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Ozark 100
Mansfield, Missouri
Mansfield, Missouri
November 26, 2010
Ozark 100
Mansfield, Missouri
1st of 16 in Vet A
It's Saturday evening, two days after Thanksgiving. Most likely, you are relaxing in some
fashion, maybe enjoying the last of the leftover turkey or picking over what remains of
Black Friday deals at your local shopping establishment. Possibly, you're in front of the
TV, taking in one of the final weekends of the college football regular season. You are
warm and rested and thankful for all the comforts in your life.
Or maybe you're within a vast forest in Southern Missouri, straddling an off-road
motorcycle, cold and wet and stopped along a trail with only a 50-foot envelope of light
identifying your existence. You've been here before, three times already. During the
day, you completed the equivalent of a runner's marathon, or an Olympic triathlon, all
while a cloudy sky let loose with an inch of rain. You've seen endless side-hill trails
more suitable for mountain goats than motorcycles. You've piloted your dirt bike up and
over rock ledges and boulders so infamous that they are given special names. You are
in a state of exhaustion that goes beyond physical.
Now it is nighttime and you know what must happen next. With a pair of small but
powerful lights as your guide, you must force your tired dirt bike across 40 yards of
rocky trail which drops steeply into a deep ravine, then rises as quickly as it fell. You
know that forward momentum is all that will carry you up the other side of the ravine, as
your rear tire is worn to a set of polished nubs that, 80 miles earlier, were perfectly
square knobs of rubber.
You also know that what follows these 40 yards is every bit as difficult, for the awaiting
boulders have a special name.
Such was my position around the same time the University of Missouri was
celebrating its Border War football victory over Kansas, which could very well be the
scientific definition of polar opposites, as it relates to entertainment. Mine was in the
form of the night portion of the Ozark 100 off-road motorcycle race; theirs was Jager
Bombs at Harpos. Either way, we were both satisfied. Not only had I qualified for three
laps of darkness, but I was actually there in the hills and rocks and trees, attempting to
complete the course.
This adventure, another of many in my 17 years of off-road motorcycle racing, was a
journey that began two seasons ago. But its roots go back much earlier than that.
In my past life as a 7-year resident of St. Louis, I'd learned all the names and locations
of the little towns and hamlets that attracted off-road racers to the Missouri Hare
Scrambles Championship series. These two-hour cross country races, 15 or so each
year, took me to the far extremes of the Show-Me state and added thousands of miles
to my little red pickup truck. I'd spent countless hours learning things about my regular
riding partner, Matt Sellers, that sometimes I'd have been better off not knowing (and
he of me, I'm sure). The memories never left, nor did my desire to return to Missouri as
often as time allowed, to compete in an occasional hare scramble or enduro.
After leaving St. Louis for the urban sprawl of Chicagoland, I kept in touch with my old
racing scene by way of the Hillbilly Grand Prix internet forum, which in 2008 was abuzz
with the news of a 100-mile race to take place at the Hardwood Hills Ranch near
Mansfield. The race would be promoted by Jon "Spud" Simons, who by that time had
grown to regional fame in off-road circles as the creator of "Spud-Cut", a type of trail so
narrow that it must be carved through trees and underbrush (in Illinois, we call this
"riding in the woods", but "Spud-Cut" is less common in the old-growth Missouri
forests). The newly named Ozark 100 was to be run as three separate stages on the
Saturday after Thanksgiving, with riders having to finish each stage well enough to
qualify for the next one.
Spud's unique format for the "100 Miler", as it would come to be known, was
somewhat consistent with that of his Hillbilly Grand Prix hare scrambles series, in that
it contained two "motos" during the day. Finishing positions in the two motos at Hillbilly
races were averaged to determine the riders’ final standings. The Ozark 100 would
follow this format, but Spud threw in something extraordinary for the "100 Miler": A third
race would happen at night, and it would contain special obstacles that the day riders
would not have to face.
The inaugural 2008 race attracted riders from a wide geography, including national
fast-guys Ian Blythe from Colorado and Cole Kirkpatrick of Texas. The ensuing internet
chatter piqued my interest in this event, so I reserved a spot for it on my calendar in
2009. As the 2nd Annual Ozark 100 approached, I bought a set of 10-watt LED lights,
just in case I qualified for the night race. I reserved a hotel room an hour away in
Lebanon, so that I could get a good night's sleep before the race. And that was pretty
much the extent of my preparations.
As it turned out, my lack of any sort of physical exercise during the month of November
left me gasping for air about halfway into the second lap. The physical demands of this
race began exceeding my expectations about the same time a stark reality hit me like
an overhead tree limb: I would never wish to ride these trails in the dark. The night race
was of no concern to me anyway, for after 50 miles I could barely move. In 2010, I
vowed to train for the race, ride as often as I could in November, and at least qualify for
(and ride) the afternoon moto. That goal was met, but 75 miles was my limit. I qualified
for the night race but had no strength to continue.
Fast forward to 2011, and the fourth version of the "100 Miler". I'd prepared for the race
in roughly the same fashion as last year by riding as much as possible in November,
setting up my bicycle trainer in the basement (and actually using it), and lifting weights.
On the way to Mansfield, I carb loaded with a huge bowl of rice at Crazy Bowls & Wraps
in St. Louis and spent a relaxing evening at a hotel in St. Robert. Saturday morning, I
scouted the boulders of the "VW" section and its cruel hills and ravines nearby, as well
as two other challenging sections named "The Wall" and "Somethin' Special". My KTM
250XC had been outfitted with a new chain, sprockets, and a rear tire. My gear bag
contained three sets of jerseys, pants, gloves and socks, along with two sets of
goggles and roll-offs. I brought a full box of Band Aid Tough Strips to shield my hands
from blisters. I even had a separate helmet set up especially for the night race, should
I qualify. I was as prepared as I knew how.
I would need every bit of that preparation. The weather prognosticators had left one day
of rain in the forecast during most of the prior week, naturally the same day as the
Ozark 100. I was hopeful the forecasters would change their minds, but at 9:15 a.m. on
race day, the weathermen proved themselves adequate. As if on cue, rain began
falling just after I lined up in a wide row of "Vet A" racers in the gassy field where the
race would begin. In some respects, I liked my chances in a mud race. On the other
hand, flashbacks to the past two 100 Milers reminded me of my worst fear: As tough as
these trails are, they sure would suck in the rain.
The Pro class didn't seem at all fazed by the wet condition of the grass track, which
they took to like flies on honey. An instant after Spud signaled the start of the race by
tossing the 15-second board to the ground, 16 engines burst to life. In another instant,
muddy tails of turf shotgunned off 16 rear tires. The unfortunate souls waiting their turn
behind these riders found themselves covered in the kind of stuff that frontier pioneers
might have used to build houses back in the day. With rear tires swapping sideways in
all directions, the motorcycles nearly disappeared in a cloud of dark chunky matter.
Half a minute later, the frontrunners would reappear after snaking through the staging
area and doubling back toward the starting line. These guys were racing hard already,
power sliding through a wide final turn before streaking towards the woods. Pity the
riders in the middle of the pack, now layered in mud less than a thousand yards into
the 100 mile race.
The considerably smaller class of eight "A" riders left next, followed by my 16-rider Vet
A class. A poor start put me well behind the leaders, but I wasn't concerned. It's a
marathoner's approach one must take with the Ozark 100, as no such race is won or
lost at the first corner, or even the first mile. However, races can be lost by the absence
of sight, which is pretty important when you're about to enter the woods and stay there
for the next 25 miles. The mud kicked up on the grass track had mostly shut down my
vision, but I had planned for this by taping a thin, clear plastic tear-off over my goggles.
Roll-off tape would clean off my goggles from there on, but before I'd even seen a tree,
that tear-off was already trail junk.
The rear group of Vet A riders aligned themselves together through the narrow trails
leading us to the first tricky obstacle. Less than a mile in, the arrows pointed us down
a steep ravine filled with boulders of all shapes and sizes. With 30 or more riders
already passing through here, each boulder was muddy and slick. The trail became a
75-yard series of step-downs, leaving us about 50 feet lower in elevation. In a section
as technical as this, any misplacement of the front wheel could be the difference
between a successful descent and a wild tumble to the bottom of the ravine. One racer
had experienced some sort of malfunction midway down the ravine, and I carefully
steered around his left side. He was already struggling among the company of the
best and toughest 40 riders anywhere around. I could only imagine how the
intermediate and novice riders would handle these boulders.
Another mile later, the first of the specially named obstacles, or "elements", appeared
above me: The Wall. With a running start of approximately 10 feet, we were expected to
climb a 40-foot hill with a two-foot rock ledge at the top. The face of the hill was littered
with loose rocks, most about the size and shape of softballs extensively mauled by
packs of wild boars. The outside line I'd scouted before the race was awash in
stranded motorcycles, so I chose a middle path up the hill. With nothing more than a
handful of throttle and a nearly-new rear tire, my KTM propelled me to the rock ledge at
the far left of the summit. All of these ledges were smooth and wet and not the kind of
obstacle you want to face at a point when your rear tire is running out of traction, but
that's exactly what happened when my front tire met the ledge. My rear tire came to a
stop at the base of the ledge; the front tire sat perched about halfway up the ledge. By
some stroke of luck, I was able to step off the bike, maintain a slippery balance, and
walk it up the ledge. Meanwhile, on the other side of the hill, rider-less bikes sailed up
the rock ledges, taking flight in short bursts as their owners tried to execute the
ultimate act of sacrifice: Bail out, give'er a shove on the way off, and hope she makes it
over the ledge on her own. Many of the bikes, unfortunately, were only executing
backflips and then rejoining their riders below the rock ledges. For these guys,
assistance from a group of spectators would be their most likely avenue past The Wall.
The Wall's exit was a U-turn around an orange plastic fence, taking us directly down
the same hill. From there, the race course would meld into a nearly endless series of
side hill trails, switchbacks, and elevation changes. The Wall had put space between
riders, which made these miles a bit solitary as we spread out even further. Within 15
minutes of the start, I was completely alone in the woods. The only signs of life during
the next hour would come from two remote checkpoint crews and a deer running for
what it probably presumed was its life. Otherwise, it was just me, my motorcycle, and
red arrows pointing to where I needed to go.
That, and a troubling thought that I'd neglected an important part of my motorcycle
maintenance routine.
With much of the course made of winding singletrack, I would spend a good deal of
time in 2nd gear reminding myself that when I had a chance to upshift a gear or two, I
should absolutely do it. The laps were simply too lengthy to pass up opportunities to
gain speed. I also put considerable thought into preserving the roll-off tape on my
goggles. Riding alone usually doesn't tax roll-off capacity, but light precipitation kept my
goggles constantly speckled with raindrops. I found that if I only advanced clean tape
halfway across my goggles, I could still improve my vision and use less tape in the
process. Thus, most of the next 20 miles were a continual transition from half-sight, to
barely any vision at all, and then back to half-sight. But at least I had a shot at having
useful goggles for the whole lap.
But those concerns would be secondary to dodging trees, maintaining momentum
over rocks and hills, and riding smooth. My approach to these things changed about 5
miles in, when I remembered the small maintenance item I'd failed to address: Air
pressure in the front tire. Since I hadn't ridden in two weeks, the tube was probably
down a pound or two of air pressure and likely to be holding only 10 or 11 pounds. Not
good for rocks, especially the sharp-edged kind I was seeing far too much of in these
woods. I comforted myself by imagining how much the wet trails were slowing me
down and thereby lessening the odds of a pinch flat. I also tried to avoid as many of
these sharp-edged rocks as possible, which showed in my riding. I crisscrossed the
center of the trail, aiming for gaps in the rocks, or if none were available, the roundest
rocks I could find. This style of riding may have been useful for avoiding pinch flats, but
was less efficient in preserving my energy during a 100-mile race.
Every mile, a large white number was stapled to a tree to show how far we'd come.
The numbers I looked forward to most were 8 (about a third of the way through), 13
(just over halfway there), and 17 (over two-thirds of the way there). Another set of
numbers was less inspiring: 2 ("The Wall" is coming....ughh!), 14 (crap, that horrible
rock climb is less than a mile away), and 23 (oh god, here comes "VW"). On this first
lap, the mile markers passed by rather quickly. Though very challenging, the course
was more rideable than I ever expected in such wet conditions. The reason for this is
that Hardwood Hills is actually a bit of a misnomer. A more appropriate name would
be Gravelwood Hills. Only one spot in the entire course ever developed a rut that an
Illinois guy could appreciate. Everywhere else, the gravelly terrain refused to yield to the
mud. Traction, it seemed, wasn't going to be as much a problem as I feared.
In the 20 or so miles between The Wall and VW, the only obstacle I dreaded each time
I saw it was a rocky climb out of a small ravine just before mile 15. In most other areas
in the midsection of the course, the trails seemed well within the abilities of a decently-
conditioned novice rider. What separated the boys from the men, however, were two
important distinctions: Stamina, and the ability to conquer the intimidating obstacles in
the first and last couple miles of each lap. As the course led me back to the grassy
field near the staging area, I was about to be tested by one such obstacle which had
absolutely destroyed me in 2009.
Two years ago, the 100 Miler course had been laid out in the same general direction
as today's race. When I returned in 2010, the series of hills and ravines leading to, and
exiting from, the VW section had been much easier when ridden in the opposite
direction. But this year, we were back to riding this section 2009-style, with mud thrown
in. VW itself, I wasn't so worried about. In the morning, I'd found a line that cut through
the upper ledges of the hillside and seemed like a safe bet. Tricky, but manageable.
Of greater concern was a steep ravine just after VW and then a tough climb straight up
a long, rocky hill...the same bastard of a hill that hurt so bad in 2009. That, I was
worried about.
To get to VW and its Volkswagen-sized boulders, I first had to navigate 40 yards
through a deep ravine which would shake my confidence later in the night race. The
dive down into the base of the ravine would have given me plenty of momentum, if not
for a badly placed rock on the opposite side and a slight lip about 3 feet off the bottom.
I hit the rock, then the lip, and finally shot up the side of the hill, where tree roots stole
the last of my traction. Somehow the rear tire kept me moving forward, and I was able
to fight my way past a rocky ledge and see VW directly in front of me. The usual crowd
of onlookers was perched on boulders, just outside harm's way but close enough to
smell our fear.
The high line I'd scouted in the morning worked well enough to keep my front wheel
planted to small patches of mud scattered between the boulders. Those blurry, dark
spots were a virtual connect-the-dots through VW, which I survived unscathed. From
there, the trail dove into another part of the same ravine I'd already crossed to get up to
VW. The exit out of the ravine was high, steep, and littered with flat rocks. I cracked
open the throttle and gripped the handlebars tightly, feeling my KTM sail up the other
side with just enough momentum to slide past a large, flat-faced rock at the top. Next
up: Bastard Hill.
The climb up this hill wasn't quite as steep as The Wall, but it was deceptive. The base
of the hill was a flat, narrow bench with the ravine cutting if off from behind. Along the
top edge of the hill were rock ledges, with a series of leaf-covered trails rising up
toward gaps in those ledges. The deception came in what lay hidden below the
leaves: A layer of jagged, baseball-sized rocks blending in nicely with the terrain. The
thick soils of Illinois would have made this hill a piece of cake, even with a little mud.
But here in Missouri, one short burst of throttle would tell a story of choppy, bouncy
wheel spin. There was simply no other way out of here but to climb this god-awful hill,
on trails that appeared smooth and loamy but weren't.
I pointed my KTM toward the same trail on the far left which had guided me to the top in
2009. The rear tire struggled for traction in the loose rocks, bouncing and kicking
sideways. With no momentum to spare, the front wheel grazed the first part of the rock
ledges and the rear tire bit in with just enough traction to push me over the top of the
hill. The last mile of the course was smooth sailing through the last of the Hardwood
Hills singletrack. Even if I didn't complete another lap, at least I could say I did this one
with no outside assistance.
Back at my Blazer, fellow Vet A rider Jamey Mooney approached to help me gas up my
KTM. He'd hit a tree early on and was now a spectator with a broken rib. We fueled the
tank and added the right amount of air pressure to the front tire. With a new set of dry
gloves and goggles, I remounted and headed to the scoring trailer. Most other riders in
my class had already checked through the electronic scoring system before pausing
for pit stops, so my initial disappointment at seeing the flat screen monitor flash “9th”
was diminished when I realized I was probably gaining positions while others were
still in the pit area.
Inside the woods, the trails were well defined on this second lap. The sharp-edged
rocks I had tried my best to avoid on the first lap were more visible, and I cared much
less if my front tire made contact with them. Soon came The Wall, and as before, my
most preferred line from the morning scouting mission was blocked by a downed
rider. My alternate route from the first lap was still open, so I pointed my KTM at the left
side of the hill. This time, the mud and rocks were chewed up like the stuff expelled
from my wife's cat's mouth the other day and I wasn't carrying anywhere near the same
momentum that took me to the top on the first lap. When my front tire hit the first of the
rock ledges, the rear tire churned itself to a stop. Once again, I hopped off the bike and
gave it a push, which worked much better than I expected. A few seconds later, I was
past the ledges and on my way.
Over the next 20 miles, the white mile marker cards passed by with a frequency similar
to that of the first lap. Every so often I'd approach a slightly slower rider, follow him for a
short distance and watch him pull over to let me pass with no resistance. There was
no racing here anymore. Survival was the game we now played in these woods. Just
before mile marker 15, I won a reluctant battle with the nastiest hill in the mid-section
of the course. I endured another bout with VW and the worsening climb up to it.
Bastard Hill took two attempts to conquer, all the while costing me a position when
Todd Arth breezed up the hill using the line I should have chosen to begin with. He
finished one spot ahead of me in 3rd place for the first moto, while I settled for 4th.
The rain had let up by the time I finished my first 50 miles at about 1:15 p.m. Over the
next 90 minutes, I fired up the Blazer's engine and stacked my knee pads, gloves and
goggles on top of the defroster vent and switched the blower fan to its highest speed.
My socks, pants, and jersey fell into a muddy heap, destined for a tightly sealed
garbage bag. The outside temperature remained a balmy 60 degrees, but that was
about to change. I geared up again with mostly dry clothes and squished my way back
to the starting line. At 2:45, the afternoon sun, which nobody had seen all day, was on a
downward path. Spud set loose the Pro and A classes and I wondered if I should have
mounted my lights.
Only three other riders in the Vet A class had enough energy and desire to suit up for
the afternoon race. I let the others jump out ahead and held back a safe distance to
preserve my goggles. If they wanted to race on the grass track, they were welcome to it.
Few of the racers even bothered with goggles at all, and some of those who did were
already removing them at The Wall. At the base of the hill, all I could see was anarchy,
all the way to the top. Two spectators stood by as our Vet A group evaluated our
options. I asked for advice, and one of the spectators seemed to indicate that we
wouldn’t be required to ride over the rock ledges at the top. Out of habit, I stuck with the
same line that served me well on the first two laps, but the combination of a worn rear
tire and an even chewier face of the hill kept me from climbing any higher than halfway
up. Fortunately, a crowd of helpful spectators jumped in to grab my bike before we both
slid to the bottom of the hill. Amongst those helpers was gazillion-time Missouri Hare
Scrambles champion Steve Levian, who yanked my front forks over a rock. He pointed
to a rider who'd just sailed up my original hot line on the far right side of the hill and
said, "Follow that guy." The orange fence had been opened just below the rock ledge,
allowing us an easier exit off this mess of a hill.
The following 13 miles were a complete blur. My gloves were dry and my hands
relatively painless, thanks to a steady helping of those ultra-thick Band Aids. During the
break between races, I'd stuffed myself full of Gatorade, a turkey sandwich, whole grain
Fig Newtons, energy gel, and Sun Chips. Fatigue was all around me, but so far I'd
avoided "The Bonk". In both previous attempts at this race, I'd reached a point where
my body began shutting down, refusing to expend any more than the least possible
energy to complete the task of finishing the lap. In 2009, I bonked around 40 miles.
Last year, “The Bonk” came at 73 miles. In 2011, so far no bonk, but I had many miles
to go.
In these miles the only remaining Tandem Class competitors, Nick Williams and Matt
Ramirez, passed by and pulled out of sight. This unique class of riders buddied up for
the whole race, were scored together and were forbidden from receiving help from
anyone on the course. After the Williams/Ramirez team got around me, a few miles
later I caught back up and followed them for many miles, right up to the nasty hill
before mile 15. They held a pace that I was fine with, but at this tough hill, I'd wished I
had pushed a little harder to get ahead. It was a team effort, pushing the second of
their two bikes up the hill. While they struggled with the trailing Kawasaki, I paused for
a moment to monitor their progress. I really wanted the line they had chosen, but after
a few moments, I decided to try the alternate route I'd used on the previous lap. By now,
that option was thick with rocks rearranged many times by a host of racers. Maybe with
a fresh rear tire I would have had a chance at success, but my first attempt brought me
to a stop, far from the top. Stepping off the bike to push proved fruitless, so I eased the
KTM back down the hill for another try.
By this time, Nick and Matt had succeeded in scaling the hill, while two more guys had
arrived to wait their turn. While I struggled to get myself turned around, both riders
climbed the hill with ease. Alone at the bottom, I finally had my chance at the hill using
the line I’d wanted all along. It worked. Five minutes later, after catching my breath and
resuming a healthy pace, the skies let loose with a downpour. At one of the two
checkpoints in the Netherlands of the race course, my old Missouri racing buddy Aaron
"Chili" Roberts was on hand to ask if I was having fun. Well Chili, fun was only one
word to describe it. Another word was darkness.
Never had I ridden inside woods in such dim light. The setting sun and heavy cloud
cover turned every rock and tree and patch of mud into shadows. The downpour
eventually ended, the clouds thinned slightly, and the singlegrack was now a series of
tiny rivers.
These little streams guided me to the final 2 miles of the course, where the hills were
alive with flowing water. I paused ahead of the steep ravine that would lead me to VW,
partly to rest, but mainly to work up enough courage to grab a handful of throttle and
hope my badly worn rear tire would help me climb the other side. Thankfully, it did. After
VW, the best news of the day was delivered just before the nasty ravine before Bastard
Hill: We wouldn’t have to cross the ravine or climb the hill. The trail had been rerouted
down into the bottom of the ravine to an area which circumvented the Bastard. God
bless’em.
I finished the afternoon race in almost complete darkness, having spent 10 extra
minutes completing that lap in comparison to the first two. Back at the Blazer, I stripped
off my wet clothes, fired up the defroster again and stacked the same pile of gear on
top of the dash. Based on the small number of riders in the afternoon race, I knew I
had a decent chance of a top-25 finish overall and qualification for the night race. But
before I concerned myself with that, I had to get warm. The temperature had dropped to
45 degrees and I was soaked down to my underwear. After changing into dry clothes, I
closed the Blazer’s doors and cranked up the heat. I called my wife to brag about my
survival, sent out a few text messages to friends to tell them what they missed, and
generally relaxed my tired body.
Meanwhile, while the heat inside the Blazer closed me off from the cruel elements of
the outside word, I completely missed an important announcement by Spud over the
PA system. The starting time would be around 6:00. In my barely functioning mind, I
had thought the night race would begin at 7:00, based on what I remembered from the
past two years. So while I leisurely warmed up in the Blazer and strolled over to the
scoring area to find that I had, indeed, qualified for the night race, all the other riders
who planned to race were busily preparing their bikes and gear. About the time I finally
did bother to rig up my lights to the KTM, switch helmets, and put some fuel in the tank
(all in the blackness of night), I suddenly heard an interesting sound coming from the
starting area: A chorus of motorcycles, warming their engines.
I dashed out to the center of the staging area to get a better view, and almost shed
tears at what I saw. The starting area was filled with a line of lights across the starting
area. The race was about to begin, and I was still walking around in my street shoes.
That oft-recurring dream of the past 17 years, where I’m at a race but can’t seem to get
to the starting line in time, was happening for real. Surviving 75 miles in the toughest of
conditions with no injuries to bike or body and feeling good enough to continue riding,
that was all now in jeopardy. I was going to miss the start of the race.
Panic kicked in. I grabbed my soggy boots, shoved my feet into them, and buckled as
many latches as 30 seconds would allow. Chest protector, Camelbak, fanny pack,
Leatt Brace…no time. I threw on my riding jacket, shoved the helmet light battery into
the chest pocket, and grabbed a warm pair of gloves off the defroster. Goggles
probably wouldn’t do much good anyway, so I left them. With the barest of riding
essentials, I hopped on the KTM, fired up its engine, and made a run to the starting
line.
At this point, the reality of the situation finally kicked in. First off, it really didn’t matter
whether I started with the other riders or not. I’d qualified and was only planning to do
one lap. As long as I made it back to the scoring trailer, nobody was going to care
when I started. The second reality was that if there was ever a time to not skip any of
my protective riding gear, this was it. I was about to ride through the same trails, with
the same elements of danger multiplied exponentially by darkness. And when I say
dark, we’re talking about a pitch black, can’t-see-the-hand-in-front-of-me kind of night.
So there I was, leaving the starting line completely alone. The last of the departed
riders were just finishing the grass track while I made my way around the giant mud
pie that was now most of the staging area. As I approached the entrance to the woods,
spectators on their way to Somethin’ Special jumped back to let me through. The
singletrack took on a whole new appearance at night. My pair of 10-watt LED lights
reflected off the trees and provided for excellent sight. The helmet light showed me
what I was looking at, while the handlebar light revealed where the bike was headed.
This combination produced surprisingly little shadowing, and I could see over the dips
in the trail as I approached them. I was liking this.
The steep drop down the boulder-filled ravine came soon, and by then I had caught up
to either Spud or Chili riding sweep. In first gear, with my lights focused on the
boulders, I stepped down each drop and reached the bottom with no problems. I
continued on, slowly and cautiously and occasionally glancing around to see if anyone
was near. Small pockets of light identified other riders, and from a distance I could
make out the string of lights hanging over Somethin’ Special, one of two elements to
be lit up for the spectators’ enjoyment.
Near The Wall, which had been removed from the night course, I joined up with several
racers who were riding backwards on the course, lost apparently. The trail had been
blocked off by what appeared to be a pile of brush, which was at first interpreted as a
sign that we weren’t supposed to be on this trail. This was entirely possible, since the
25-mile course had been shortened to 8 miles for the night loop. Another sign we were
lost was that we were past the point where Somethin’ Special should have come. After
half a minute discussing what to do, we chose to ride around the brush pile and
continue on the marked trail.
After the race, we would discover that several of us had somehow missed the trail to
Somethin’ Special, and the pile of brush was actually a tree which fell during the rain
storm in the afternoon. Spud eventually caught up and guided us through the trail, but I
didn’t feel good about missing part of the course – especially the toughest element of
the Ozark 100. As the miles passed by, I gradually gained confidence and kicked up
my speed. One of the last difficult obstacles before the VW area was a rocky creek bed,
followed by a hundred yards of flat, slippery rock bed. Somehow I made it through, and
then climbed out of this low area and back to the grassy field next to the staging area.
These last two miles would be the scariest of the day.
In this final and most rugged area of the course, an element called “208” would be
new to me. As a spectator at this section in past years, I’d see motorcycles arrive as a
parade of lights weaving back and forth across the high woods, then slowly descend
into the low area of 208. As I now took my turn through this section, I could see why
most riders appeared to descend so cautiously. The decline was steep and littered
with boulders of all shapes and sizes. Since this wasn’t part of the day course, there
were no clear lines to the bottom. I felt like I was riding through virgin forest.
Where the descending trail met up with the ravine that makes the spectator portion of
208, I could finally see why in years past, some riders had struggled to make the tight
turn that would send them up the ravine. A wide turn would have put my front wheel into
a gully that was blocked by a log. The key was sticking to a high, inside line. I took this
path, then burst ahead through a series of boulders, climbing moderately through the
center of the ravine. Directly overhead was a string of lights which revealed a few
shadowy spectators standing above the ravine. Had I completed all three laps in the
night race, I would have seen this area fill up with more and more people after they’d
had their fill of Somethin’ Special and moved over to 208.
To climb out of 208, the trail took a hard turn up the right bank of the ravine. In past
years I’d seen riders struggle to make this turn and rise up to the higher ground, so I
pushed forward with all the momentum I could muster. The KTM found enough traction
to escape, and we continued on toward VW.
After another minute passed by and another difficult climb up one of those rapidly
deteriorating trails more suitable for mountain goats, I was back to VW’s prelude. With
each energy-sapping obstacle in these final miles of my race, my heart beat faster, my
arms weakened, and my will to move forward faded. In the darkness of this forest in
Southern Missouri, cold and wet and paused to survey the last great challenge of my
current adventure, I scanned the next, worst 40 yards of a very long day. As I stared
down the ravine, I realized the VW element was not, in itself, a fearsome series of
boulders or a test of skills. It wasn’t an opportunity for photo ops or bravado. VW was
simply the spoils of winning the battle to get there. I wanted to see those boulders one
last time and know I’d accomplished a goal set two years ago. The endless miles
pedaling my bicycle through the hills of Northwestern Illinois, the winter evenings lifting
free weights in front of the TV, limiting my intake of McRib sandwiches during the
month of November, all would pay off over the next 15 seconds. I could say that my
limited gifts of coordination, balance, stamina and mechanical skills had been offset
by hard work. I would finish this lap, because I had to.
I would also take home the Vet A class win by default. None of my competitors suited
up for the evening race, even though three others qualified. Of the 25 men who could
have raced in the dark, 13 gave it a try and 7 finished all three laps around the
shortened night course. That night, I filled three garage bags with wet riding gear and,
like previous races here, spent an uncomfortable evening attempting sleep inside the
Blazer. The events of the day were like those adventures of years past, destined to be
remembered whenever future comparisons would be made to the toughest races I
ever attempted. As Jon “Spud” Simons so aptly stated in the morning rider’s meeting,
“We’re makin’ memories!”
Indeed.
Ozark 100
Mansfield, Missouri
1st of 16 in Vet A
It's Saturday evening, two days after Thanksgiving. Most likely, you are relaxing in some
fashion, maybe enjoying the last of the leftover turkey or picking over what remains of
Black Friday deals at your local shopping establishment. Possibly, you're in front of the
TV, taking in one of the final weekends of the college football regular season. You are
warm and rested and thankful for all the comforts in your life.
Or maybe you're within a vast forest in Southern Missouri, straddling an off-road
motorcycle, cold and wet and stopped along a trail with only a 50-foot envelope of light
identifying your existence. You've been here before, three times already. During the
day, you completed the equivalent of a runner's marathon, or an Olympic triathlon, all
while a cloudy sky let loose with an inch of rain. You've seen endless side-hill trails
more suitable for mountain goats than motorcycles. You've piloted your dirt bike up and
over rock ledges and boulders so infamous that they are given special names. You are
in a state of exhaustion that goes beyond physical.
Now it is nighttime and you know what must happen next. With a pair of small but
powerful lights as your guide, you must force your tired dirt bike across 40 yards of
rocky trail which drops steeply into a deep ravine, then rises as quickly as it fell. You
know that forward momentum is all that will carry you up the other side of the ravine, as
your rear tire is worn to a set of polished nubs that, 80 miles earlier, were perfectly
square knobs of rubber.
You also know that what follows these 40 yards is every bit as difficult, for the awaiting
boulders have a special name.
Such was my position around the same time the University of Missouri was
celebrating its Border War football victory over Kansas, which could very well be the
scientific definition of polar opposites, as it relates to entertainment. Mine was in the
form of the night portion of the Ozark 100 off-road motorcycle race; theirs was Jager
Bombs at Harpos. Either way, we were both satisfied. Not only had I qualified for three
laps of darkness, but I was actually there in the hills and rocks and trees, attempting to
complete the course.
This adventure, another of many in my 17 years of off-road motorcycle racing, was a
journey that began two seasons ago. But its roots go back much earlier than that.
In my past life as a 7-year resident of St. Louis, I'd learned all the names and locations
of the little towns and hamlets that attracted off-road racers to the Missouri Hare
Scrambles Championship series. These two-hour cross country races, 15 or so each
year, took me to the far extremes of the Show-Me state and added thousands of miles
to my little red pickup truck. I'd spent countless hours learning things about my regular
riding partner, Matt Sellers, that sometimes I'd have been better off not knowing (and
he of me, I'm sure). The memories never left, nor did my desire to return to Missouri as
often as time allowed, to compete in an occasional hare scramble or enduro.
After leaving St. Louis for the urban sprawl of Chicagoland, I kept in touch with my old
racing scene by way of the Hillbilly Grand Prix internet forum, which in 2008 was abuzz
with the news of a 100-mile race to take place at the Hardwood Hills Ranch near
Mansfield. The race would be promoted by Jon "Spud" Simons, who by that time had
grown to regional fame in off-road circles as the creator of "Spud-Cut", a type of trail so
narrow that it must be carved through trees and underbrush (in Illinois, we call this
"riding in the woods", but "Spud-Cut" is less common in the old-growth Missouri
forests). The newly named Ozark 100 was to be run as three separate stages on the
Saturday after Thanksgiving, with riders having to finish each stage well enough to
qualify for the next one.
Spud's unique format for the "100 Miler", as it would come to be known, was
somewhat consistent with that of his Hillbilly Grand Prix hare scrambles series, in that
it contained two "motos" during the day. Finishing positions in the two motos at Hillbilly
races were averaged to determine the riders’ final standings. The Ozark 100 would
follow this format, but Spud threw in something extraordinary for the "100 Miler": A third
race would happen at night, and it would contain special obstacles that the day riders
would not have to face.
The inaugural 2008 race attracted riders from a wide geography, including national
fast-guys Ian Blythe from Colorado and Cole Kirkpatrick of Texas. The ensuing internet
chatter piqued my interest in this event, so I reserved a spot for it on my calendar in
2009. As the 2nd Annual Ozark 100 approached, I bought a set of 10-watt LED lights,
just in case I qualified for the night race. I reserved a hotel room an hour away in
Lebanon, so that I could get a good night's sleep before the race. And that was pretty
much the extent of my preparations.
As it turned out, my lack of any sort of physical exercise during the month of November
left me gasping for air about halfway into the second lap. The physical demands of this
race began exceeding my expectations about the same time a stark reality hit me like
an overhead tree limb: I would never wish to ride these trails in the dark. The night race
was of no concern to me anyway, for after 50 miles I could barely move. In 2010, I
vowed to train for the race, ride as often as I could in November, and at least qualify for
(and ride) the afternoon moto. That goal was met, but 75 miles was my limit. I qualified
for the night race but had no strength to continue.
Fast forward to 2011, and the fourth version of the "100 Miler". I'd prepared for the race
in roughly the same fashion as last year by riding as much as possible in November,
setting up my bicycle trainer in the basement (and actually using it), and lifting weights.
On the way to Mansfield, I carb loaded with a huge bowl of rice at Crazy Bowls & Wraps
in St. Louis and spent a relaxing evening at a hotel in St. Robert. Saturday morning, I
scouted the boulders of the "VW" section and its cruel hills and ravines nearby, as well
as two other challenging sections named "The Wall" and "Somethin' Special". My KTM
250XC had been outfitted with a new chain, sprockets, and a rear tire. My gear bag
contained three sets of jerseys, pants, gloves and socks, along with two sets of
goggles and roll-offs. I brought a full box of Band Aid Tough Strips to shield my hands
from blisters. I even had a separate helmet set up especially for the night race, should
I qualify. I was as prepared as I knew how.
I would need every bit of that preparation. The weather prognosticators had left one day
of rain in the forecast during most of the prior week, naturally the same day as the
Ozark 100. I was hopeful the forecasters would change their minds, but at 9:15 a.m. on
race day, the weathermen proved themselves adequate. As if on cue, rain began
falling just after I lined up in a wide row of "Vet A" racers in the gassy field where the
race would begin. In some respects, I liked my chances in a mud race. On the other
hand, flashbacks to the past two 100 Milers reminded me of my worst fear: As tough as
these trails are, they sure would suck in the rain.
The Pro class didn't seem at all fazed by the wet condition of the grass track, which
they took to like flies on honey. An instant after Spud signaled the start of the race by
tossing the 15-second board to the ground, 16 engines burst to life. In another instant,
muddy tails of turf shotgunned off 16 rear tires. The unfortunate souls waiting their turn
behind these riders found themselves covered in the kind of stuff that frontier pioneers
might have used to build houses back in the day. With rear tires swapping sideways in
all directions, the motorcycles nearly disappeared in a cloud of dark chunky matter.
Half a minute later, the frontrunners would reappear after snaking through the staging
area and doubling back toward the starting line. These guys were racing hard already,
power sliding through a wide final turn before streaking towards the woods. Pity the
riders in the middle of the pack, now layered in mud less than a thousand yards into
the 100 mile race.
The considerably smaller class of eight "A" riders left next, followed by my 16-rider Vet
A class. A poor start put me well behind the leaders, but I wasn't concerned. It's a
marathoner's approach one must take with the Ozark 100, as no such race is won or
lost at the first corner, or even the first mile. However, races can be lost by the absence
of sight, which is pretty important when you're about to enter the woods and stay there
for the next 25 miles. The mud kicked up on the grass track had mostly shut down my
vision, but I had planned for this by taping a thin, clear plastic tear-off over my goggles.
Roll-off tape would clean off my goggles from there on, but before I'd even seen a tree,
that tear-off was already trail junk.
The rear group of Vet A riders aligned themselves together through the narrow trails
leading us to the first tricky obstacle. Less than a mile in, the arrows pointed us down
a steep ravine filled with boulders of all shapes and sizes. With 30 or more riders
already passing through here, each boulder was muddy and slick. The trail became a
75-yard series of step-downs, leaving us about 50 feet lower in elevation. In a section
as technical as this, any misplacement of the front wheel could be the difference
between a successful descent and a wild tumble to the bottom of the ravine. One racer
had experienced some sort of malfunction midway down the ravine, and I carefully
steered around his left side. He was already struggling among the company of the
best and toughest 40 riders anywhere around. I could only imagine how the
intermediate and novice riders would handle these boulders.
Another mile later, the first of the specially named obstacles, or "elements", appeared
above me: The Wall. With a running start of approximately 10 feet, we were expected to
climb a 40-foot hill with a two-foot rock ledge at the top. The face of the hill was littered
with loose rocks, most about the size and shape of softballs extensively mauled by
packs of wild boars. The outside line I'd scouted before the race was awash in
stranded motorcycles, so I chose a middle path up the hill. With nothing more than a
handful of throttle and a nearly-new rear tire, my KTM propelled me to the rock ledge at
the far left of the summit. All of these ledges were smooth and wet and not the kind of
obstacle you want to face at a point when your rear tire is running out of traction, but
that's exactly what happened when my front tire met the ledge. My rear tire came to a
stop at the base of the ledge; the front tire sat perched about halfway up the ledge. By
some stroke of luck, I was able to step off the bike, maintain a slippery balance, and
walk it up the ledge. Meanwhile, on the other side of the hill, rider-less bikes sailed up
the rock ledges, taking flight in short bursts as their owners tried to execute the
ultimate act of sacrifice: Bail out, give'er a shove on the way off, and hope she makes it
over the ledge on her own. Many of the bikes, unfortunately, were only executing
backflips and then rejoining their riders below the rock ledges. For these guys,
assistance from a group of spectators would be their most likely avenue past The Wall.
The Wall's exit was a U-turn around an orange plastic fence, taking us directly down
the same hill. From there, the race course would meld into a nearly endless series of
side hill trails, switchbacks, and elevation changes. The Wall had put space between
riders, which made these miles a bit solitary as we spread out even further. Within 15
minutes of the start, I was completely alone in the woods. The only signs of life during
the next hour would come from two remote checkpoint crews and a deer running for
what it probably presumed was its life. Otherwise, it was just me, my motorcycle, and
red arrows pointing to where I needed to go.
That, and a troubling thought that I'd neglected an important part of my motorcycle
maintenance routine.
With much of the course made of winding singletrack, I would spend a good deal of
time in 2nd gear reminding myself that when I had a chance to upshift a gear or two, I
should absolutely do it. The laps were simply too lengthy to pass up opportunities to
gain speed. I also put considerable thought into preserving the roll-off tape on my
goggles. Riding alone usually doesn't tax roll-off capacity, but light precipitation kept my
goggles constantly speckled with raindrops. I found that if I only advanced clean tape
halfway across my goggles, I could still improve my vision and use less tape in the
process. Thus, most of the next 20 miles were a continual transition from half-sight, to
barely any vision at all, and then back to half-sight. But at least I had a shot at having
useful goggles for the whole lap.
But those concerns would be secondary to dodging trees, maintaining momentum
over rocks and hills, and riding smooth. My approach to these things changed about 5
miles in, when I remembered the small maintenance item I'd failed to address: Air
pressure in the front tire. Since I hadn't ridden in two weeks, the tube was probably
down a pound or two of air pressure and likely to be holding only 10 or 11 pounds. Not
good for rocks, especially the sharp-edged kind I was seeing far too much of in these
woods. I comforted myself by imagining how much the wet trails were slowing me
down and thereby lessening the odds of a pinch flat. I also tried to avoid as many of
these sharp-edged rocks as possible, which showed in my riding. I crisscrossed the
center of the trail, aiming for gaps in the rocks, or if none were available, the roundest
rocks I could find. This style of riding may have been useful for avoiding pinch flats, but
was less efficient in preserving my energy during a 100-mile race.
Every mile, a large white number was stapled to a tree to show how far we'd come.
The numbers I looked forward to most were 8 (about a third of the way through), 13
(just over halfway there), and 17 (over two-thirds of the way there). Another set of
numbers was less inspiring: 2 ("The Wall" is coming....ughh!), 14 (crap, that horrible
rock climb is less than a mile away), and 23 (oh god, here comes "VW"). On this first
lap, the mile markers passed by rather quickly. Though very challenging, the course
was more rideable than I ever expected in such wet conditions. The reason for this is
that Hardwood Hills is actually a bit of a misnomer. A more appropriate name would
be Gravelwood Hills. Only one spot in the entire course ever developed a rut that an
Illinois guy could appreciate. Everywhere else, the gravelly terrain refused to yield to the
mud. Traction, it seemed, wasn't going to be as much a problem as I feared.
In the 20 or so miles between The Wall and VW, the only obstacle I dreaded each time
I saw it was a rocky climb out of a small ravine just before mile 15. In most other areas
in the midsection of the course, the trails seemed well within the abilities of a decently-
conditioned novice rider. What separated the boys from the men, however, were two
important distinctions: Stamina, and the ability to conquer the intimidating obstacles in
the first and last couple miles of each lap. As the course led me back to the grassy
field near the staging area, I was about to be tested by one such obstacle which had
absolutely destroyed me in 2009.
Two years ago, the 100 Miler course had been laid out in the same general direction
as today's race. When I returned in 2010, the series of hills and ravines leading to, and
exiting from, the VW section had been much easier when ridden in the opposite
direction. But this year, we were back to riding this section 2009-style, with mud thrown
in. VW itself, I wasn't so worried about. In the morning, I'd found a line that cut through
the upper ledges of the hillside and seemed like a safe bet. Tricky, but manageable.
Of greater concern was a steep ravine just after VW and then a tough climb straight up
a long, rocky hill...the same bastard of a hill that hurt so bad in 2009. That, I was
worried about.
To get to VW and its Volkswagen-sized boulders, I first had to navigate 40 yards
through a deep ravine which would shake my confidence later in the night race. The
dive down into the base of the ravine would have given me plenty of momentum, if not
for a badly placed rock on the opposite side and a slight lip about 3 feet off the bottom.
I hit the rock, then the lip, and finally shot up the side of the hill, where tree roots stole
the last of my traction. Somehow the rear tire kept me moving forward, and I was able
to fight my way past a rocky ledge and see VW directly in front of me. The usual crowd
of onlookers was perched on boulders, just outside harm's way but close enough to
smell our fear.
The high line I'd scouted in the morning worked well enough to keep my front wheel
planted to small patches of mud scattered between the boulders. Those blurry, dark
spots were a virtual connect-the-dots through VW, which I survived unscathed. From
there, the trail dove into another part of the same ravine I'd already crossed to get up to
VW. The exit out of the ravine was high, steep, and littered with flat rocks. I cracked
open the throttle and gripped the handlebars tightly, feeling my KTM sail up the other
side with just enough momentum to slide past a large, flat-faced rock at the top. Next
up: Bastard Hill.
The climb up this hill wasn't quite as steep as The Wall, but it was deceptive. The base
of the hill was a flat, narrow bench with the ravine cutting if off from behind. Along the
top edge of the hill were rock ledges, with a series of leaf-covered trails rising up
toward gaps in those ledges. The deception came in what lay hidden below the
leaves: A layer of jagged, baseball-sized rocks blending in nicely with the terrain. The
thick soils of Illinois would have made this hill a piece of cake, even with a little mud.
But here in Missouri, one short burst of throttle would tell a story of choppy, bouncy
wheel spin. There was simply no other way out of here but to climb this god-awful hill,
on trails that appeared smooth and loamy but weren't.
I pointed my KTM toward the same trail on the far left which had guided me to the top in
2009. The rear tire struggled for traction in the loose rocks, bouncing and kicking
sideways. With no momentum to spare, the front wheel grazed the first part of the rock
ledges and the rear tire bit in with just enough traction to push me over the top of the
hill. The last mile of the course was smooth sailing through the last of the Hardwood
Hills singletrack. Even if I didn't complete another lap, at least I could say I did this one
with no outside assistance.
Back at my Blazer, fellow Vet A rider Jamey Mooney approached to help me gas up my
KTM. He'd hit a tree early on and was now a spectator with a broken rib. We fueled the
tank and added the right amount of air pressure to the front tire. With a new set of dry
gloves and goggles, I remounted and headed to the scoring trailer. Most other riders in
my class had already checked through the electronic scoring system before pausing
for pit stops, so my initial disappointment at seeing the flat screen monitor flash “9th”
was diminished when I realized I was probably gaining positions while others were
still in the pit area.
Inside the woods, the trails were well defined on this second lap. The sharp-edged
rocks I had tried my best to avoid on the first lap were more visible, and I cared much
less if my front tire made contact with them. Soon came The Wall, and as before, my
most preferred line from the morning scouting mission was blocked by a downed
rider. My alternate route from the first lap was still open, so I pointed my KTM at the left
side of the hill. This time, the mud and rocks were chewed up like the stuff expelled
from my wife's cat's mouth the other day and I wasn't carrying anywhere near the same
momentum that took me to the top on the first lap. When my front tire hit the first of the
rock ledges, the rear tire churned itself to a stop. Once again, I hopped off the bike and
gave it a push, which worked much better than I expected. A few seconds later, I was
past the ledges and on my way.
Over the next 20 miles, the white mile marker cards passed by with a frequency similar
to that of the first lap. Every so often I'd approach a slightly slower rider, follow him for a
short distance and watch him pull over to let me pass with no resistance. There was
no racing here anymore. Survival was the game we now played in these woods. Just
before mile marker 15, I won a reluctant battle with the nastiest hill in the mid-section
of the course. I endured another bout with VW and the worsening climb up to it.
Bastard Hill took two attempts to conquer, all the while costing me a position when
Todd Arth breezed up the hill using the line I should have chosen to begin with. He
finished one spot ahead of me in 3rd place for the first moto, while I settled for 4th.
The rain had let up by the time I finished my first 50 miles at about 1:15 p.m. Over the
next 90 minutes, I fired up the Blazer's engine and stacked my knee pads, gloves and
goggles on top of the defroster vent and switched the blower fan to its highest speed.
My socks, pants, and jersey fell into a muddy heap, destined for a tightly sealed
garbage bag. The outside temperature remained a balmy 60 degrees, but that was
about to change. I geared up again with mostly dry clothes and squished my way back
to the starting line. At 2:45, the afternoon sun, which nobody had seen all day, was on a
downward path. Spud set loose the Pro and A classes and I wondered if I should have
mounted my lights.
Only three other riders in the Vet A class had enough energy and desire to suit up for
the afternoon race. I let the others jump out ahead and held back a safe distance to
preserve my goggles. If they wanted to race on the grass track, they were welcome to it.
Few of the racers even bothered with goggles at all, and some of those who did were
already removing them at The Wall. At the base of the hill, all I could see was anarchy,
all the way to the top. Two spectators stood by as our Vet A group evaluated our
options. I asked for advice, and one of the spectators seemed to indicate that we
wouldn’t be required to ride over the rock ledges at the top. Out of habit, I stuck with the
same line that served me well on the first two laps, but the combination of a worn rear
tire and an even chewier face of the hill kept me from climbing any higher than halfway
up. Fortunately, a crowd of helpful spectators jumped in to grab my bike before we both
slid to the bottom of the hill. Amongst those helpers was gazillion-time Missouri Hare
Scrambles champion Steve Levian, who yanked my front forks over a rock. He pointed
to a rider who'd just sailed up my original hot line on the far right side of the hill and
said, "Follow that guy." The orange fence had been opened just below the rock ledge,
allowing us an easier exit off this mess of a hill.
The following 13 miles were a complete blur. My gloves were dry and my hands
relatively painless, thanks to a steady helping of those ultra-thick Band Aids. During the
break between races, I'd stuffed myself full of Gatorade, a turkey sandwich, whole grain
Fig Newtons, energy gel, and Sun Chips. Fatigue was all around me, but so far I'd
avoided "The Bonk". In both previous attempts at this race, I'd reached a point where
my body began shutting down, refusing to expend any more than the least possible
energy to complete the task of finishing the lap. In 2009, I bonked around 40 miles.
Last year, “The Bonk” came at 73 miles. In 2011, so far no bonk, but I had many miles
to go.
In these miles the only remaining Tandem Class competitors, Nick Williams and Matt
Ramirez, passed by and pulled out of sight. This unique class of riders buddied up for
the whole race, were scored together and were forbidden from receiving help from
anyone on the course. After the Williams/Ramirez team got around me, a few miles
later I caught back up and followed them for many miles, right up to the nasty hill
before mile 15. They held a pace that I was fine with, but at this tough hill, I'd wished I
had pushed a little harder to get ahead. It was a team effort, pushing the second of
their two bikes up the hill. While they struggled with the trailing Kawasaki, I paused for
a moment to monitor their progress. I really wanted the line they had chosen, but after
a few moments, I decided to try the alternate route I'd used on the previous lap. By now,
that option was thick with rocks rearranged many times by a host of racers. Maybe with
a fresh rear tire I would have had a chance at success, but my first attempt brought me
to a stop, far from the top. Stepping off the bike to push proved fruitless, so I eased the
KTM back down the hill for another try.
By this time, Nick and Matt had succeeded in scaling the hill, while two more guys had
arrived to wait their turn. While I struggled to get myself turned around, both riders
climbed the hill with ease. Alone at the bottom, I finally had my chance at the hill using
the line I’d wanted all along. It worked. Five minutes later, after catching my breath and
resuming a healthy pace, the skies let loose with a downpour. At one of the two
checkpoints in the Netherlands of the race course, my old Missouri racing buddy Aaron
"Chili" Roberts was on hand to ask if I was having fun. Well Chili, fun was only one
word to describe it. Another word was darkness.
Never had I ridden inside woods in such dim light. The setting sun and heavy cloud
cover turned every rock and tree and patch of mud into shadows. The downpour
eventually ended, the clouds thinned slightly, and the singlegrack was now a series of
tiny rivers.
These little streams guided me to the final 2 miles of the course, where the hills were
alive with flowing water. I paused ahead of the steep ravine that would lead me to VW,
partly to rest, but mainly to work up enough courage to grab a handful of throttle and
hope my badly worn rear tire would help me climb the other side. Thankfully, it did. After
VW, the best news of the day was delivered just before the nasty ravine before Bastard
Hill: We wouldn’t have to cross the ravine or climb the hill. The trail had been rerouted
down into the bottom of the ravine to an area which circumvented the Bastard. God
bless’em.
I finished the afternoon race in almost complete darkness, having spent 10 extra
minutes completing that lap in comparison to the first two. Back at the Blazer, I stripped
off my wet clothes, fired up the defroster again and stacked the same pile of gear on
top of the dash. Based on the small number of riders in the afternoon race, I knew I
had a decent chance of a top-25 finish overall and qualification for the night race. But
before I concerned myself with that, I had to get warm. The temperature had dropped to
45 degrees and I was soaked down to my underwear. After changing into dry clothes, I
closed the Blazer’s doors and cranked up the heat. I called my wife to brag about my
survival, sent out a few text messages to friends to tell them what they missed, and
generally relaxed my tired body.
Meanwhile, while the heat inside the Blazer closed me off from the cruel elements of
the outside word, I completely missed an important announcement by Spud over the
PA system. The starting time would be around 6:00. In my barely functioning mind, I
had thought the night race would begin at 7:00, based on what I remembered from the
past two years. So while I leisurely warmed up in the Blazer and strolled over to the
scoring area to find that I had, indeed, qualified for the night race, all the other riders
who planned to race were busily preparing their bikes and gear. About the time I finally
did bother to rig up my lights to the KTM, switch helmets, and put some fuel in the tank
(all in the blackness of night), I suddenly heard an interesting sound coming from the
starting area: A chorus of motorcycles, warming their engines.
I dashed out to the center of the staging area to get a better view, and almost shed
tears at what I saw. The starting area was filled with a line of lights across the starting
area. The race was about to begin, and I was still walking around in my street shoes.
That oft-recurring dream of the past 17 years, where I’m at a race but can’t seem to get
to the starting line in time, was happening for real. Surviving 75 miles in the toughest of
conditions with no injuries to bike or body and feeling good enough to continue riding,
that was all now in jeopardy. I was going to miss the start of the race.
Panic kicked in. I grabbed my soggy boots, shoved my feet into them, and buckled as
many latches as 30 seconds would allow. Chest protector, Camelbak, fanny pack,
Leatt Brace…no time. I threw on my riding jacket, shoved the helmet light battery into
the chest pocket, and grabbed a warm pair of gloves off the defroster. Goggles
probably wouldn’t do much good anyway, so I left them. With the barest of riding
essentials, I hopped on the KTM, fired up its engine, and made a run to the starting
line.
At this point, the reality of the situation finally kicked in. First off, it really didn’t matter
whether I started with the other riders or not. I’d qualified and was only planning to do
one lap. As long as I made it back to the scoring trailer, nobody was going to care
when I started. The second reality was that if there was ever a time to not skip any of
my protective riding gear, this was it. I was about to ride through the same trails, with
the same elements of danger multiplied exponentially by darkness. And when I say
dark, we’re talking about a pitch black, can’t-see-the-hand-in-front-of-me kind of night.
So there I was, leaving the starting line completely alone. The last of the departed
riders were just finishing the grass track while I made my way around the giant mud
pie that was now most of the staging area. As I approached the entrance to the woods,
spectators on their way to Somethin’ Special jumped back to let me through. The
singletrack took on a whole new appearance at night. My pair of 10-watt LED lights
reflected off the trees and provided for excellent sight. The helmet light showed me
what I was looking at, while the handlebar light revealed where the bike was headed.
This combination produced surprisingly little shadowing, and I could see over the dips
in the trail as I approached them. I was liking this.
The steep drop down the boulder-filled ravine came soon, and by then I had caught up
to either Spud or Chili riding sweep. In first gear, with my lights focused on the
boulders, I stepped down each drop and reached the bottom with no problems. I
continued on, slowly and cautiously and occasionally glancing around to see if anyone
was near. Small pockets of light identified other riders, and from a distance I could
make out the string of lights hanging over Somethin’ Special, one of two elements to
be lit up for the spectators’ enjoyment.
Near The Wall, which had been removed from the night course, I joined up with several
racers who were riding backwards on the course, lost apparently. The trail had been
blocked off by what appeared to be a pile of brush, which was at first interpreted as a
sign that we weren’t supposed to be on this trail. This was entirely possible, since the
25-mile course had been shortened to 8 miles for the night loop. Another sign we were
lost was that we were past the point where Somethin’ Special should have come. After
half a minute discussing what to do, we chose to ride around the brush pile and
continue on the marked trail.
After the race, we would discover that several of us had somehow missed the trail to
Somethin’ Special, and the pile of brush was actually a tree which fell during the rain
storm in the afternoon. Spud eventually caught up and guided us through the trail, but I
didn’t feel good about missing part of the course – especially the toughest element of
the Ozark 100. As the miles passed by, I gradually gained confidence and kicked up
my speed. One of the last difficult obstacles before the VW area was a rocky creek bed,
followed by a hundred yards of flat, slippery rock bed. Somehow I made it through, and
then climbed out of this low area and back to the grassy field next to the staging area.
These last two miles would be the scariest of the day.
In this final and most rugged area of the course, an element called “208” would be
new to me. As a spectator at this section in past years, I’d see motorcycles arrive as a
parade of lights weaving back and forth across the high woods, then slowly descend
into the low area of 208. As I now took my turn through this section, I could see why
most riders appeared to descend so cautiously. The decline was steep and littered
with boulders of all shapes and sizes. Since this wasn’t part of the day course, there
were no clear lines to the bottom. I felt like I was riding through virgin forest.
Where the descending trail met up with the ravine that makes the spectator portion of
208, I could finally see why in years past, some riders had struggled to make the tight
turn that would send them up the ravine. A wide turn would have put my front wheel into
a gully that was blocked by a log. The key was sticking to a high, inside line. I took this
path, then burst ahead through a series of boulders, climbing moderately through the
center of the ravine. Directly overhead was a string of lights which revealed a few
shadowy spectators standing above the ravine. Had I completed all three laps in the
night race, I would have seen this area fill up with more and more people after they’d
had their fill of Somethin’ Special and moved over to 208.
To climb out of 208, the trail took a hard turn up the right bank of the ravine. In past
years I’d seen riders struggle to make this turn and rise up to the higher ground, so I
pushed forward with all the momentum I could muster. The KTM found enough traction
to escape, and we continued on toward VW.
After another minute passed by and another difficult climb up one of those rapidly
deteriorating trails more suitable for mountain goats, I was back to VW’s prelude. With
each energy-sapping obstacle in these final miles of my race, my heart beat faster, my
arms weakened, and my will to move forward faded. In the darkness of this forest in
Southern Missouri, cold and wet and paused to survey the last great challenge of my
current adventure, I scanned the next, worst 40 yards of a very long day. As I stared
down the ravine, I realized the VW element was not, in itself, a fearsome series of
boulders or a test of skills. It wasn’t an opportunity for photo ops or bravado. VW was
simply the spoils of winning the battle to get there. I wanted to see those boulders one
last time and know I’d accomplished a goal set two years ago. The endless miles
pedaling my bicycle through the hills of Northwestern Illinois, the winter evenings lifting
free weights in front of the TV, limiting my intake of McRib sandwiches during the
month of November, all would pay off over the next 15 seconds. I could say that my
limited gifts of coordination, balance, stamina and mechanical skills had been offset
by hard work. I would finish this lap, because I had to.
I would also take home the Vet A class win by default. None of my competitors suited
up for the evening race, even though three others qualified. Of the 25 men who could
have raced in the dark, 13 gave it a try and 7 finished all three laps around the
shortened night course. That night, I filled three garage bags with wet riding gear and,
like previous races here, spent an uncomfortable evening attempting sleep inside the
Blazer. The events of the day were like those adventures of years past, destined to be
remembered whenever future comparisons would be made to the toughest races I
ever attempted. As Jon “Spud” Simons so aptly stated in the morning rider’s meeting,
“We’re makin’ memories!”
Indeed.
