cast, wishing I
hadn't wasted half the summer trying to heal. I’ll never forget the reactions to the cast,
mostly simple glances at the hardware attached to my left leg and knowing nods in
my direction. At some point in racers’ lives, all will share in this type of pain. Mine at
that point was more psychological than physical, and the best I could do to deal with
an intense urge to ride was watch District 17 racers tackle the woods on both sides
of I-80. Soon I would be back on the bike, four weeks premature of my doctor’s
recommendation for returning to two wheeled adventures. When the addiction hits,
you just can’t shake it.
But today was race day and I’d spent half of Saturday prepping my tired but capable
KX250 for a couple hours of tight woods. Following the Eugene, Missouri hare
scramble two weeks prior, I changed the gearing back to the stock 13/49 sprocket
combo. East of the Mississippi, 14/50 just wasn't working. I no longer needed the raw
speed to keep up with big-bore four-strokes in wide open Missouri pastures. The
tight trails I’d ridden most of the summer barely required more than three gears.
On the south side of I-80, directly across the road from a fine entertainment
establishment called the Brown Bag Video store, was the Variety Riders staging
area. Had this minor directional detail had been included in the AMA’s American
Motorcyclist event description, I’d guess that few of us would have driven past the
staging area entrance (“I-80 to IL-23; right trn @ PORN SHOP” would be hard to miss,
no?). As it was, I whipped a U-turn and backtracked to the naughty store. In the
signup line I stood behind MX Tech owner and minor off-road celebrity Jeremy Wilkey,
who bears a striking resemblance to cousin-by-marriage and Whistler ’04 partner-in-
crime Jeff Murray. By its nature, Jeremy’s business is as much sales oriented as
technical, which required him to patiently listen while a fellow racer peppered him
with suspension-related questions that could have been answered with a five-minute
web search.
After signup I walked down to the long culvert under I-80 that would return us to the
south side of the interstate. Long was an understatement. I’d been through some
Gusse-style culverts at the Moose Run, but nothing like this. It ran under the entire
width of I-80 and then some, about 100 yards of blackness. A small trickle of water
flowed through the 6-foot square concrete, making the surface slicker than snot on a
rock. At the exit of the culvert were Missouri-style rocks in a creek we would follow
another 100 yards. So much for a rock-less Illinois hare scramble.
The 30+ A class lined up on the second row and blasted around a grass track before
turning sharply into the woods. Several riders overshot the turn and were attempting
to spin back around to the narrow opening as I edged myself in just ahead of all but
one rider. Inside the woods I was in second place, sandwiched between a pair of
guys named Tim - Farrell and Ryan. We stuck together through most of the woods on
the south side of I-80 until one Tim passed me and I got around the other. Still
sandwiched between Tim’s, I cruised through the singletrack with a bit of arm pump.
Loosening my kung fu grip on the handlebars was difficult while navigating narrowly
spaced trees, but eventually I didn’t notice my arms anymore.
About four miles into the six-mile course I blasted through the gravelly underside of
the I-80 bridge to negotiate the course on the north part of the Trumbo farm. The
tightest sections of the course were on this side, some trails cut through thickets that
most people wouldn't attempt to walk through. If there’s such a thing as tiptoeing
through the woods on a motorcycle, a couple of extremely tight turns were just that.
The turning radius of the KX250 was heavily challenged here and I thought for a brief
instant of the good old days of racing my sharp-turning KTM full time. Then I
remembered the crappy front brake. And the harsh front fork. And then I got whacked
in the head by a low hanging tree and forgot about the whole thing (no harm done).
Eventually I came to the long culvert and gently eased the KX into the concrete
square. As expected, it was slick in there and I couldn't see the sides. All I could do
was aim straight at the small square of light at the end of the tunnel. After I popped
out the other side, I steered my way through some wet, basketball-sized rocks
littering a 90-degree turn in the creek bed. It was Missouri all over again, except it
ended about 10 seconds later when I climbed up the bank and back into the trees.
From there it was on to an off-camber hill climb that could be cleared cleanly in 2nd
gear by a skilled rider. And that rider was not me. Only once in my 6 laps was I able to
make a mistake-free run up the side of this hill. And for the spectators lining the hill, I’
d like to think it looked pretty darned impressive. The other five attempts I’d like to
think I looked as if I had ridden a dirt bike sometime during the last 5 years.
Laps two and three were basically repeat performances of the first, all of which were
taking about 23 minutes to complete. The course was in beautiful shape with just
enough moisture to keep down the dust. A small group of C class riders appeared
near the end of the second lap, just after the long concrete culvert, and I made an
attempt at passing a couple of them in the worst of the rocks. It was one of those
moments where you could swear some sort of divine intervention kept the bike on
two wheels, because it certainly felt like I would be taking a rough spill in the creek.
This happened again on the fifth lap, and how I was able to keep the bike on two
wheels through there was just dumb luck. More divine intervention, apparently.
Another near-miss with a lapper came on the 4th lap in a section running parallel to
the Fox River, high up on a bluff and about a foot from the edge. One bad decision
would lead to a nasty tumble down the bluff, with only trees to stop a rider and its
bike. As I came through here, a guy on a 4-stroke was parked just off the trail after
either falling or resting. To my shock and horror, he chose to restart the bike and
jump back on the trail just as I was about to pass by. I usually do my best to not shout
vulgarities at lappers, but in this case I couldn't hold back. He came about 12 inches
from ending my day in a painful heap at the bottom of a steep bluff.
On lap five I began a long, interesting game of Follow the Leader with #109 Kiel
Mueller. He began the race a row ahead of me in the A class, and over the course of
90 minutes I caught up to him. In the next 10 miles we would pass and re-pass each
other about a dozen times. Kiel clearly had more speed than me but he also explored
a lot more of the trail than I did, particularly while on the side of his bike. He’d catch up
and I would let him around, only to see him fall behind again. On the 6th lap he finally
sustained a long enough streak of mistake-free riding to put half a minute between
us. At the finish, the scorers told me I was the only person in my class to get in 6 laps,
which was good enough for 1st place and about 4th overall. The Variety Riders put on
a gem of a race, thanks in part to fantastic weather and some of the best trails in
northern Illinois. I will be back.
Eugene, Missouri
Ottawa, Illinois
Ottawa, Illinois
