| 2007 Race Reports |
October 21, 2007
White City, Illinois
4th of 9 in Vet A
If there’s such a thing as an exasperating enduro, then the Cahokia Creek Dirt Riders
have one in their annual Big Red Enduro. It’s been a White City, Illinois tradition for
about a decade longer than I've graced this planet with my existence. I’d previously
attempted the Big Red four times, each a failure due to weather-related conditions
(houred out twice), bodily injury (broken ribs) and bike problems (once). After four
consecutive DNF's from 1999-2002, I took a four year break from the Big Red
because it kept conflicting with my annual weeklong practice of breaking my dad’s
farm equipment in October, otherwise known as the Farm Vacation. But this year,
harvest wrapped up early and the Big Red was back on my racing schedule.
As is common with any race whose level of enjoyment is directly proportional to the
amount of rain in advance of the event, I was pretty much glued to Doppler radar for
six days in a row. Most parts of Illinois had been extremely dry in September and
October, so the two inches of rain that fell on White City during the week was soaked
up like a lamb’s wool sponge. Upon arrival at the club grounds on Sunday morning, a
less informed person might have assumed no rain had fallen there in weeks. My own
arrival was by way of Rolla, Missouri, where I had picked up Jeff Wendel’s Gas Gas
300EC on Saturday and loaded it alongside the KTM in my pickup truck. His keen
observation that I was carrying a load of Euro-trash (Spain and Austria, representin’)
made more sense than owning three motorcycles with only enough space at home
for two. Warrenville’s very own Tony Smith came to the rescue with an offer to host a
bike until I could deliver one to its new temporary home down at the farm.
Jeff Smith (no relation to Tony) met me at the club grounds with congratulations that I’
d rejoined him in a semi-exclusive society called Dudes Who Own Three Dirt Bikes for
No Logical Reason (Jeff is also a member of a more exclusive subset of this
association that is reserved for married guys). In my own mind, logic suggested the
Gas Gas would replace the KTM, which was today competing in possibly its final race
with me onboard. The venerable 300MXC was decked out in its usual timekeeping
attire, as the Big Red is a traditional timekeeping enduro. The 18 mph speed average
was a bit of a surprise, although it really shouldn't have been with my past experience
here. The woods are tight and the pace is usually moderate, especially if mud is a
factor, and it’s entirely possible that a more typical 24 mph average would have some
C riders houring out before the halfway point. A set of multi-colored Sharpies got my
24 mph roll chart modified well enough to work for an 18 mph schedule.
At signup, I chose the latest row available: 26. The old-school nature of the Big Red
tends to turn off enough would-be competitors that only 30 rows are necessary, so I
was near the back of the pack. With a large portion of the course run through woods
that are only ridden during this race, choosing an early row virtually guarantees that
you’ll be connecting the arrows with new trails for most of the day. I wanted none of
that.
Within the first mile of the trails around the club grounds, young gun Kiel Mueller used
his AA skills to quickly put himself out of sight of me and the rest of our row. I fought
arm pump and the nagging feeling that my throttle hand was way too close to the
brake lever adjuster bolt. Halfway through the first test section I glanced down at my
throttle and observed the result of what is commonly referred to as the Stichnoth
Maintenance Plan: fix something, mess up something else. This time it was front
brake bleeding, which required loosening the throttle housing brackets. Some would
just go ahead and snug them up again, but not me. I like challenge of rubbing my
fingers against foreign objects for 30 minutes at a time while battling an intense urge
to release my aching hands from the handlebars.
The test ended at the opposite side of the staging area, where I tightened the throttle
housing and gassed up. We took another ride through the woods to the south
boundary of the club grounds and headed down a country road to the site of my 1999
crash that snapped a rib or two. The A riders would ride this section twice,
consecutively, while the B and C riders would take a long break after their first pass. It
started poorly. Somehow I misread the flip cards and checked in a minute early,
which I always figure is only a one-point mistake since in theory I’d be checking out of
the section a minute earlier. That theory was trashed when I misread an arrow and
took a longer, lower route into a swamp. Seven exhausting minutes later I was
unstuck and back on the trail.
Even with 75 or so riders clearing a path ahead of me, the trails were tight, twisty and
somewhat treacherous in places. Every so often a series of Moose Run logs would
show up around a blind corner, or a deep gully with only one nasty line to plow
through. And just like the dry Moose Runs of past years, at each 18-inch long lying
diagonally across an off-camber uphill or a particularly steep creek bank I thought My
god, this would be torture if this place was wet.
A couple miles later I heard the telltale flopping of the plastic taillight/fender combo,
my way of making a two-stroke smoke-spouting motorcycle appear street legal (not
even close). The words of Matt Sellers came to mind from our summer vacation in
Taylor Park, the last time my zip-tie method of securing the end of the fender extender
failed. He suggested a screw would do a better job. I said Oh no, these zip-ties last
about two years. I had some time to reflect upon that on the side of the trail while
pulling out a couple new zip-ties from my fanny pack. Three more minutes lost. I kept
the KTM on two wheels through the rest of the section and was greeted by Jeff Smith
at the check.
The second pass through this section was much smoother than the first, mainly
because I avoided the swamp. Sort of. In what is becoming a bad habit of late, I
accidentally cut off part of the course, some of which included the same mud hole I’d
stuck myself in the first go around. It all started with a guy stuck on the side of a creek
bank, same as my first pass. I could see him from a distance as I was blasting down
the center of a 30-foot-wide creek. Instead of waiting my turn, like I did on the
previous loop, I spotted another way up the creek bank about 100 feet ahead of the
guy blocking the exit. At the top of the creek bank I pointed the KTM in the general
direction of the stuck bike ahead and found myself dangerously close to a big mud
hole. Another guy behind me had followed my lead and kept going straight instead of
turning in my direction. He yelled at me to follow and I did (note to self: stop listening to
people). A minute later I realized that mud hole was oddly similar to the one I’d earlier
spent 7 minutes pushing my way out. Evidently my shortcut converged with the mud
hole. How much I’d cut off the course, I had no idea, but I wasn't alone.
The rest of the loop was some of the best riding of the day, now that the trail was well
broken in. Jeff Smith again marked my score and I headed down the road to the
remote gas stop. Mileage markers showed a 0.4-mile difference from my odometer,
so I’d missed less than two minutes of riding. I was still on track to meet my
endlessly repeated goal of “Just Finish”, but doing it without those 4 tenths would be
just a little less satisfying.
The most interesting part of the course came in the 4th test at a spot we’d been
warned about at the riders meeting. Instead of using a road to cross over I-55, the
club decided to go underground by way of a culvert. As interstate drainage goes, civil
engineers don’t mess around when it comes to limited access highways. This was
one serious culvert, the Mother of All Culverts, if you will. From end to end was about
the length of a football field, approximately 10 feet square. Despite the near drought
conditions, somehow, someway, the entire length was filled with mud and water. And
not just a light coating of mud, mind you, a 20-inch-deep layer, based on my own
estimation of how far my front wheel was diving into the ruts. Club members were on
hand to point out the best line to enter the culvert, but from there we were on our own.
I dropped down into first gear, jerked the throttle all the way to its stop, and held on.
Twenty feet in I couldn’t see anything except a distant light. I felt the KTM struggling for
traction, the rear wheel churning through the water and the front end occasionally
dipping down into a deep rut. A hundred feet in, I could make out the reflection of the
wake left behind from earlier riders and waves of water pushed ahead of my bike by
its front wheel. At two hundred feet inside the culvert, the front wheel began a series of
dives that ended with me stuck in water up to the airbox. Instead of killing the engine
when it began bogging, I let it run just long enough for the carb vent hoses to start
sucking up water like a 5-horse shop vac. There I was, standing in water up to my
knees, the roar of engines echoing through square concrete, water from other riders’
screaming bikes splashing my left side, one guy falling over on his way past me and
frantically righting it before the airbox filled with water. Ahead of me was the sight of
half a dozen guys peering in at the end of the tunnel, laughing off their collective
asses. They weren't about to walk 75 feet through the muck to pull me out.
The rear end lifted surprisingly easily from the hole I’d helped create. The carburetor
vent hoses were still submerged, so I pushed the bike forward to slightly higher
ground, then began kicking. With a splash of water now inside the carb and headed
for the cylinder, I knew I had no choice but to keep on kicking over the engine until the
moisture worked its way out. Twenty kicks was all it took for the engine to gurgle to
life. I held open the throttle for a half-minute until it ran smoothly, then spun my way
out of the culvert.
Somewhere in this loop I glanced down at my odometer and read 58.9 miles. A few
minutes later I saw the same thing. At the end of the loop I discovered why: the
odometer cable had been yanked from the gear drive at the wheel. So much for
timekeeping. Actually, it’s not a complete disaster as long as mileage markers are
posted periodically. But what you must know is when to enter woods if you suspect a
check may be just inside. That’s not so easy without an odometer. Luckily for me,
Ryan Moss was killing time on the side of a gravel road just ahead of the next woods
section. He told me when to go in and was spot-on. The course workers were flipping
the 26 card just as I approached.
This 10-mile section ended up being the last, as the interstate tunnel became
impassable. We were sent back to the staging area without completing the final loop,
and that was fine by me. I drove back to Chicago with my load of Euro-trash and the
satisfaction of conquering the Big Red for the first time in my history. It was more than
good.
Post-race note
Here’s a word of advice: don’t try on the expensive boots. Trust me, just don’t do it. On
the Saturday before the race, I left Chicago without my old AXO mid-level boots, and
instead of calling anyone and everyone I knew who might have a spare set of size-11’
s, I decided my old boots were pretty worn out anyway and made a detour to
Donelson Cycles in St. Louis. Just for kicks I tried on Fox’s latest Forma boots
and…OH…MY…GOD. If you’re old enough to have owned a pair of Moon Boots for
the winter season, it was like that. Form-fitting to the max. I had no choice – the credit
card came out quicker than an Al Gore acceptance speech and in short order I
became an owner of the most expensive, albeit most comfortable, set of boots ever to
grace my beat up feet. The entire race I never even knew they were there. There’s no
going back, of course. Mid-level boots just won’t suffice anymore. So I’ll say it again:
leave the expensive boots on the rack. Don’t touch them when tempted, just back
away slowly and exit the bike shop immediately.
White City, Illinois
4th of 9 in Vet A
If there’s such a thing as an exasperating enduro, then the Cahokia Creek Dirt Riders
have one in their annual Big Red Enduro. It’s been a White City, Illinois tradition for
about a decade longer than I've graced this planet with my existence. I’d previously
attempted the Big Red four times, each a failure due to weather-related conditions
(houred out twice), bodily injury (broken ribs) and bike problems (once). After four
consecutive DNF's from 1999-2002, I took a four year break from the Big Red
because it kept conflicting with my annual weeklong practice of breaking my dad’s
farm equipment in October, otherwise known as the Farm Vacation. But this year,
harvest wrapped up early and the Big Red was back on my racing schedule.
As is common with any race whose level of enjoyment is directly proportional to the
amount of rain in advance of the event, I was pretty much glued to Doppler radar for
six days in a row. Most parts of Illinois had been extremely dry in September and
October, so the two inches of rain that fell on White City during the week was soaked
up like a lamb’s wool sponge. Upon arrival at the club grounds on Sunday morning, a
less informed person might have assumed no rain had fallen there in weeks. My own
arrival was by way of Rolla, Missouri, where I had picked up Jeff Wendel’s Gas Gas
300EC on Saturday and loaded it alongside the KTM in my pickup truck. His keen
observation that I was carrying a load of Euro-trash (Spain and Austria, representin’)
made more sense than owning three motorcycles with only enough space at home
for two. Warrenville’s very own Tony Smith came to the rescue with an offer to host a
bike until I could deliver one to its new temporary home down at the farm.
Jeff Smith (no relation to Tony) met me at the club grounds with congratulations that I’
d rejoined him in a semi-exclusive society called Dudes Who Own Three Dirt Bikes for
No Logical Reason (Jeff is also a member of a more exclusive subset of this
association that is reserved for married guys). In my own mind, logic suggested the
Gas Gas would replace the KTM, which was today competing in possibly its final race
with me onboard. The venerable 300MXC was decked out in its usual timekeeping
attire, as the Big Red is a traditional timekeeping enduro. The 18 mph speed average
was a bit of a surprise, although it really shouldn't have been with my past experience
here. The woods are tight and the pace is usually moderate, especially if mud is a
factor, and it’s entirely possible that a more typical 24 mph average would have some
C riders houring out before the halfway point. A set of multi-colored Sharpies got my
24 mph roll chart modified well enough to work for an 18 mph schedule.
At signup, I chose the latest row available: 26. The old-school nature of the Big Red
tends to turn off enough would-be competitors that only 30 rows are necessary, so I
was near the back of the pack. With a large portion of the course run through woods
that are only ridden during this race, choosing an early row virtually guarantees that
you’ll be connecting the arrows with new trails for most of the day. I wanted none of
that.
Within the first mile of the trails around the club grounds, young gun Kiel Mueller used
his AA skills to quickly put himself out of sight of me and the rest of our row. I fought
arm pump and the nagging feeling that my throttle hand was way too close to the
brake lever adjuster bolt. Halfway through the first test section I glanced down at my
throttle and observed the result of what is commonly referred to as the Stichnoth
Maintenance Plan: fix something, mess up something else. This time it was front
brake bleeding, which required loosening the throttle housing brackets. Some would
just go ahead and snug them up again, but not me. I like challenge of rubbing my
fingers against foreign objects for 30 minutes at a time while battling an intense urge
to release my aching hands from the handlebars.
The test ended at the opposite side of the staging area, where I tightened the throttle
housing and gassed up. We took another ride through the woods to the south
boundary of the club grounds and headed down a country road to the site of my 1999
crash that snapped a rib or two. The A riders would ride this section twice,
consecutively, while the B and C riders would take a long break after their first pass. It
started poorly. Somehow I misread the flip cards and checked in a minute early,
which I always figure is only a one-point mistake since in theory I’d be checking out of
the section a minute earlier. That theory was trashed when I misread an arrow and
took a longer, lower route into a swamp. Seven exhausting minutes later I was
unstuck and back on the trail.
Even with 75 or so riders clearing a path ahead of me, the trails were tight, twisty and
somewhat treacherous in places. Every so often a series of Moose Run logs would
show up around a blind corner, or a deep gully with only one nasty line to plow
through. And just like the dry Moose Runs of past years, at each 18-inch long lying
diagonally across an off-camber uphill or a particularly steep creek bank I thought My
god, this would be torture if this place was wet.
A couple miles later I heard the telltale flopping of the plastic taillight/fender combo,
my way of making a two-stroke smoke-spouting motorcycle appear street legal (not
even close). The words of Matt Sellers came to mind from our summer vacation in
Taylor Park, the last time my zip-tie method of securing the end of the fender extender
failed. He suggested a screw would do a better job. I said Oh no, these zip-ties last
about two years. I had some time to reflect upon that on the side of the trail while
pulling out a couple new zip-ties from my fanny pack. Three more minutes lost. I kept
the KTM on two wheels through the rest of the section and was greeted by Jeff Smith
at the check.
The second pass through this section was much smoother than the first, mainly
because I avoided the swamp. Sort of. In what is becoming a bad habit of late, I
accidentally cut off part of the course, some of which included the same mud hole I’d
stuck myself in the first go around. It all started with a guy stuck on the side of a creek
bank, same as my first pass. I could see him from a distance as I was blasting down
the center of a 30-foot-wide creek. Instead of waiting my turn, like I did on the
previous loop, I spotted another way up the creek bank about 100 feet ahead of the
guy blocking the exit. At the top of the creek bank I pointed the KTM in the general
direction of the stuck bike ahead and found myself dangerously close to a big mud
hole. Another guy behind me had followed my lead and kept going straight instead of
turning in my direction. He yelled at me to follow and I did (note to self: stop listening to
people). A minute later I realized that mud hole was oddly similar to the one I’d earlier
spent 7 minutes pushing my way out. Evidently my shortcut converged with the mud
hole. How much I’d cut off the course, I had no idea, but I wasn't alone.
The rest of the loop was some of the best riding of the day, now that the trail was well
broken in. Jeff Smith again marked my score and I headed down the road to the
remote gas stop. Mileage markers showed a 0.4-mile difference from my odometer,
so I’d missed less than two minutes of riding. I was still on track to meet my
endlessly repeated goal of “Just Finish”, but doing it without those 4 tenths would be
just a little less satisfying.
The most interesting part of the course came in the 4th test at a spot we’d been
warned about at the riders meeting. Instead of using a road to cross over I-55, the
club decided to go underground by way of a culvert. As interstate drainage goes, civil
engineers don’t mess around when it comes to limited access highways. This was
one serious culvert, the Mother of All Culverts, if you will. From end to end was about
the length of a football field, approximately 10 feet square. Despite the near drought
conditions, somehow, someway, the entire length was filled with mud and water. And
not just a light coating of mud, mind you, a 20-inch-deep layer, based on my own
estimation of how far my front wheel was diving into the ruts. Club members were on
hand to point out the best line to enter the culvert, but from there we were on our own.
I dropped down into first gear, jerked the throttle all the way to its stop, and held on.
Twenty feet in I couldn’t see anything except a distant light. I felt the KTM struggling for
traction, the rear wheel churning through the water and the front end occasionally
dipping down into a deep rut. A hundred feet in, I could make out the reflection of the
wake left behind from earlier riders and waves of water pushed ahead of my bike by
its front wheel. At two hundred feet inside the culvert, the front wheel began a series of
dives that ended with me stuck in water up to the airbox. Instead of killing the engine
when it began bogging, I let it run just long enough for the carb vent hoses to start
sucking up water like a 5-horse shop vac. There I was, standing in water up to my
knees, the roar of engines echoing through square concrete, water from other riders’
screaming bikes splashing my left side, one guy falling over on his way past me and
frantically righting it before the airbox filled with water. Ahead of me was the sight of
half a dozen guys peering in at the end of the tunnel, laughing off their collective
asses. They weren't about to walk 75 feet through the muck to pull me out.
The rear end lifted surprisingly easily from the hole I’d helped create. The carburetor
vent hoses were still submerged, so I pushed the bike forward to slightly higher
ground, then began kicking. With a splash of water now inside the carb and headed
for the cylinder, I knew I had no choice but to keep on kicking over the engine until the
moisture worked its way out. Twenty kicks was all it took for the engine to gurgle to
life. I held open the throttle for a half-minute until it ran smoothly, then spun my way
out of the culvert.
Somewhere in this loop I glanced down at my odometer and read 58.9 miles. A few
minutes later I saw the same thing. At the end of the loop I discovered why: the
odometer cable had been yanked from the gear drive at the wheel. So much for
timekeeping. Actually, it’s not a complete disaster as long as mileage markers are
posted periodically. But what you must know is when to enter woods if you suspect a
check may be just inside. That’s not so easy without an odometer. Luckily for me,
Ryan Moss was killing time on the side of a gravel road just ahead of the next woods
section. He told me when to go in and was spot-on. The course workers were flipping
the 26 card just as I approached.
This 10-mile section ended up being the last, as the interstate tunnel became
impassable. We were sent back to the staging area without completing the final loop,
and that was fine by me. I drove back to Chicago with my load of Euro-trash and the
satisfaction of conquering the Big Red for the first time in my history. It was more than
good.
Post-race note
Here’s a word of advice: don’t try on the expensive boots. Trust me, just don’t do it. On
the Saturday before the race, I left Chicago without my old AXO mid-level boots, and
instead of calling anyone and everyone I knew who might have a spare set of size-11’
s, I decided my old boots were pretty worn out anyway and made a detour to
Donelson Cycles in St. Louis. Just for kicks I tried on Fox’s latest Forma boots
and…OH…MY…GOD. If you’re old enough to have owned a pair of Moon Boots for
the winter season, it was like that. Form-fitting to the max. I had no choice – the credit
card came out quicker than an Al Gore acceptance speech and in short order I
became an owner of the most expensive, albeit most comfortable, set of boots ever to
grace my beat up feet. The entire race I never even knew they were there. There’s no
going back, of course. Mid-level boots just won’t suffice anymore. So I’ll say it again:
leave the expensive boots on the rack. Don’t touch them when tempted, just back
away slowly and exit the bike shop immediately.
White City, Illinois
Goshen, Indiana
Goshen, Indiana
November 4, 2007
Goshen, Indiana
6th of 12 in Vet A
These words are commonly (and accurately) used to depict Regis Philbin, but
another man fits this description as tight as an Isotoner glove: Agus MacGuyver.
Back in his days of freelance work for the Phoenix Foundation, Mac could build a
supercomputer out of wing nuts, dental floss and used French fry grease. In his
image, I took every last bit of mechanical improvisation within my cluttered brain and
used it to pass tech inspection at the Turkey Creek Enduro near Goshen, Indiana.
The Goshen event was my first attempt at an enduro, in 1995, when I rode a 1994
Suzuki RMX250 with a blown shock seal and didn't even know it. I was a bit less
experienced rider back then. On a cool, windy November day I showed up without a
roll chart, grabbed a couple long sleeved shirts, threw on my riding jacket and winter
gloves and then wondered why I was so dang hot inside the woods. I wondered why
guys on dirt bikes were crouched in the woods as if to hide (or lie in wait?). I
wondered why my rear suspension was so bouncy and why I was so dang hot inside
the woods.
Those mysteries would eventually be solved in the years leading up to 2007 and my
return to the venue that launched my desire to figure out what all the fuss was about
with enduro racing. The fuss is this: 4-6 hours of riding in the woods with occasional
breaks to catch your breath. All one must do to enjoy this is learn a bunch of odd
rules about riding not for speed, but for speed average. There’s also a rule or two
about various functions your bike must perform prior to the race, such as the ability to
produce light in various forms and to not be a loud, obnoxious, spark-spewing pig.
These requirements vary by location. Some enduro-hosting clubs have no exhaust
decibel limits and most only require the appearance of street legality, so anyone
mounting a headlight and taillight and carrying a motorcycle license plate (could be
from a Honda scooter or a Harley; nobody seems to care as long as it’s a license
plate) is generally good to go.
Not so at Turkey Creek.
To receive the standard AMA signup form for entering the race, passing tech
inspection was mandatory. No pass, no race. I’d read the event flyer on the Riders
Motorcycle Club website and knew the club required working lights, but I thought
maybe they were just talking about the headlight. That was an incorrect assumption.
The guy manning tech inspection on the edge of the New Paris industrial park, the
staging area for the race, nodded as I connected the 9-volt battery to my KX250’s
headlight and gave me a thumbs-up on the sound test. “Looks like your taillight’s not
working,” he said. “Gee, that’s odd,” I replied, knowing full well that the only way it
would produce any light was if it were set afire. I’d stripped the internals from inside
the amber lens – no need to subject a perfectly good light bulb and wiring harness to
the abuse of off-road racing, right? But now I was in a bit of a pickle. The tech
inspector ordered me back to my truck to make the taillight work.
What does one do when faced with such a challenge? MacGuyver-ize, of course. I
yanked out a small bulb from under the dash of my pickup truck, pulled the battery
out of my digital camera, snipped two pieces of wire from my torque converter shut-
off switch, duct taped the wires to the battery and the light bulb, stuffed the bulb inside
the taillight lens, zip-tied the taillight assembly to the rear fender and hoped it would
continue producing light until I made it back to tech inspection (this required a bumpy
ride over a levee between a couple of the industrial park’s waste water holding
ponds). All was acceptable to the inspector guy and I rushed over to the signup
building.
By this time, the latest row available was 14, in part because the Turkey Creek
Enduro was a two-day affair. Those racing on Saturday had already chosen their
rows for Sunday, which left me with an earlier row and about 30 minutes to gear up
and program my new Watchdog enduro computer for its maiden voyage. The
Watchdog installation needed some of its own MacGuyver-izing over the weekend, in
particular the mounting of the magnetic pick-up sensor at the KX250’s front brake
caliper. The pre-testing had gone off without a hitch, but a mile into the course the
odometer quit counting. Without enough time to do my usual enduro ritual of duct
taping two LDC clocks and a roll chart holder to my handlebars, I was relying totally
on the Watchdog, which now wasn't working.
After the second reset, following about 5 miles of singletrack, I fiddled with the
sensor wire. No luck, still dead. I yanked the camera battery off the taillight before it
became trail junk, then followed a guy who I thought was on my row. Turns out he
was in the row behind me, so for several minutes I put myself further behind
schedule by trying to key off a slower guy. Once I realized my mistake, I jumped out
ahead and rode hard, but still dropped 3 points at the next check. No other Vet A
riders would drop more than 2 points here, including Upland row buddy Bryan Marsh
who was several minutes behind me on row 31. I had some time to make up.
The next timed section was the longest of the day, with generous helpings of logs,
leaf-covered singletrack, and remnants of past creek dredging. As would be evident
throughout the race, the Goshen area natives do a lot digging. Creek straightening,
gravel excavating, strip mining, you name it, it’s been dug. Row 14 turned out to be a
pretty good choice for trail quality. By the time my KX arrived in the woods, the course
was mostly broken in by the 30 or so riders ahead of me and the soil was still fairly
smooth. I dropped only 13 points here, with only the top three Vet A finishers making
it through quicker.
At the next reset I chatted with Vet B and Illinois rider Neal Haarman, who was
sporting a Watchdog like me. We compared notes on the Big Red Enduro at White
City two weeks prior, where Neal enjoyed the course so well he decided to ride about
10 miles of it a second time. His computer had us right on time leading up to the next
set of woods, where by divine intervention (or enough fiddling with the sensor wire)
my Watchdog finally began counting miles. At last, I could tell exactly when I needed
to enter the singletrack. No more staring at vibrating 16-point Times New Roman font
on a roll chart and cross-referencing the numbers with the time displayed on the
LCD clocks, all while trying to avoid crashing into trees. It almost felt like cheating.
After a remote pit stop for gas, the A and AA riders were given about 4 miles of trail all
for themselves. Neal continued down a road while I darted into an old strip mine,
engulfed in thick brush, trees and hills. Jason Roerig, the other A rider on my row,
took off ahead and disappeared. The trail arrived at an active gravel pit with a well
placed sign noting a drop-off into the pit. Without that warning, I would have sailed
over the edge like an Al Gore corporate jet on its way to an energy conservation rally.
I dropped another six points at the checkpoint following the gravel pit, then rejoined
the B and C riders on a road section. It was here that I first doubted the Watchdog. I
knew I’d passed a reset but the computer told me I was still late. That didn't compute
(get it? Compute? Enduro computer? Oh hell, just keep on reading). Thing was, the
reset was only five minute’s worth and I’d been later than that at the last check.
Indeed, I was behind schedule and would stay that way until the final test.
At the final reset before the last 14 miles of the course, Fred Thompson (no relation
to Fred Thompson) on row 18 pulled up behind a group of us pausing next to a road.
The end of his pinky finger appeared to have been severed. The sight of it was
enough to make anyone a bit more cautious on the trail. Down the road, we were
checked into a woods section that would eventually take us back to the staging area.
I dropped 6 points there to finish with a total score of 47, good enough for 6th place.
If you've ever reached the point where you’re a little burned out with the intensity of
hare scrambles or GNCC-type racing, enduros are a great way to rediscover why we
all ride dirt bikes in the woods. It’s just a lot of fun. The hosting clubs put out
Herculean efforts in staging these enduros, and the Riders M/C should be
commended for the Turkey Creek Enduro. Great job, guys.
Goshen, Indiana
6th of 12 in Vet A
These words are commonly (and accurately) used to depict Regis Philbin, but
another man fits this description as tight as an Isotoner glove: Agus MacGuyver.
Back in his days of freelance work for the Phoenix Foundation, Mac could build a
supercomputer out of wing nuts, dental floss and used French fry grease. In his
image, I took every last bit of mechanical improvisation within my cluttered brain and
used it to pass tech inspection at the Turkey Creek Enduro near Goshen, Indiana.
The Goshen event was my first attempt at an enduro, in 1995, when I rode a 1994
Suzuki RMX250 with a blown shock seal and didn't even know it. I was a bit less
experienced rider back then. On a cool, windy November day I showed up without a
roll chart, grabbed a couple long sleeved shirts, threw on my riding jacket and winter
gloves and then wondered why I was so dang hot inside the woods. I wondered why
guys on dirt bikes were crouched in the woods as if to hide (or lie in wait?). I
wondered why my rear suspension was so bouncy and why I was so dang hot inside
the woods.
Those mysteries would eventually be solved in the years leading up to 2007 and my
return to the venue that launched my desire to figure out what all the fuss was about
with enduro racing. The fuss is this: 4-6 hours of riding in the woods with occasional
breaks to catch your breath. All one must do to enjoy this is learn a bunch of odd
rules about riding not for speed, but for speed average. There’s also a rule or two
about various functions your bike must perform prior to the race, such as the ability to
produce light in various forms and to not be a loud, obnoxious, spark-spewing pig.
These requirements vary by location. Some enduro-hosting clubs have no exhaust
decibel limits and most only require the appearance of street legality, so anyone
mounting a headlight and taillight and carrying a motorcycle license plate (could be
from a Honda scooter or a Harley; nobody seems to care as long as it’s a license
plate) is generally good to go.
Not so at Turkey Creek.
To receive the standard AMA signup form for entering the race, passing tech
inspection was mandatory. No pass, no race. I’d read the event flyer on the Riders
Motorcycle Club website and knew the club required working lights, but I thought
maybe they were just talking about the headlight. That was an incorrect assumption.
The guy manning tech inspection on the edge of the New Paris industrial park, the
staging area for the race, nodded as I connected the 9-volt battery to my KX250’s
headlight and gave me a thumbs-up on the sound test. “Looks like your taillight’s not
working,” he said. “Gee, that’s odd,” I replied, knowing full well that the only way it
would produce any light was if it were set afire. I’d stripped the internals from inside
the amber lens – no need to subject a perfectly good light bulb and wiring harness to
the abuse of off-road racing, right? But now I was in a bit of a pickle. The tech
inspector ordered me back to my truck to make the taillight work.
What does one do when faced with such a challenge? MacGuyver-ize, of course. I
yanked out a small bulb from under the dash of my pickup truck, pulled the battery
out of my digital camera, snipped two pieces of wire from my torque converter shut-
off switch, duct taped the wires to the battery and the light bulb, stuffed the bulb inside
the taillight lens, zip-tied the taillight assembly to the rear fender and hoped it would
continue producing light until I made it back to tech inspection (this required a bumpy
ride over a levee between a couple of the industrial park’s waste water holding
ponds). All was acceptable to the inspector guy and I rushed over to the signup
building.
By this time, the latest row available was 14, in part because the Turkey Creek
Enduro was a two-day affair. Those racing on Saturday had already chosen their
rows for Sunday, which left me with an earlier row and about 30 minutes to gear up
and program my new Watchdog enduro computer for its maiden voyage. The
Watchdog installation needed some of its own MacGuyver-izing over the weekend, in
particular the mounting of the magnetic pick-up sensor at the KX250’s front brake
caliper. The pre-testing had gone off without a hitch, but a mile into the course the
odometer quit counting. Without enough time to do my usual enduro ritual of duct
taping two LDC clocks and a roll chart holder to my handlebars, I was relying totally
on the Watchdog, which now wasn't working.
After the second reset, following about 5 miles of singletrack, I fiddled with the
sensor wire. No luck, still dead. I yanked the camera battery off the taillight before it
became trail junk, then followed a guy who I thought was on my row. Turns out he
was in the row behind me, so for several minutes I put myself further behind
schedule by trying to key off a slower guy. Once I realized my mistake, I jumped out
ahead and rode hard, but still dropped 3 points at the next check. No other Vet A
riders would drop more than 2 points here, including Upland row buddy Bryan Marsh
who was several minutes behind me on row 31. I had some time to make up.
The next timed section was the longest of the day, with generous helpings of logs,
leaf-covered singletrack, and remnants of past creek dredging. As would be evident
throughout the race, the Goshen area natives do a lot digging. Creek straightening,
gravel excavating, strip mining, you name it, it’s been dug. Row 14 turned out to be a
pretty good choice for trail quality. By the time my KX arrived in the woods, the course
was mostly broken in by the 30 or so riders ahead of me and the soil was still fairly
smooth. I dropped only 13 points here, with only the top three Vet A finishers making
it through quicker.
At the next reset I chatted with Vet B and Illinois rider Neal Haarman, who was
sporting a Watchdog like me. We compared notes on the Big Red Enduro at White
City two weeks prior, where Neal enjoyed the course so well he decided to ride about
10 miles of it a second time. His computer had us right on time leading up to the next
set of woods, where by divine intervention (or enough fiddling with the sensor wire)
my Watchdog finally began counting miles. At last, I could tell exactly when I needed
to enter the singletrack. No more staring at vibrating 16-point Times New Roman font
on a roll chart and cross-referencing the numbers with the time displayed on the
LCD clocks, all while trying to avoid crashing into trees. It almost felt like cheating.
After a remote pit stop for gas, the A and AA riders were given about 4 miles of trail all
for themselves. Neal continued down a road while I darted into an old strip mine,
engulfed in thick brush, trees and hills. Jason Roerig, the other A rider on my row,
took off ahead and disappeared. The trail arrived at an active gravel pit with a well
placed sign noting a drop-off into the pit. Without that warning, I would have sailed
over the edge like an Al Gore corporate jet on its way to an energy conservation rally.
I dropped another six points at the checkpoint following the gravel pit, then rejoined
the B and C riders on a road section. It was here that I first doubted the Watchdog. I
knew I’d passed a reset but the computer told me I was still late. That didn't compute
(get it? Compute? Enduro computer? Oh hell, just keep on reading). Thing was, the
reset was only five minute’s worth and I’d been later than that at the last check.
Indeed, I was behind schedule and would stay that way until the final test.
At the final reset before the last 14 miles of the course, Fred Thompson (no relation
to Fred Thompson) on row 18 pulled up behind a group of us pausing next to a road.
The end of his pinky finger appeared to have been severed. The sight of it was
enough to make anyone a bit more cautious on the trail. Down the road, we were
checked into a woods section that would eventually take us back to the staging area.
I dropped 6 points there to finish with a total score of 47, good enough for 6th place.
If you've ever reached the point where you’re a little burned out with the intensity of
hare scrambles or GNCC-type racing, enduros are a great way to rediscover why we
all ride dirt bikes in the woods. It’s just a lot of fun. The hosting clubs put out
Herculean efforts in staging these enduros, and the Riders M/C should be
commended for the Turkey Creek Enduro. Great job, guys.
| His mind is the ultimate weapon. For him, saving the day is all in a day's work. He acts fast and thinks faster. Part boy-scout. Part genius. All hero. |
| Enduro riders kickin' it Old School |
| Trials tire in the woods: why, just why? |
 |  |  |