| 2007 Race Reports |
March 11, 2007
Prophetstown, Illinois
DNF
The half-full soda can flew through the air in front of my helmet, falling harmlessly to
the ground below its intended target, contents slowly emptying into the sand. The
aluminum projectile had left the hand of Mr. Bill Gusse a half-second prior, a
message to riders that no one – not a soul – would be permitted so much as a half-
wheel-length advantage over anyone else on the starting line. When Mr. Gusse
sacrifices a perfectly good beverage to express himself, people listen. The line
remained straight.
Hibernation was over.
Between December 2006 and February 2007 we had, in Northern Illinois, what is
called Winter. Or as I call it, Three Months of No Riding. The theory of global warming
seemed an impossibility during that time, as I awoke one February morning to minus-
8 degrees Fahrenheit and hallucinated my way to the train station a ½ mile down the
street. I shoveled three-foot snowdrifts inside city limits. I witnessed snowfall when the
outside temperature was 5 degrees…but how?
Both my bikes sat idle during this time, as my one chance to ride in the milder climate
of Missouri came and went when an ice storm hit St. Louis the weekend I’d been
contemplating the 300-mile drive. Even though the spring thaw was still in process, it
was time to race.
The last time I'd raced on frozen ground was 11 years before near the town of
Washburn, Illinois, where my parade lap took so long that the race had already started
when I finally made it around the course. Prophetstown was much more forgiving.
After a 2-kick start, I was comfortably in the middle of the pack of Pro's and various A
classes, eating bits of sloppy grease (is there any other kind?) and the occasional
silty sand that makes P-town rideable in most conditions. Less than half a mile from
the start was a sharp right hand turn which cut across a small berm forming the
outline of the beaten path. All dirt was solidly frozen in this area, one of the lower spots
of the course. While walking through this section during the C-class race, riders were
banging into each other here, spinning tires while going nowhere, and generally
cursing their way up a very moderate incline. Scoping out this section was my single
act intelligence for the day, gaining me a couple positions as I squared the corner and
cut to the inside for a more direct approach to the frozen berm.
One of the more unusual sights in my pre-race scouting was remnants from what
appeared to be piles of snow cleared inside the woods, presumably by a Bobcat or
similar device. As usual, Mr Gusse again proved what great lengths he will go in order
to make a race happen. Too much snow? No worries, says Mr Gusse, we'll just clear
it out a bit. I'd wanted nothing to do with the previous weekend's race in 30 degree
temps, instead focusing my productivity on adding ridiculously loud air horns to my
Chevy Blazer. Today, what remained of the snow had been cleared earlier by the
previous racers.
While the snow wasn't a factor, sections of frozen mud kept the back end of my KX250
swinging side to side like drunk Germans on the dance floor of the Chicago Brauhaus
in Lincoln Square. At one point early in the race, the rear wheel, performing its drunken
dance, slammed into a tree on the chain side. Following this was grinding noises in
the chain/sprocket region. I backed off the throttle and by some miracle these
unpleasant sounds disappeared a few seconds later. Later in the race I would
discover what really happened.
The riders spread out quickly on the first and second laps, and I found myself in a
small group alternately passing and re-passing each other as we all tumbled in
various slippery sections. My best show for the non-spectators in the woods was a 4th
gear high-side in a wide trail just after the tricky frozen berm. Overconfidence kills, or at
least makes you wish for more throttle control while you're wondering if you'll ever stop
sliding on your hands and knees. Thirty feet later the KX and I came to a halt, me in
front thanks to a forward ejection; the bike behind me with a slightly bent brake lever.
A few solid laps later, the trail had changed very little. Photographer John Gasso was
on hand to capture a few of my awkward moments in the sand. Thankfully, John
avoided the short motocross track, which after a couple days of direct sunlight was
rapidly turning to soup. I rolled through there with the speed of Bill Slowski and the
coordination of Eddie the Eagle.
My race was shortened by one lap when my chain jumped off the rear sprocket.
Naturally this occurred in the most inopportune spot on the course, a short off-camber
climb out of a ravine. Riders behind me could barely squeeze by, where just ahead
was road kill along the trail. The exact species of animal was unknown, but its spring
thawing was well underway. After a minute of fiddling with the chain, I climbed out of
the ravine, dumped the clutch in a sandy straight section and felt the chain jump off the
sprocket again. This time I could see that the bent chain guide had ground off enough
of the sprocket teeth that any aggressive use of throttle would be futile. I eased the KX
through the rest of the course, finished the lap and called it quits. The thought of one
more lap of finessing the bike through sand and frozen ground wasn't all that
appealing. But it was a good tune-up after one long, cold winter.
March 25, 2007
Hooppole, Illinois
2nd of 8 in Vet A
Lined up as one rider in a row of 40, finding your place in the first corner of a hare
scramble is not easy. At Hooppole, the starting line was located in one of several
barren fields of which we’d see plenty during the race. I’d chosen a direct line to the
first corner and arrived safely in what I thought was the top half of the row of riders.
Then came the second wave. These were the racers who lined up far to the left and
made the right-hand corner a wide, fast sweeper, flying by me on the outside and
tearing a path towards the woods. So much for decent starts.
Five minutes before, #401 Will Heitman showed up on the starting line with a new
KTM four-stroke and a message: roosting on the parade lap is not cool. Apparently I
had thrown a few mud cakes his way during practice, as about 100 other guys had
done to me. By the time I’d reached the starting line, my #407 on my front number
plate was barely readable.
Inside the woods, I fell in line with about 15 other guys in a slow train winding through
narrow trails. Like much of the terrain in this part of Northwestern Illinois, black dirt
was intermixed with sandy sections. We soon found some deep sand and whoops,
then more tight woods, and finally a full-throttle field in front of the staging area.
Bystanders cheered the first wave of riders to dump clutches and open throttles. I’m
sure a 70 mph pass across a flat field looks simple enough from a distance – just
turn the throttle all the way to its stop and hang on, right?
Sort of.
The first complication in this simple concept is the fact that at these speeds the rear
tire hops from one dirt clod to another, never really planting itself on much of anything.
The front wheel would probably jerk the handlebars all the way to the steering stops in
about 1/10th of a second if not for strong arms and assistance from a steering
damper. Then there is the sheer force of a 70 mph wind against helmet and goggles.
In these instances, the goggle’s foam compresses from half an inch thick to about
half a millimeter and I can usually feel my eyelashes against the inside of the goggle
lens. And finally, there is the varying terrain of sand and black dirt. The first half of this
run next to the staging area was sandy, which caused the engine to struggle a bit to
reach a compromise with the rear wheel in its attempt to reach top speed. When sand
turned to black dirt, the KX gained 10 mph in about half a second. Like hyper-drive in
the Millennium Falcon, three words always come to mind in these situations: “Punch
it, Chewy!”
Next up was a 90-degree left turn into a grass pasture and another full throttle dash to
the other side. Once again inside the woods, the trees narrowed to one of the tightest
sections on the course. One downside to my fancy new Fox knee braces was my right
handguard kept bumping against the thigh extension part of the guard whenever I
turned the handlebars fully to the right. Naturally, this was due mostly to my lack of
bike maintenance, as over the last couple years the metal handguard has gradually
bent itself downward to the point that it doesn’t really protect much at all. Now the
handguard’s primary purpose was to annoy me, and it this was surprisingly effective.
Eventually the woods ended with another series of open fields that led us back to
where we’d started. While the first full-throttle field had been a soybean field last year,
these fields were formerly corn. Today they were a chisel-plowed, rutted mess that
was claiming many bikes and bodies. Mixed in was a mud hole and a wet gully
crossing. Somewhere here, #401 Will Heitman’s rear wheel found an old piece of
fence that halted his progress for a couple minutes. Little did I know, he’d handed over
the +30A lead to me while he and a spectator unwrapped the fence wire.
Several laps later, Will caught up and passed me in the pasture. In the process, he
paid me back for my parade lap roosting by kicking up a piece of dirt that smacked me
in a place where an athletic cup would have done a lot of good. It was the first time in
my racing career I’d wished I was sitting instead of standing.
At this point my lack of riding during the frigid Chicago winter was starting to hurt. I was
tired. Along with unseasonably warm temperatures, I was also a bit warm. The open
fields continued to be scary throughout the race, particularly the rough one leading up
to the starting area. Near the end of the race, I was overtaking two riders while pinning
the throttle to its max, one guy on my left and the other on my right, hoping to beat them
to the woods. The closer I came to passing the riders, the more they both converged
into my path. Like Han Solo piloting the Millennium Falcon through the asteroid-
monster’s teeth in The Empire Strikes Back, I squeezed through before the gap
closed, then threw the KX into hyper-drive and shot into the woods.
The last few laps, the gully separating two corn fields was deteriorating badly. Course
workers had thrown down a pallet in the center, which became slick as ice but
remained the best line. The only option was to line up straight, gather more speed
than seemed safe, skate across the pallet and slam the bike into the slimy clay bank
on the other side. It worked each time – barely.
When the race finally ended, I was as tired as I’d been on a motorcycle in long, long
time. Will Heitman took the class win and I somehow mustered enough energy to
hang on for second place. All I could do was load the bike and gear into my truck and
drive home with a Mountain Dew to keep me awake. The course was fast, choppy, and
fun as ever.
Prophetstown, Illinois
DNF
The half-full soda can flew through the air in front of my helmet, falling harmlessly to
the ground below its intended target, contents slowly emptying into the sand. The
aluminum projectile had left the hand of Mr. Bill Gusse a half-second prior, a
message to riders that no one – not a soul – would be permitted so much as a half-
wheel-length advantage over anyone else on the starting line. When Mr. Gusse
sacrifices a perfectly good beverage to express himself, people listen. The line
remained straight.
Hibernation was over.
Between December 2006 and February 2007 we had, in Northern Illinois, what is
called Winter. Or as I call it, Three Months of No Riding. The theory of global warming
seemed an impossibility during that time, as I awoke one February morning to minus-
8 degrees Fahrenheit and hallucinated my way to the train station a ½ mile down the
street. I shoveled three-foot snowdrifts inside city limits. I witnessed snowfall when the
outside temperature was 5 degrees…but how?
Both my bikes sat idle during this time, as my one chance to ride in the milder climate
of Missouri came and went when an ice storm hit St. Louis the weekend I’d been
contemplating the 300-mile drive. Even though the spring thaw was still in process, it
was time to race.
The last time I'd raced on frozen ground was 11 years before near the town of
Washburn, Illinois, where my parade lap took so long that the race had already started
when I finally made it around the course. Prophetstown was much more forgiving.
After a 2-kick start, I was comfortably in the middle of the pack of Pro's and various A
classes, eating bits of sloppy grease (is there any other kind?) and the occasional
silty sand that makes P-town rideable in most conditions. Less than half a mile from
the start was a sharp right hand turn which cut across a small berm forming the
outline of the beaten path. All dirt was solidly frozen in this area, one of the lower spots
of the course. While walking through this section during the C-class race, riders were
banging into each other here, spinning tires while going nowhere, and generally
cursing their way up a very moderate incline. Scoping out this section was my single
act intelligence for the day, gaining me a couple positions as I squared the corner and
cut to the inside for a more direct approach to the frozen berm.
One of the more unusual sights in my pre-race scouting was remnants from what
appeared to be piles of snow cleared inside the woods, presumably by a Bobcat or
similar device. As usual, Mr Gusse again proved what great lengths he will go in order
to make a race happen. Too much snow? No worries, says Mr Gusse, we'll just clear
it out a bit. I'd wanted nothing to do with the previous weekend's race in 30 degree
temps, instead focusing my productivity on adding ridiculously loud air horns to my
Chevy Blazer. Today, what remained of the snow had been cleared earlier by the
previous racers.
While the snow wasn't a factor, sections of frozen mud kept the back end of my KX250
swinging side to side like drunk Germans on the dance floor of the Chicago Brauhaus
in Lincoln Square. At one point early in the race, the rear wheel, performing its drunken
dance, slammed into a tree on the chain side. Following this was grinding noises in
the chain/sprocket region. I backed off the throttle and by some miracle these
unpleasant sounds disappeared a few seconds later. Later in the race I would
discover what really happened.
The riders spread out quickly on the first and second laps, and I found myself in a
small group alternately passing and re-passing each other as we all tumbled in
various slippery sections. My best show for the non-spectators in the woods was a 4th
gear high-side in a wide trail just after the tricky frozen berm. Overconfidence kills, or at
least makes you wish for more throttle control while you're wondering if you'll ever stop
sliding on your hands and knees. Thirty feet later the KX and I came to a halt, me in
front thanks to a forward ejection; the bike behind me with a slightly bent brake lever.
A few solid laps later, the trail had changed very little. Photographer John Gasso was
on hand to capture a few of my awkward moments in the sand. Thankfully, John
avoided the short motocross track, which after a couple days of direct sunlight was
rapidly turning to soup. I rolled through there with the speed of Bill Slowski and the
coordination of Eddie the Eagle.
My race was shortened by one lap when my chain jumped off the rear sprocket.
Naturally this occurred in the most inopportune spot on the course, a short off-camber
climb out of a ravine. Riders behind me could barely squeeze by, where just ahead
was road kill along the trail. The exact species of animal was unknown, but its spring
thawing was well underway. After a minute of fiddling with the chain, I climbed out of
the ravine, dumped the clutch in a sandy straight section and felt the chain jump off the
sprocket again. This time I could see that the bent chain guide had ground off enough
of the sprocket teeth that any aggressive use of throttle would be futile. I eased the KX
through the rest of the course, finished the lap and called it quits. The thought of one
more lap of finessing the bike through sand and frozen ground wasn't all that
appealing. But it was a good tune-up after one long, cold winter.
March 25, 2007
Hooppole, Illinois
2nd of 8 in Vet A
Lined up as one rider in a row of 40, finding your place in the first corner of a hare
scramble is not easy. At Hooppole, the starting line was located in one of several
barren fields of which we’d see plenty during the race. I’d chosen a direct line to the
first corner and arrived safely in what I thought was the top half of the row of riders.
Then came the second wave. These were the racers who lined up far to the left and
made the right-hand corner a wide, fast sweeper, flying by me on the outside and
tearing a path towards the woods. So much for decent starts.
Five minutes before, #401 Will Heitman showed up on the starting line with a new
KTM four-stroke and a message: roosting on the parade lap is not cool. Apparently I
had thrown a few mud cakes his way during practice, as about 100 other guys had
done to me. By the time I’d reached the starting line, my #407 on my front number
plate was barely readable.
Inside the woods, I fell in line with about 15 other guys in a slow train winding through
narrow trails. Like much of the terrain in this part of Northwestern Illinois, black dirt
was intermixed with sandy sections. We soon found some deep sand and whoops,
then more tight woods, and finally a full-throttle field in front of the staging area.
Bystanders cheered the first wave of riders to dump clutches and open throttles. I’m
sure a 70 mph pass across a flat field looks simple enough from a distance – just
turn the throttle all the way to its stop and hang on, right?
Sort of.
The first complication in this simple concept is the fact that at these speeds the rear
tire hops from one dirt clod to another, never really planting itself on much of anything.
The front wheel would probably jerk the handlebars all the way to the steering stops in
about 1/10th of a second if not for strong arms and assistance from a steering
damper. Then there is the sheer force of a 70 mph wind against helmet and goggles.
In these instances, the goggle’s foam compresses from half an inch thick to about
half a millimeter and I can usually feel my eyelashes against the inside of the goggle
lens. And finally, there is the varying terrain of sand and black dirt. The first half of this
run next to the staging area was sandy, which caused the engine to struggle a bit to
reach a compromise with the rear wheel in its attempt to reach top speed. When sand
turned to black dirt, the KX gained 10 mph in about half a second. Like hyper-drive in
the Millennium Falcon, three words always come to mind in these situations: “Punch
it, Chewy!”
Next up was a 90-degree left turn into a grass pasture and another full throttle dash to
the other side. Once again inside the woods, the trees narrowed to one of the tightest
sections on the course. One downside to my fancy new Fox knee braces was my right
handguard kept bumping against the thigh extension part of the guard whenever I
turned the handlebars fully to the right. Naturally, this was due mostly to my lack of
bike maintenance, as over the last couple years the metal handguard has gradually
bent itself downward to the point that it doesn’t really protect much at all. Now the
handguard’s primary purpose was to annoy me, and it this was surprisingly effective.
Eventually the woods ended with another series of open fields that led us back to
where we’d started. While the first full-throttle field had been a soybean field last year,
these fields were formerly corn. Today they were a chisel-plowed, rutted mess that
was claiming many bikes and bodies. Mixed in was a mud hole and a wet gully
crossing. Somewhere here, #401 Will Heitman’s rear wheel found an old piece of
fence that halted his progress for a couple minutes. Little did I know, he’d handed over
the +30A lead to me while he and a spectator unwrapped the fence wire.
Several laps later, Will caught up and passed me in the pasture. In the process, he
paid me back for my parade lap roosting by kicking up a piece of dirt that smacked me
in a place where an athletic cup would have done a lot of good. It was the first time in
my racing career I’d wished I was sitting instead of standing.
At this point my lack of riding during the frigid Chicago winter was starting to hurt. I was
tired. Along with unseasonably warm temperatures, I was also a bit warm. The open
fields continued to be scary throughout the race, particularly the rough one leading up
to the starting area. Near the end of the race, I was overtaking two riders while pinning
the throttle to its max, one guy on my left and the other on my right, hoping to beat them
to the woods. The closer I came to passing the riders, the more they both converged
into my path. Like Han Solo piloting the Millennium Falcon through the asteroid-
monster’s teeth in The Empire Strikes Back, I squeezed through before the gap
closed, then threw the KX into hyper-drive and shot into the woods.
The last few laps, the gully separating two corn fields was deteriorating badly. Course
workers had thrown down a pallet in the center, which became slick as ice but
remained the best line. The only option was to line up straight, gather more speed
than seemed safe, skate across the pallet and slam the bike into the slimy clay bank
on the other side. It worked each time – barely.
When the race finally ended, I was as tired as I’d been on a motorcycle in long, long
time. Will Heitman took the class win and I somehow mustered enough energy to
hang on for second place. All I could do was load the bike and gear into my truck and
drive home with a Mountain Dew to keep me awake. The course was fast, choppy, and
fun as ever.
Prophetstown, Illinois
Hooppole, Illinois
Hooppole, Illinois
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