| 2007 Race Reports |
September 23, 2007
Westpoint, Tennessee
DNF
To complete the 2-wheeled portion of my 3,500-mile odyssey throughout the east half
of the U.S., I chose Round #7 of the AMA National Enduro Series near Westpoint,
Tennessee. A national enduro schedule tends to be one of the better places to look
for races worth the effort of a long drive, although three thousand miles might be a
stretch. With those miles comes an expectation of good singletrack and plenty of it.
Westpoint would not disappoint, nor would the KX250-friendly format of the 2007
national enduro series, where a series of special tests determines the winner. Lights
and timekeeping equipment aren't necessary - all a person has to do is show up to a
check-in by a certain time, ride fast for a certain number of miles and move on to the
next test. Whoever clocks the quickest cumulative time in the tests takes the top spot.
On Saturday afternoon before the race, I pulled off I-65 at the exit for Pulaski, and upon
stepping out of Big Bird, I noticed my shoes nearly melting on the gas station asphalt.
I’d brought my 15-year-old Walmart tent with the intention of camping at the race site,
but the Super 8 a quarter-mile down the road was mighty tempting. I gave in, pulled
out my credit card, and $75 later was resting by the pool. Air conditioned room and a
soft bed on a 93-degree day…priceless (and so much for roughing it).
These parts of Tennessee are a bit of an adjustment for this city boy, in particular the
concentration of Long John Silvers restaurants and the inquisitive nature of the locals.
Hushpuppie in hand, one friendly guy in the Pulaski Walmart parking lot, strolling past
Big Bird and its cargo, asked if I was “fixin' to ride or already done rode.” I was fixin', I
replied.
Earlier in the week I’d washed off the KX back at Lake Norman in the small town of
Denver, North Carolina, where Chick Breasts are sold at corner gas stations. Between
the jet skiing and the mountain biking and the general lounging around that is the
essence of a lake house, let’s just say bike maintenance was not on the top of the To-
Do list. I did change the air filter and briefly inspected the bike, Corona in hand, and it
all looked good from the rocking chair on the patio. Had I known the condition of my
clutch cable, I might have thrown on a new one. The end of it, between the cable
housing and the actuator arm, was frayed like the hair of a lifelong chain smoking 50-
year-old woman. The rubber bootie protector thingy concealed it all. The fact that I'd
last replaced the clutch cable at least 18 months and 20 races ago was completely
lost in my comfortably cool motel room on Saturday night.
On Sunday morning, my thoughts on preventative maintenance were jolted back into
the full view of a clutch cable in two pieces. Such was the case about 5 miles into the
first test while following a young dude on a Honda CRF150. He began the test a
minute ahead of me on row 9, seeming like a typical 14-year-old at a family enduro
with Dad in tow to make sure Junior survives 15 miles of the kid’s course. This kid
was far from typical. I caught up to him somewhere after the other A-class rider on my
row left me in his dust a few miles before. We’d discussed the starting order while
waiting for the test and determined that he would lead initially, I’d follow, and he would
let me around if I asked. That worked fine until we exited the woods and found the
scrub brush remains of a logged forest. I couldn't see more than 15 feet in any
direction. Over the summer, Westpoint had been as dry as much of the rest of the
southern and southeastern U.S. Inside the woods, the dust was manageable but
anywhere the sun shone, the light brown dirt was dry as a bone.
I found the CRF150 guy as he worked his way around an 85cc bike on a hill of loose
dirt. After that, it was all I could do to keep up with him. If the future of junior class
racing is the 150cc performance four-stroke, watch out adults - some of these kids
will be lapping you at hare scrambles everywhere.
The clutch cable gave out without warning after a couple miles of following the
CRF150. I’d reached the halfway point of the initial 10-mile test and decided to give it a
go and try to at least get one score on my card. As I soon learned, riding without a
clutch isn't all that difficult. Moving over for other riders in singletrack is a whole other
thing. The trick was to time it just right so I could lug my way through an open spot next
to the trail with just enough momentum to avoid killing the engine while giving riders
enough time and space to pass – more difficult than it sounds. I killed the engine at
least 10 times.
At the scoring checkpoint, I limped back to the staging area, packed up and drove Big
Bird over to the gas stop to retrieve my jug. The gas trailers were parked just up the
road from the checkpoint where I’d left the course, and it was here I got my first taste
of mobile pit crews at national enduros. As a participant in a handful of national
enduros over the years, I’d never paid much attention to other riders’ support teams.
At the gas stop, it was like a whole other staging area. Trucks and trailers were lined
up for a quarter-mile on either side of the road. Pop-up awnings, full pit crews,
motorhomes, you name it, I saw it. After lugging a nearly-full five gallon gas jug back to
the Blazer, I did a 14-point turn among the vehicles on the roadside and headed back
down the gravel road to start my long drive home.
Thus completed the recreational part of my road trip. I made one final stop in
Owensboro, Kentucky for business and arrived back in Chicago twelve days after I’d
left. The rest of the adventure can be viewed here. An interesting trip, no doubt.
October 14, 2007
Upland, Indiana
3rd of 11 in Vet A
We all have different ways of measuring how fast we ride in the woods. Sometimes it’
s a comparison to riding buddies, or how you stack up to guys in your racing class.
Me? I just try to outrun the yellow jackets. At the Muddobbers M/C enduro near at
Upland, Indiana, I found out I’m slower than bees.
Eastern Standard Time forced an early wake-up but refreshingly traffic-less drive
down the Dan Ryan, the hell-on-wheels highway most Chicagoans endure when
heading towards our Hoosier neighbors. The race site, an hour north of Indianapolis,
was staged at the Upland Lions Club which, unlike most Lions Clubs I’m familiar
with, had its own grandstand for holding rodeos and tractor pulls and such. Across
from the grandstand was the Lions Club headquarters where all the mathematical
aspects of the race were handled, including my own calculation for how to set my
clock to key time for row 46. I strayed from my usual habit of signing up for an early
row because I’d slightly miscalculated the driving time to Upland (note to self: never
question Google) and wanted more time to get prepared to race.
The rally-style format of the Upland enduro, with its limited timekeeping requirements,
meant I could race the odometer-less KX250 instead of my aging KTM. Since the
Muddobbers M/C club holds firmly to lighting requirements, I strapped on an Acerbis
headlight and bolted a taillight to the rear fender to give my KX a decidedly enduro
appearance. “It won’t be straight after the race,” observed one helpful guy while
watching me adjust the rubber straps of the sleek, white-on-black headlight shell.
Probably true. License plates are also a must, and it just so happened that I had in my
possession a temporary motorcycle plate from the State of Illinois, a result of my
attempt to license a Gas Gas 300 bought in September from former Missouri hare
scrambler Jeff Wendel. Whether or not this licensing attempt is successful (a 50-50
chance, by my estimation), it was the first time since 2002 I’d carried a real, bona fide,
current license plate for an enduro. And just like all prior real, bona fide, current
license plates from past years, this one didn't match the bike I was riding. But it let me
start the race, unlike a less fortunate guy in the row ahead of me who was sent home
with a plate-less YZ125.
On my row were two KTM’s and a YZ250 with a green headlight and a yellow front
fender. The colorful YZ belonged to Traverse City native Bryan Marsh, while the two
KTM's were piloted by young Jordan Mapes and Leonard Keen, a seriously fast AA
rider with several overall enduro victories to his credit. Like me, Bryan entered the Vet
A class, while Jordan raced the C class and Leonard the AA class. In a rally format,
there are no formal rules on who enters special tests first, but it all gets sorted out
quickly with a quick scan of the scorecards on each rider’s front fender. Leonard
would clearly lead every test, Bryan and I would follow and Jordan would go in last. Or
so I thought. After we entered the woods for the first test, Leonard and Bryan took off
ahead and I thought I’d ride comfortably in the 3rd position. That is, until Jordan rode
my rear tire for the first 5 minutes. I finally let him by and wondered if I’d misread his
scorecard.
It’s been at least 10 years since I was the slowest guy on my row at an enduro, and in
that first test I was feeling like I should have entered the C class. The woods were dry,
slightly dusty in a few areas and full of sugary powder - not exactly sand, but not quite
dirt either. Throughout the 7-mile test I never really adjusted to quick turns in loose
singletrack and dumped the bike several times in slow speed tip-overs. After 10 miles
I’d dropped 9 points, while Bryan carded an 8. That single point would be a big one in
tallying our final scores.
I finally found some rhythm in the second test, made up of 16 miles of nicely flowing
singletrack that was the longest in length and probably the best trails of the day. I let
Bryan lead initially, but I was riding well enough to push him pretty hard. He took the
long way around a large log lying at an angle, while I squared up and launched my
bike over it. After that, we were separated by just enough distance to be out of sight of
each other for the rest of the test. Scores were tallied down to the second, and while
we both scored a 12, I finished 18 seconds quicker.
Much of the course loosely followed the Mississinewa River and the woods on either
side of I-69. The Mississinewa is a serious river, around 100 yards wide in most
places, and we crossed it several times. While standing in line to claim my free meal
after the race, I was reminded of the unpredictable nature of these kinds of rivers by a
photo of Stephen Edmonson at last year’s national enduro at this location, diving
straight into the water and handing the overall win to Russell Bobbitt. At each crossing
I took my time so that I might avoid being next year’s highlight photo. Along I-69, some
of the course was laid out over flat, wide-open fields where we could race the highway
traffic. For the three seconds a car would have witnessed motorcycles flying along the
highway at 75 mph, the image of asylum-ready dirt bikers would have solidified the
most likely impression etched in minds and memories: those boys ain't right.
The remote gas stop after the second test was placed at a scenic campsite next to the
historic Cumberland covered bridge over the Mississinewa. One Power Bar and a
couple gallons of gas later, I was on to the third test. Bryan and I stuck together again,
pushing each other to ride hard through the singletrack. After he missed a turn on a
brief road section, I took the lead until finding myself stuck in the only mud hole in the
entire 85-mile course. By this time Bryan had found his way back on the trail and
passed by while I was dragging my KTM out of the mud. He finished the test 30
seconds in front of me.
More sweet, supple singletrack was in store for the fourth test, with Bryan and I in
sight of each other just about the whole 8 miles. Somewhere in here I passed
between two trees, thinking I’d rubbed my neck against some sort of sticker bush,
then realized the stinging sensation was continuing as mercilessly as a High School
Musical tune. I always knew I wasn't the fastest guy on a dirt bike, but being outrun by
bees was just plain demoralizing. Fifteen minutes later the stinging, as well as the
test, came to an end with a wide-open blast along a fence next to the interstate. I
arrived at the checkpoint in Bryan’s cloud of dust, where we both dropped 7 points.
The final test, reserved for the A and B riders, was 14 miles of moderately tight trails
and several more crossings of the Mississinewa River. The narrowly spaced trees
claimed Leonard Keen about 100 yards into the test. Bryan and I paused to let him
remount and restart, knowing full well if we rode around him, he’d be passing us
about 10 seconds later. I jumped out ahead of Bryan and rode by myself for most of
the test. Halfway through this section, Bryan’s brake lever came loose but somehow
he stayed on my minute and we both carded a 10 for the test. When the scores were
tallied, I finished with 46; Bryan had 45. We were second and third, respectively, in the
Vet A class and had our pictures taken on an Olympic-style podium. That was cool,
and so was the enduro. I’ll be back next year.
Westpoint, Tennessee
DNF
To complete the 2-wheeled portion of my 3,500-mile odyssey throughout the east half
of the U.S., I chose Round #7 of the AMA National Enduro Series near Westpoint,
Tennessee. A national enduro schedule tends to be one of the better places to look
for races worth the effort of a long drive, although three thousand miles might be a
stretch. With those miles comes an expectation of good singletrack and plenty of it.
Westpoint would not disappoint, nor would the KX250-friendly format of the 2007
national enduro series, where a series of special tests determines the winner. Lights
and timekeeping equipment aren't necessary - all a person has to do is show up to a
check-in by a certain time, ride fast for a certain number of miles and move on to the
next test. Whoever clocks the quickest cumulative time in the tests takes the top spot.
On Saturday afternoon before the race, I pulled off I-65 at the exit for Pulaski, and upon
stepping out of Big Bird, I noticed my shoes nearly melting on the gas station asphalt.
I’d brought my 15-year-old Walmart tent with the intention of camping at the race site,
but the Super 8 a quarter-mile down the road was mighty tempting. I gave in, pulled
out my credit card, and $75 later was resting by the pool. Air conditioned room and a
soft bed on a 93-degree day…priceless (and so much for roughing it).
These parts of Tennessee are a bit of an adjustment for this city boy, in particular the
concentration of Long John Silvers restaurants and the inquisitive nature of the locals.
Hushpuppie in hand, one friendly guy in the Pulaski Walmart parking lot, strolling past
Big Bird and its cargo, asked if I was “fixin' to ride or already done rode.” I was fixin', I
replied.
Earlier in the week I’d washed off the KX back at Lake Norman in the small town of
Denver, North Carolina, where Chick Breasts are sold at corner gas stations. Between
the jet skiing and the mountain biking and the general lounging around that is the
essence of a lake house, let’s just say bike maintenance was not on the top of the To-
Do list. I did change the air filter and briefly inspected the bike, Corona in hand, and it
all looked good from the rocking chair on the patio. Had I known the condition of my
clutch cable, I might have thrown on a new one. The end of it, between the cable
housing and the actuator arm, was frayed like the hair of a lifelong chain smoking 50-
year-old woman. The rubber bootie protector thingy concealed it all. The fact that I'd
last replaced the clutch cable at least 18 months and 20 races ago was completely
lost in my comfortably cool motel room on Saturday night.
On Sunday morning, my thoughts on preventative maintenance were jolted back into
the full view of a clutch cable in two pieces. Such was the case about 5 miles into the
first test while following a young dude on a Honda CRF150. He began the test a
minute ahead of me on row 9, seeming like a typical 14-year-old at a family enduro
with Dad in tow to make sure Junior survives 15 miles of the kid’s course. This kid
was far from typical. I caught up to him somewhere after the other A-class rider on my
row left me in his dust a few miles before. We’d discussed the starting order while
waiting for the test and determined that he would lead initially, I’d follow, and he would
let me around if I asked. That worked fine until we exited the woods and found the
scrub brush remains of a logged forest. I couldn't see more than 15 feet in any
direction. Over the summer, Westpoint had been as dry as much of the rest of the
southern and southeastern U.S. Inside the woods, the dust was manageable but
anywhere the sun shone, the light brown dirt was dry as a bone.
I found the CRF150 guy as he worked his way around an 85cc bike on a hill of loose
dirt. After that, it was all I could do to keep up with him. If the future of junior class
racing is the 150cc performance four-stroke, watch out adults - some of these kids
will be lapping you at hare scrambles everywhere.
The clutch cable gave out without warning after a couple miles of following the
CRF150. I’d reached the halfway point of the initial 10-mile test and decided to give it a
go and try to at least get one score on my card. As I soon learned, riding without a
clutch isn't all that difficult. Moving over for other riders in singletrack is a whole other
thing. The trick was to time it just right so I could lug my way through an open spot next
to the trail with just enough momentum to avoid killing the engine while giving riders
enough time and space to pass – more difficult than it sounds. I killed the engine at
least 10 times.
At the scoring checkpoint, I limped back to the staging area, packed up and drove Big
Bird over to the gas stop to retrieve my jug. The gas trailers were parked just up the
road from the checkpoint where I’d left the course, and it was here I got my first taste
of mobile pit crews at national enduros. As a participant in a handful of national
enduros over the years, I’d never paid much attention to other riders’ support teams.
At the gas stop, it was like a whole other staging area. Trucks and trailers were lined
up for a quarter-mile on either side of the road. Pop-up awnings, full pit crews,
motorhomes, you name it, I saw it. After lugging a nearly-full five gallon gas jug back to
the Blazer, I did a 14-point turn among the vehicles on the roadside and headed back
down the gravel road to start my long drive home.
Thus completed the recreational part of my road trip. I made one final stop in
Owensboro, Kentucky for business and arrived back in Chicago twelve days after I’d
left. The rest of the adventure can be viewed here. An interesting trip, no doubt.
October 14, 2007
Upland, Indiana
3rd of 11 in Vet A
We all have different ways of measuring how fast we ride in the woods. Sometimes it’
s a comparison to riding buddies, or how you stack up to guys in your racing class.
Me? I just try to outrun the yellow jackets. At the Muddobbers M/C enduro near at
Upland, Indiana, I found out I’m slower than bees.
Eastern Standard Time forced an early wake-up but refreshingly traffic-less drive
down the Dan Ryan, the hell-on-wheels highway most Chicagoans endure when
heading towards our Hoosier neighbors. The race site, an hour north of Indianapolis,
was staged at the Upland Lions Club which, unlike most Lions Clubs I’m familiar
with, had its own grandstand for holding rodeos and tractor pulls and such. Across
from the grandstand was the Lions Club headquarters where all the mathematical
aspects of the race were handled, including my own calculation for how to set my
clock to key time for row 46. I strayed from my usual habit of signing up for an early
row because I’d slightly miscalculated the driving time to Upland (note to self: never
question Google) and wanted more time to get prepared to race.
The rally-style format of the Upland enduro, with its limited timekeeping requirements,
meant I could race the odometer-less KX250 instead of my aging KTM. Since the
Muddobbers M/C club holds firmly to lighting requirements, I strapped on an Acerbis
headlight and bolted a taillight to the rear fender to give my KX a decidedly enduro
appearance. “It won’t be straight after the race,” observed one helpful guy while
watching me adjust the rubber straps of the sleek, white-on-black headlight shell.
Probably true. License plates are also a must, and it just so happened that I had in my
possession a temporary motorcycle plate from the State of Illinois, a result of my
attempt to license a Gas Gas 300 bought in September from former Missouri hare
scrambler Jeff Wendel. Whether or not this licensing attempt is successful (a 50-50
chance, by my estimation), it was the first time since 2002 I’d carried a real, bona fide,
current license plate for an enduro. And just like all prior real, bona fide, current
license plates from past years, this one didn't match the bike I was riding. But it let me
start the race, unlike a less fortunate guy in the row ahead of me who was sent home
with a plate-less YZ125.
On my row were two KTM’s and a YZ250 with a green headlight and a yellow front
fender. The colorful YZ belonged to Traverse City native Bryan Marsh, while the two
KTM's were piloted by young Jordan Mapes and Leonard Keen, a seriously fast AA
rider with several overall enduro victories to his credit. Like me, Bryan entered the Vet
A class, while Jordan raced the C class and Leonard the AA class. In a rally format,
there are no formal rules on who enters special tests first, but it all gets sorted out
quickly with a quick scan of the scorecards on each rider’s front fender. Leonard
would clearly lead every test, Bryan and I would follow and Jordan would go in last. Or
so I thought. After we entered the woods for the first test, Leonard and Bryan took off
ahead and I thought I’d ride comfortably in the 3rd position. That is, until Jordan rode
my rear tire for the first 5 minutes. I finally let him by and wondered if I’d misread his
scorecard.
It’s been at least 10 years since I was the slowest guy on my row at an enduro, and in
that first test I was feeling like I should have entered the C class. The woods were dry,
slightly dusty in a few areas and full of sugary powder - not exactly sand, but not quite
dirt either. Throughout the 7-mile test I never really adjusted to quick turns in loose
singletrack and dumped the bike several times in slow speed tip-overs. After 10 miles
I’d dropped 9 points, while Bryan carded an 8. That single point would be a big one in
tallying our final scores.
I finally found some rhythm in the second test, made up of 16 miles of nicely flowing
singletrack that was the longest in length and probably the best trails of the day. I let
Bryan lead initially, but I was riding well enough to push him pretty hard. He took the
long way around a large log lying at an angle, while I squared up and launched my
bike over it. After that, we were separated by just enough distance to be out of sight of
each other for the rest of the test. Scores were tallied down to the second, and while
we both scored a 12, I finished 18 seconds quicker.
Much of the course loosely followed the Mississinewa River and the woods on either
side of I-69. The Mississinewa is a serious river, around 100 yards wide in most
places, and we crossed it several times. While standing in line to claim my free meal
after the race, I was reminded of the unpredictable nature of these kinds of rivers by a
photo of Stephen Edmonson at last year’s national enduro at this location, diving
straight into the water and handing the overall win to Russell Bobbitt. At each crossing
I took my time so that I might avoid being next year’s highlight photo. Along I-69, some
of the course was laid out over flat, wide-open fields where we could race the highway
traffic. For the three seconds a car would have witnessed motorcycles flying along the
highway at 75 mph, the image of asylum-ready dirt bikers would have solidified the
most likely impression etched in minds and memories: those boys ain't right.
The remote gas stop after the second test was placed at a scenic campsite next to the
historic Cumberland covered bridge over the Mississinewa. One Power Bar and a
couple gallons of gas later, I was on to the third test. Bryan and I stuck together again,
pushing each other to ride hard through the singletrack. After he missed a turn on a
brief road section, I took the lead until finding myself stuck in the only mud hole in the
entire 85-mile course. By this time Bryan had found his way back on the trail and
passed by while I was dragging my KTM out of the mud. He finished the test 30
seconds in front of me.
More sweet, supple singletrack was in store for the fourth test, with Bryan and I in
sight of each other just about the whole 8 miles. Somewhere in here I passed
between two trees, thinking I’d rubbed my neck against some sort of sticker bush,
then realized the stinging sensation was continuing as mercilessly as a High School
Musical tune. I always knew I wasn't the fastest guy on a dirt bike, but being outrun by
bees was just plain demoralizing. Fifteen minutes later the stinging, as well as the
test, came to an end with a wide-open blast along a fence next to the interstate. I
arrived at the checkpoint in Bryan’s cloud of dust, where we both dropped 7 points.
The final test, reserved for the A and B riders, was 14 miles of moderately tight trails
and several more crossings of the Mississinewa River. The narrowly spaced trees
claimed Leonard Keen about 100 yards into the test. Bryan and I paused to let him
remount and restart, knowing full well if we rode around him, he’d be passing us
about 10 seconds later. I jumped out ahead of Bryan and rode by myself for most of
the test. Halfway through this section, Bryan’s brake lever came loose but somehow
he stayed on my minute and we both carded a 10 for the test. When the scores were
tallied, I finished with 46; Bryan had 45. We were second and third, respectively, in the
Vet A class and had our pictures taken on an Olympic-style podium. That was cool,
and so was the enduro. I’ll be back next year.
| Sprocket envy. |
| He didn't get to ride the 2008 KTM 250 XC-We at Upland (as featured in the November 2007 edition of Dirt Rider magazine), but he did ride pretty darned fast. |
Westpoint, Tennessee
Upland, Indiana
Upland, Indiana
| The perfect marriage of grease and more grease. |
| I got to ride on the same row as this guy! |
 |  |  |