| 2007 Race Reports |
June 3, 2007
Moose Run
Morrison, Illinois
The following statement about the 2007 Moose Run may surprise, or even shock,
regular riders of this, the toughest off-road race in the Midwest: I was looking forward
to it. Pick up your jaw from your keyboard, wipe the coffee out of your nostrils, clean the
Doritos off your monitor and listen to the reason: the weather gods seemed to have
cooperated for the third year in a row. A week in advance of Mr. Bill Gusse’s annual
test of log tolerance, my eyes were glued to the Intellicast view of meteorological
happenings over the greater Morrison, Illinois area. Curious coworkers paused to ask
why my office computer screen appeared permanently fixed on Doppler radar images.
I ended phone conversations if the animation loop flashed any semblance of color
over Western Illinois. At home, my computer’s monitor was nearly burned in with the
outline of the Springfield radar map and the 7-day Morrison forecast.
I liked what I saw.
The previous two versions of the Moose Run were relatively dry, so much that in 2006 I
actually finished the race while marveling at how difficult the course would have been
after a rain. Impossible, actually. Dry dirt at least afforded a good run at most of the log
obstacles, which was key because they were all theoretically doable if the rains
stayed away for several days leading up to the race. Theoretically.
For 128 of the 130 miles from my place to the Bike Barn race headquarters, I saw
thousands of acres of freshly emerging corn and soybeans growing in dry soil. I saw
visions of completing two long, tiring laps, as I'd done the previous year. I saw lakes in
corn fields at mile marker 35 on Interstate 88. Huh?? Two miles ahead of the
Morrison exit, and there it was: water. No way. It couldn't be – Doppler doesn't lie! The
nice lady at the Bike Barn entrance apologized for the rain but offered that one of the
Rock Creek crossings had been cut from the course. Apparently storms had
ambushed the Morrison area under the cover of night and sleepy time at Casa del
Stichnoth, and I’d missed that portion of the radar animation loop. Damn You,
Doppler!!
Not that it would have kept me from attending, had I known the ground would be wet,
as I’m a sucker for a once-a-year flogging on the dirt bike. Still, ominous black clouds
to the West were bringing the same kind of dread that golf course managers must
feel when I enter a tee box. This was going to get ugly.
There’s an ancient law of physics that says something about actions creating equal
opposite reactions, which I think is pretty much true and I also believe extends beyond
the physical world. In my case, each act of intelligence generally creates and equal
opposite act of stupidity. I’d smartly taped a tear-off over my roll-offs so that I might
survive the first 30 seconds of the motocross track with goggles still intact. I countered
this by failing to notice I was lined up in the wrong row, well after the 40 or so guys in
my correct row had already staked out their places. The only spot left for me, after I
figured this out, was on the far left side. And I do mean far. My counterpart on the
opposite end of the row was lined up what appeared by my LASIK-burned eyes to be
approximately 450 yards to the south and in a much, much better position for the first
turn. The KX and I would be taking an outside line to what would quickly become
remarkably similar to what you might see from inside your automobile at an automatic
car wash, if the car wash operator replaced the soapy water with black muck.
Standing water on the motocross track didn't stand very long. Most of it was airborne
by the time I rounded the first turn. Three turns later, the lights went out.
I've had many types of mud and water thrown on my goggles, but never in all my years
of racing have I ever ridden completely blind. Usually I’d have a least a small area of
vision to see my way to a point where I could remove my goggles, but this splash of
watery muck completely covered every last square millimeter of my face. I saw
complete blackness. With nothing to do but lock up the brakes and hope not to get run
over, I ripped off my tear-off while 10 bikes screamed by. Another three turns, another
mud bath. Somehow I exited the track with a small amount of clear vision and charged
ahead to the peat bogs.
Mr. Gusse found his merciful side by limiting the peat whoops to just a few hundred
yards. Even in a shortened version, the whoops were still swallowing bikes nearly
whole. Rain began as we entered the woods, spitting just enough sprinkles from the
clouds to turn the already damp dirt into slippery mud. Our first bottleneck came a
couple miles in, with about 20 bikes waiting to take turns at some unseen obstacle
ahead. As I came to a stop, my eyes were burning from what I thought was the
exhaust fumes of the bikes around me. Turns out it was the fumes from my boiling
radiator. Our progress through here was about the same as driving to O’Hare on the
Kennedy Expressway on a Friday afternoon, so after five minutes of sitting, I was
growing impatient. The underbrush was so thick I still couldn't see what obstacle had
ground us all to a halt. Since we were on a narrow trail on the side of a ravine,
dropping down off the trail to the right was a pointless exercise of futility. To the left, I
spotted a bit of an opening in some 6-feet-tall vines and assorted brambles. The
climb through the brush was moderate, and once past the thick stuff I slowly
navigated my way back to the trail. Bottleneck averted.
The largest log on the course came next, a 3-footer that the guy in front of me
launched his bike across with no attempt at actually remaining attached to his bike. I
had stopped about 8 feet shy of the log while waiting for him to pick himself up and
give me a clean shot at it. I popped the clutch like a 15-year-old learning to drive a
stick shift and surprised myself by lofting the front wheel high enough and far enough
to start the teeter totter effect – the skid plate hit the top center of the log, the front end
teetered, the rear wheel tottered and before I knew it, I was over the log. Even the two
guys standing by to help pull bikes and riders over the log were impressed. But it was
a short-lived victory.
The smart things I’d done to that point were all given back another mile or so later. I
took a center line through a water-filled low spot and spent the next 15 minutes
digging myself out. Most of the racers had now caught and passed me, and bike
carnage was everywhere. I saw a guy on the ground, so covered by his bike that only
his helmet was visible. Logs became more frequent, and upcoming obstacles were
easy to spot just by listening to the sounds of screaming engines.
At the railroad tracks where I’d left my gas jug, I topped off the tank, raced along the
tracks, crossed the rocky creek next to a railroad trestle and headed into the toughest
part of the course. Several miles later I saw the face of complete despair, 15 feet
below me on a log jam in Rock Creek. An unfortunate rider had slipped off the side of
the trail and fallen straight down. He was lucky in two ways: the log jam kept him
mostly out of the water and a crew of course workers had just arrived to pull him out,
along with his bike. How, I have no idea.
My next encounter with riders under duress came another couple miles down the trail
on a slippery, grassy hill that enticed unknowing riders to stay to the right at the crest
of the hill. This would have worked fine, had the soil under the grass not been wet,
greasy brown clay. Near the top, my wheels slid off the side of the hill, as did another
rider in front of me, just before we both met thick underbrush. We helped each other
up the hill and, once ready to be on our way, noticed another guy who’d slid off the trail
on the other side of the hill. His bike was sideways on an even steeper slope with
even thicker, taller underbrush the only objects preventing a further slide down the hill.
The guy I’d helped to the top took one look at the situation, kick-started his bike and
rode away. Sometimes, it’s every man for himself. But I couldn't just leave the guy
there. We pushed and dragged his bike to the point he could ride down the hill and
give it another try. Just then, a guy at the bottom of the hill yelled at us, pointing at a
second trail and asking if it would get him up the hill. From our vantage point, the
answer was no. It would get him around the hill without having to scale it. Had I known
that, I’d have been 15 minutes further down the trail.
For the next half hour I’d alternately pass, get passed and re-pass the same two guys.
We eventually all met up at a gully crossing that was about 4 feet deep in water. A
stranded rider was there to explain the depth of the gully – handlebar-high, as
evidenced by his waterlogged engine. We assessed our options, which came down
to this: no way in hell were we going through that gully. By the time we reached this
conclusion, I’d dumped about half my Camelbak’s water into my radiator and really
wasn't interested in abusing the engine further. I was about 3 hours into the race and
clearly this was one I would not be finishing, so the three of us took off for a grassy
field, crossed a fence row and rode around a corn field until we found a road. A half-
mile down the road we could see the pit crew of one of my two new riding partners,
parked at a bridge where the trail crossed the road. They offered me the best bottle of
water I've ever tasted.
We again assessed our options, which consisted of riding for pride or riding back to
the Bike Barn. While we pondered this, one of the “Pit Moms” shouted into the woods
what I presume was the name of her son, pleading for a response. Mind you, nobody
was getting through that gully, which was at least half a mile behind us. But she kept
trying, over and over.
Stupidity breeds, especially in threes, this time coming in the form of our final
decision: continue down the trail. From past experience I guessed we’d have 7 or 8
more miles inside the woods until finishing the 32-mile loop with about 5 miles of
open fields. If we could make it that far, we’d complete a lap, although at that point I
didn't really consider it an actual lap since we’d circumvented a section of trail. From
here, it was all about making it to the finish line. One of the guys in our threesome
was riding a KTM in the 200A class, and I’d already met him somewhere before the
gully detour while we tried to get ourselves dug out of a creek. My other partner was
racing in one of the C classes, which was somewhat remarkable considering he’d
made it this far. Although “far” was all in relative terms. By my estimation, we’d ridden
about 20 miles when we made our decision to continue.
It only got worse. The best way I can envision how such a sadistic piece of trail was
developed is that the Gusse camp must have taken issue with what is now being
billed as the toughest race in the United States: the Red Bull Last Man Standing. This
section was probably less than a mile in length, laid out in early Spring before the
underbrush concealed every square inch of soil, and now completely un-rideable in
June. We were navigating through one side of a ravine, which meant most of the trail
was off-camber, slick, and filled with logs lying at all conceivable angles. Every 100
feet we were off our bikes, lifting them over roots, logs, and assorted trail junk. The
KX250 was in a constant state of near-overheating. After 45 minutes of progressing
about ½ a mile, we could hear voices in the distance and knew we were close...to
something. Then, from behind, we heard a guy yell. He walked up to us in full race
gear and explained that his bike had become wedged between two trees and he
couldn't get it unstuck.
Let me explain this another way: a guy walking through the woods was making faster
progress than the three of us on dirt bikes. Eventually we found a whole 100 yards
without any impossible obstacles and pulled ahead of the guy walking. Then we
heard screaming engines approaching on the trail. The first bike was Jimmy Jarrett,
then Brian Garrahan. Jimmy paused to ask how we were doing. Brian practiced his
vocabulary of colorful metaphors. A guy on a Gas Gas came by, then Jason Thomas.
We were now more than 4 hours into the race and getting lapped by the Pros, on a 32-
mile course.
The voices we’d been hearing were those of the 3rd check crew, who told me I’d
missed them the first time around. I pointed out that it was my first time around. They
assured us the trails became easier from there on. They lied. Me and the 200A guy
eventually left the C rider behind and started making moderate progress. I got ahead
of the 200A guy for awhile, then got stuck in a creek. Eventually we found our way into
the last long section through the center of a relatively water-free creek bed, which I
remembered from the past two years as being one of the tougher tests before the
wide-open grassy fields that ended the course. All the same logs were there, in all the
same ridiculous sizes, heights off the ground, and impossible angles. As with the
previous times I’d fought my way through here, I found myself hung up on the very
same pair of logs, in perfect spacing for my gear shifter to wedge between them. The
grinding sound as I pulled the bike across the logs suggested I’d be bending the
shifter back into shape...again.
I’d had enough. I found an opening in the woods to a bean field and wound my way
around the perimeter until a road showed up. As luck would have it, this road took me
through Fenton and straight back to the Bike Barn. Ryan Moss would later explain this
day perfectly: it was a real Moose Run.
June 24, 2007
Marietta, Illinois
2nd of 3 in Vet A
The past 2 years as a resident District 17 racer have been a homecoming of sorts,
this following my 7-year sabbatical in Missouri. Marietta is one of several racing
venues which, in my formative racing years, did its best to destroy my motorcycle and
my self-respect. My last trip here, in 1999, was for what would be the final enduro
hosted by the Central Illinois Dirt Riders at this location. After a gazillion inches of rain
the week before the race, I got placed in a late row and houred out in the first 7 miles
(it took me two hours to get that far). To add further insult, someone in the staging
area spun their bike hauler sideways in the soggy grass and ran over my bike stand.
In the end, local law enforcement effectively ended all future enduros here by pulling
over riders on road sections. I didn't make it to any road sections, so avoiding a ticket
was about the only good thing that happened that day.
Fast forward to the present, and Marietta looks much the same, both the town and the
staging area where Buckwheat Road dead-ends. Tony Smith and I again partnered
up for the long drive and upon arrival, the staging area was nearly as wet as it was at
the ill-fated enduro. It was no surprise. The previous Friday, I’d furthered my 2007
personal goal of doing a better job combining business and pleasure by taking my
mountain bike along for a client visit in Pekin, about 40 miles from the race site, which
on that day was every bit as slimy as Marietta would be on Sunday. The muddy clay at
Dirksen Park was remarkably similar in form and substance to the muck I’d later pull
off in handfuls from my KX250.
The ATV race was wrapping up as we signed in for the afternoon event. Remember
that scene in the movie Predator, where Arnold Schwarzenegger avoids infrared
detection by submerging himself in mud? That was every ATV racer who crossed the
finish line. Normal humans would see this, turn the car around and leave. But it is The
Addiction that makes people like me and Tony unload the bikes and sign up to race,
knowing full well that ten minutes in the woods is about all it will take for us to
resemble the ATV riders crossing the finish line. Yet we race anyway, for The Addiction
is a powerful affliction.
I didn't plan on adding 20 pounds of mud to my bike by riding a practice lap, but oh,
the temptation…I cruised around the starting area for a couple minutes, deliberating,
then gave in and dropped into the woods behind a group of riders. To my surprise, the
ATV’s had cleared away the sloppiest few inches of topsoil, leaving behind firm clay.
That still left plenty of mud in the singletrack sections, one of which included a narrow,
rocky path around a ravine. The foliage through here was thick, and combined with a
rock ledge formation about 20 feet high, the whole atmosphere of the section was
dark and eerie.
The bikes and riders who sat out the practice lap were easy to spot in the starting
area. In the second row, the usual Vet A and +40A riders were lined to my left and
right. Only Will Heitman and Shawn Mineart, in competition for series points, joined
me in the Vet A class. Directly in front of me was a bike-sized gap in the row of A and
AA riders, whose occupant had apparently made a run back to the pits. As a prank,
one of his pit crew asked me to fill his vacant spot, which happened to be one of the
primo positions in the front row. I was a reluctant participant, figuring with my luck,
whoever’s spot I was taking was probably much bigger, stronger and meaner than I
was. Will Heitman gave me an “Are you crazy?” shrug as I waited for the guy to return.
As it turned out, I had taken the spot of a youngster named Bren Raschke, who barely
looked old enough to be racing in the adult classes. He caught on to our little joke
quickly and I moved back into my row.
I got off the line quickly and jumped ahead of Will and Shawn at the first turn, then
followed a couple of riders through first mile of the course. The Marietta terrain is full
of ravines that eventually lead to the Spoon River, and I think we rode up, down,
across and through each of them. One in particular, an uphill near the staging area,
was polished down to clay worthy of throwing pots.
The rocky off-camber section near the rock formation was trouble just waiting to
happen. I didn't see anyone slide off the trail and down into the ravine, but photos
would later show that at least one person did just that, and it took four strong men to
pull out the bike. The couple hundred yards following this section was a reminder of
Missouri riding, complete with slippery flat rock. It was here that Will Heitman first
caught up to me on a bike that sounded plain angry. After exiting the off-camber
singletrack, the engine either tamed itself or Will fell behind again, because I didn't
hear it again until the lap was nearly complete. He pushed me hard until finding his
way around me just before the pasture where we’d started the race.
Any chance of catching Will ended when I followed a guy into a short section that may
have actually been cut from the course due to its wetness. We were some of the first
bikes through this section, which didn't make any sense on the second lap. Making
even less sense was my path up the side of a ravine that saw me helplessly spinning
my rear wheel on a small tree across the trail. At least 10 guys passed me while I took
another stab at the hill, and Will gained about a minute. I never did ride that short
section again.
As 15-minute laps clicked by, I did my best to entertain a group of spectators in a low,
open area next to the Spoon River. The course had us flying through the low area in
fourth gear, then turning into a moderately steep hill with flat rocks embedded in its
face. In third gear, the rocks spat my rear wheel left, then right, then left again. If there
is such a thing as a vertical tail whip, I think I did it. Another set of spectators, a group
of teenage girls, cheered each time I passed. Whatever they were shouting didn't have
much to do with me, but I didn't mind the mistaken identity. I needed the
encouragement.
I found Will again in the final laps, after he stalled his KTM at the bottom of a slippery
hill. This was the same hill Tony and I had scouted before the race and wondered
how we’d get our bikes stopped in time for the 90-degree left turn at the bottom.
Beyond the 10-foot area in which to make the turn was a large gully. Very ugly
possibilities there. Will recovered within another lap and passed me again at the
exact spot he’d made his earlier pass. On the same lap, the AA class made its way
around the 3-mile course and began lapping me, first Zack Sulzberger and then the
usual group of fast guys including Jeremy Smith, who suggested I move out of his
path in that special way only he can.
On the last lap, Will took a chance trying to pass Shawn Minnaert for the lead and
found himself sideways in a ravine. Shawn got away and I squeezed by for 2nd place.
Zack Sulzberger, who I had spotted driving the Sulzberger Racing trailer through the
heart of Chicago’s Loop two weeks prior (what are the odds?), took the overall win. My
KX250 was really not much muddier than any other wet ride in Central Illinois trails, a
testament to good trail design that was both challenging and fun.
Moose Run
Morrison, Illinois
The following statement about the 2007 Moose Run may surprise, or even shock,
regular riders of this, the toughest off-road race in the Midwest: I was looking forward
to it. Pick up your jaw from your keyboard, wipe the coffee out of your nostrils, clean the
Doritos off your monitor and listen to the reason: the weather gods seemed to have
cooperated for the third year in a row. A week in advance of Mr. Bill Gusse’s annual
test of log tolerance, my eyes were glued to the Intellicast view of meteorological
happenings over the greater Morrison, Illinois area. Curious coworkers paused to ask
why my office computer screen appeared permanently fixed on Doppler radar images.
I ended phone conversations if the animation loop flashed any semblance of color
over Western Illinois. At home, my computer’s monitor was nearly burned in with the
outline of the Springfield radar map and the 7-day Morrison forecast.
I liked what I saw.
The previous two versions of the Moose Run were relatively dry, so much that in 2006 I
actually finished the race while marveling at how difficult the course would have been
after a rain. Impossible, actually. Dry dirt at least afforded a good run at most of the log
obstacles, which was key because they were all theoretically doable if the rains
stayed away for several days leading up to the race. Theoretically.
For 128 of the 130 miles from my place to the Bike Barn race headquarters, I saw
thousands of acres of freshly emerging corn and soybeans growing in dry soil. I saw
visions of completing two long, tiring laps, as I'd done the previous year. I saw lakes in
corn fields at mile marker 35 on Interstate 88. Huh?? Two miles ahead of the
Morrison exit, and there it was: water. No way. It couldn't be – Doppler doesn't lie! The
nice lady at the Bike Barn entrance apologized for the rain but offered that one of the
Rock Creek crossings had been cut from the course. Apparently storms had
ambushed the Morrison area under the cover of night and sleepy time at Casa del
Stichnoth, and I’d missed that portion of the radar animation loop. Damn You,
Doppler!!
Not that it would have kept me from attending, had I known the ground would be wet,
as I’m a sucker for a once-a-year flogging on the dirt bike. Still, ominous black clouds
to the West were bringing the same kind of dread that golf course managers must
feel when I enter a tee box. This was going to get ugly.
There’s an ancient law of physics that says something about actions creating equal
opposite reactions, which I think is pretty much true and I also believe extends beyond
the physical world. In my case, each act of intelligence generally creates and equal
opposite act of stupidity. I’d smartly taped a tear-off over my roll-offs so that I might
survive the first 30 seconds of the motocross track with goggles still intact. I countered
this by failing to notice I was lined up in the wrong row, well after the 40 or so guys in
my correct row had already staked out their places. The only spot left for me, after I
figured this out, was on the far left side. And I do mean far. My counterpart on the
opposite end of the row was lined up what appeared by my LASIK-burned eyes to be
approximately 450 yards to the south and in a much, much better position for the first
turn. The KX and I would be taking an outside line to what would quickly become
remarkably similar to what you might see from inside your automobile at an automatic
car wash, if the car wash operator replaced the soapy water with black muck.
Standing water on the motocross track didn't stand very long. Most of it was airborne
by the time I rounded the first turn. Three turns later, the lights went out.
I've had many types of mud and water thrown on my goggles, but never in all my years
of racing have I ever ridden completely blind. Usually I’d have a least a small area of
vision to see my way to a point where I could remove my goggles, but this splash of
watery muck completely covered every last square millimeter of my face. I saw
complete blackness. With nothing to do but lock up the brakes and hope not to get run
over, I ripped off my tear-off while 10 bikes screamed by. Another three turns, another
mud bath. Somehow I exited the track with a small amount of clear vision and charged
ahead to the peat bogs.
Mr. Gusse found his merciful side by limiting the peat whoops to just a few hundred
yards. Even in a shortened version, the whoops were still swallowing bikes nearly
whole. Rain began as we entered the woods, spitting just enough sprinkles from the
clouds to turn the already damp dirt into slippery mud. Our first bottleneck came a
couple miles in, with about 20 bikes waiting to take turns at some unseen obstacle
ahead. As I came to a stop, my eyes were burning from what I thought was the
exhaust fumes of the bikes around me. Turns out it was the fumes from my boiling
radiator. Our progress through here was about the same as driving to O’Hare on the
Kennedy Expressway on a Friday afternoon, so after five minutes of sitting, I was
growing impatient. The underbrush was so thick I still couldn't see what obstacle had
ground us all to a halt. Since we were on a narrow trail on the side of a ravine,
dropping down off the trail to the right was a pointless exercise of futility. To the left, I
spotted a bit of an opening in some 6-feet-tall vines and assorted brambles. The
climb through the brush was moderate, and once past the thick stuff I slowly
navigated my way back to the trail. Bottleneck averted.
The largest log on the course came next, a 3-footer that the guy in front of me
launched his bike across with no attempt at actually remaining attached to his bike. I
had stopped about 8 feet shy of the log while waiting for him to pick himself up and
give me a clean shot at it. I popped the clutch like a 15-year-old learning to drive a
stick shift and surprised myself by lofting the front wheel high enough and far enough
to start the teeter totter effect – the skid plate hit the top center of the log, the front end
teetered, the rear wheel tottered and before I knew it, I was over the log. Even the two
guys standing by to help pull bikes and riders over the log were impressed. But it was
a short-lived victory.
The smart things I’d done to that point were all given back another mile or so later. I
took a center line through a water-filled low spot and spent the next 15 minutes
digging myself out. Most of the racers had now caught and passed me, and bike
carnage was everywhere. I saw a guy on the ground, so covered by his bike that only
his helmet was visible. Logs became more frequent, and upcoming obstacles were
easy to spot just by listening to the sounds of screaming engines.
At the railroad tracks where I’d left my gas jug, I topped off the tank, raced along the
tracks, crossed the rocky creek next to a railroad trestle and headed into the toughest
part of the course. Several miles later I saw the face of complete despair, 15 feet
below me on a log jam in Rock Creek. An unfortunate rider had slipped off the side of
the trail and fallen straight down. He was lucky in two ways: the log jam kept him
mostly out of the water and a crew of course workers had just arrived to pull him out,
along with his bike. How, I have no idea.
My next encounter with riders under duress came another couple miles down the trail
on a slippery, grassy hill that enticed unknowing riders to stay to the right at the crest
of the hill. This would have worked fine, had the soil under the grass not been wet,
greasy brown clay. Near the top, my wheels slid off the side of the hill, as did another
rider in front of me, just before we both met thick underbrush. We helped each other
up the hill and, once ready to be on our way, noticed another guy who’d slid off the trail
on the other side of the hill. His bike was sideways on an even steeper slope with
even thicker, taller underbrush the only objects preventing a further slide down the hill.
The guy I’d helped to the top took one look at the situation, kick-started his bike and
rode away. Sometimes, it’s every man for himself. But I couldn't just leave the guy
there. We pushed and dragged his bike to the point he could ride down the hill and
give it another try. Just then, a guy at the bottom of the hill yelled at us, pointing at a
second trail and asking if it would get him up the hill. From our vantage point, the
answer was no. It would get him around the hill without having to scale it. Had I known
that, I’d have been 15 minutes further down the trail.
For the next half hour I’d alternately pass, get passed and re-pass the same two guys.
We eventually all met up at a gully crossing that was about 4 feet deep in water. A
stranded rider was there to explain the depth of the gully – handlebar-high, as
evidenced by his waterlogged engine. We assessed our options, which came down
to this: no way in hell were we going through that gully. By the time we reached this
conclusion, I’d dumped about half my Camelbak’s water into my radiator and really
wasn't interested in abusing the engine further. I was about 3 hours into the race and
clearly this was one I would not be finishing, so the three of us took off for a grassy
field, crossed a fence row and rode around a corn field until we found a road. A half-
mile down the road we could see the pit crew of one of my two new riding partners,
parked at a bridge where the trail crossed the road. They offered me the best bottle of
water I've ever tasted.
We again assessed our options, which consisted of riding for pride or riding back to
the Bike Barn. While we pondered this, one of the “Pit Moms” shouted into the woods
what I presume was the name of her son, pleading for a response. Mind you, nobody
was getting through that gully, which was at least half a mile behind us. But she kept
trying, over and over.
Stupidity breeds, especially in threes, this time coming in the form of our final
decision: continue down the trail. From past experience I guessed we’d have 7 or 8
more miles inside the woods until finishing the 32-mile loop with about 5 miles of
open fields. If we could make it that far, we’d complete a lap, although at that point I
didn't really consider it an actual lap since we’d circumvented a section of trail. From
here, it was all about making it to the finish line. One of the guys in our threesome
was riding a KTM in the 200A class, and I’d already met him somewhere before the
gully detour while we tried to get ourselves dug out of a creek. My other partner was
racing in one of the C classes, which was somewhat remarkable considering he’d
made it this far. Although “far” was all in relative terms. By my estimation, we’d ridden
about 20 miles when we made our decision to continue.
It only got worse. The best way I can envision how such a sadistic piece of trail was
developed is that the Gusse camp must have taken issue with what is now being
billed as the toughest race in the United States: the Red Bull Last Man Standing. This
section was probably less than a mile in length, laid out in early Spring before the
underbrush concealed every square inch of soil, and now completely un-rideable in
June. We were navigating through one side of a ravine, which meant most of the trail
was off-camber, slick, and filled with logs lying at all conceivable angles. Every 100
feet we were off our bikes, lifting them over roots, logs, and assorted trail junk. The
KX250 was in a constant state of near-overheating. After 45 minutes of progressing
about ½ a mile, we could hear voices in the distance and knew we were close...to
something. Then, from behind, we heard a guy yell. He walked up to us in full race
gear and explained that his bike had become wedged between two trees and he
couldn't get it unstuck.
Let me explain this another way: a guy walking through the woods was making faster
progress than the three of us on dirt bikes. Eventually we found a whole 100 yards
without any impossible obstacles and pulled ahead of the guy walking. Then we
heard screaming engines approaching on the trail. The first bike was Jimmy Jarrett,
then Brian Garrahan. Jimmy paused to ask how we were doing. Brian practiced his
vocabulary of colorful metaphors. A guy on a Gas Gas came by, then Jason Thomas.
We were now more than 4 hours into the race and getting lapped by the Pros, on a 32-
mile course.
The voices we’d been hearing were those of the 3rd check crew, who told me I’d
missed them the first time around. I pointed out that it was my first time around. They
assured us the trails became easier from there on. They lied. Me and the 200A guy
eventually left the C rider behind and started making moderate progress. I got ahead
of the 200A guy for awhile, then got stuck in a creek. Eventually we found our way into
the last long section through the center of a relatively water-free creek bed, which I
remembered from the past two years as being one of the tougher tests before the
wide-open grassy fields that ended the course. All the same logs were there, in all the
same ridiculous sizes, heights off the ground, and impossible angles. As with the
previous times I’d fought my way through here, I found myself hung up on the very
same pair of logs, in perfect spacing for my gear shifter to wedge between them. The
grinding sound as I pulled the bike across the logs suggested I’d be bending the
shifter back into shape...again.
I’d had enough. I found an opening in the woods to a bean field and wound my way
around the perimeter until a road showed up. As luck would have it, this road took me
through Fenton and straight back to the Bike Barn. Ryan Moss would later explain this
day perfectly: it was a real Moose Run.
June 24, 2007
Marietta, Illinois
2nd of 3 in Vet A
The past 2 years as a resident District 17 racer have been a homecoming of sorts,
this following my 7-year sabbatical in Missouri. Marietta is one of several racing
venues which, in my formative racing years, did its best to destroy my motorcycle and
my self-respect. My last trip here, in 1999, was for what would be the final enduro
hosted by the Central Illinois Dirt Riders at this location. After a gazillion inches of rain
the week before the race, I got placed in a late row and houred out in the first 7 miles
(it took me two hours to get that far). To add further insult, someone in the staging
area spun their bike hauler sideways in the soggy grass and ran over my bike stand.
In the end, local law enforcement effectively ended all future enduros here by pulling
over riders on road sections. I didn't make it to any road sections, so avoiding a ticket
was about the only good thing that happened that day.
Fast forward to the present, and Marietta looks much the same, both the town and the
staging area where Buckwheat Road dead-ends. Tony Smith and I again partnered
up for the long drive and upon arrival, the staging area was nearly as wet as it was at
the ill-fated enduro. It was no surprise. The previous Friday, I’d furthered my 2007
personal goal of doing a better job combining business and pleasure by taking my
mountain bike along for a client visit in Pekin, about 40 miles from the race site, which
on that day was every bit as slimy as Marietta would be on Sunday. The muddy clay at
Dirksen Park was remarkably similar in form and substance to the muck I’d later pull
off in handfuls from my KX250.
The ATV race was wrapping up as we signed in for the afternoon event. Remember
that scene in the movie Predator, where Arnold Schwarzenegger avoids infrared
detection by submerging himself in mud? That was every ATV racer who crossed the
finish line. Normal humans would see this, turn the car around and leave. But it is The
Addiction that makes people like me and Tony unload the bikes and sign up to race,
knowing full well that ten minutes in the woods is about all it will take for us to
resemble the ATV riders crossing the finish line. Yet we race anyway, for The Addiction
is a powerful affliction.
I didn't plan on adding 20 pounds of mud to my bike by riding a practice lap, but oh,
the temptation…I cruised around the starting area for a couple minutes, deliberating,
then gave in and dropped into the woods behind a group of riders. To my surprise, the
ATV’s had cleared away the sloppiest few inches of topsoil, leaving behind firm clay.
That still left plenty of mud in the singletrack sections, one of which included a narrow,
rocky path around a ravine. The foliage through here was thick, and combined with a
rock ledge formation about 20 feet high, the whole atmosphere of the section was
dark and eerie.
The bikes and riders who sat out the practice lap were easy to spot in the starting
area. In the second row, the usual Vet A and +40A riders were lined to my left and
right. Only Will Heitman and Shawn Mineart, in competition for series points, joined
me in the Vet A class. Directly in front of me was a bike-sized gap in the row of A and
AA riders, whose occupant had apparently made a run back to the pits. As a prank,
one of his pit crew asked me to fill his vacant spot, which happened to be one of the
primo positions in the front row. I was a reluctant participant, figuring with my luck,
whoever’s spot I was taking was probably much bigger, stronger and meaner than I
was. Will Heitman gave me an “Are you crazy?” shrug as I waited for the guy to return.
As it turned out, I had taken the spot of a youngster named Bren Raschke, who barely
looked old enough to be racing in the adult classes. He caught on to our little joke
quickly and I moved back into my row.
I got off the line quickly and jumped ahead of Will and Shawn at the first turn, then
followed a couple of riders through first mile of the course. The Marietta terrain is full
of ravines that eventually lead to the Spoon River, and I think we rode up, down,
across and through each of them. One in particular, an uphill near the staging area,
was polished down to clay worthy of throwing pots.
The rocky off-camber section near the rock formation was trouble just waiting to
happen. I didn't see anyone slide off the trail and down into the ravine, but photos
would later show that at least one person did just that, and it took four strong men to
pull out the bike. The couple hundred yards following this section was a reminder of
Missouri riding, complete with slippery flat rock. It was here that Will Heitman first
caught up to me on a bike that sounded plain angry. After exiting the off-camber
singletrack, the engine either tamed itself or Will fell behind again, because I didn't
hear it again until the lap was nearly complete. He pushed me hard until finding his
way around me just before the pasture where we’d started the race.
Any chance of catching Will ended when I followed a guy into a short section that may
have actually been cut from the course due to its wetness. We were some of the first
bikes through this section, which didn't make any sense on the second lap. Making
even less sense was my path up the side of a ravine that saw me helplessly spinning
my rear wheel on a small tree across the trail. At least 10 guys passed me while I took
another stab at the hill, and Will gained about a minute. I never did ride that short
section again.
As 15-minute laps clicked by, I did my best to entertain a group of spectators in a low,
open area next to the Spoon River. The course had us flying through the low area in
fourth gear, then turning into a moderately steep hill with flat rocks embedded in its
face. In third gear, the rocks spat my rear wheel left, then right, then left again. If there
is such a thing as a vertical tail whip, I think I did it. Another set of spectators, a group
of teenage girls, cheered each time I passed. Whatever they were shouting didn't have
much to do with me, but I didn't mind the mistaken identity. I needed the
encouragement.
I found Will again in the final laps, after he stalled his KTM at the bottom of a slippery
hill. This was the same hill Tony and I had scouted before the race and wondered
how we’d get our bikes stopped in time for the 90-degree left turn at the bottom.
Beyond the 10-foot area in which to make the turn was a large gully. Very ugly
possibilities there. Will recovered within another lap and passed me again at the
exact spot he’d made his earlier pass. On the same lap, the AA class made its way
around the 3-mile course and began lapping me, first Zack Sulzberger and then the
usual group of fast guys including Jeremy Smith, who suggested I move out of his
path in that special way only he can.
On the last lap, Will took a chance trying to pass Shawn Minnaert for the lead and
found himself sideways in a ravine. Shawn got away and I squeezed by for 2nd place.
Zack Sulzberger, who I had spotted driving the Sulzberger Racing trailer through the
heart of Chicago’s Loop two weeks prior (what are the odds?), took the overall win. My
KX250 was really not much muddier than any other wet ride in Central Illinois trails, a
testament to good trail design that was both challenging and fun.
Morrison, Illinois
Marietta, Illinois
Marietta, Illinois
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