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Winterset, Iowa
1st of 9 in Open B (2nd overall B)
First of all, the obvious question here is what in the hell was I doing racing in Winterset, Iowa. The answer is,
I don't have a clue. All I know is that I had the largest deal of my banking career soundly rejected during the
prior week and just wanted to get out of town, far away. My schedule showed the Winterset enduro, so I went.
A six-hour drive gives plenty of time for deep thought and inner reflection and all that crap. Plus, I had a
place to stay the night before -- a co-workers' parents have a house about an hour from Winterset and offered
me a bed to sleep in.
As most people know, Winterset is famous for the fictional account of covered bridges, adultery, farm wives,
covered bridges, out-of-state photographers, adultery, and some beautiful covered bridges (did I say that
already?) in Madison County, Iowa. Let me tell you, there were no Meryl Streep lookalikes in Winterset. And
the worst part is that none of the gas stations sell 93-octane gas. When I pulled into the staging area, the
guys at the gate said they hadn't had a drop of rain in a month, and to expect plenty of rocks. I'm in the heart
of the corn belt and there's rocks? How can that be?
As I was setting up, I took a leak just down the trail from the staging area, which was hard as rock (the trail,
that is...you pervert), and noticed about 5 vultures circling overhead. I didn't take that as a good sign. Then
the motorcycle wouldn't start, and when it finally did, it was sluggish. More bad juju. But unlike most enduro
starts, I was reasonably timely in getting ready and warming up the bike. Three other guys started on my
row, and as our minute started, the guy on a Yamaha jumped out to lead, and I followed his dust for several
miles. It's been awhile since I've seen dust that bad. Otherwise the trails were in good shape. The guys at
the gate were correct about the rocks, but they were nothing like Missouri. The first section was about 10
miles long and I dropped several points, but I was riding pretty well. After the second reset I jumped ahead
of the other guys on my row and lead for another 10 miles or so. In a dusty race, being in the lead is the only
way to get clean air, and it sure felt good.
The first loop ended after 35 miles, and at that point I had dropped about 20 points. The bike was still a bit
sluggish, so I changed the spark plug while a chatty lady parked beside me summarized her life history. I
tried to be polite and listen, but by the time I was ready to go I was a minute late. Actually, she was very nice
but I was a bit distracted at the time. At the next check I lost two points, which shouldn't have happened.
Shortly thereafter I saw my spare inner tube (poorly duct-taped to the front fender) flopping around, and
eventually it broke free and the front wheel tossed it high up in the air. For an instant I thought about reaching
out and grabbing it mid-flight, but then what was I supposed to do with it? In my mind, no spare tube was a
guaranteed flat tire.
Fortunately neither tire went flat and I finished the race, scoring a 49. I rode well enough to be fairly confident
of winning a trophy, but then again I had never raced in Iowa. Maybe the farm boys were faster than my usual
competition. After an eternity of waiting for the results to be posted, I found the Open B class scorecards,
clothes-pinned to an old wire corn crib that doubled as promoters' headquarters. Whenever the club guys
put up the results at one of these races, there's always a mass of riders crowding around to find their scores,
so I had to strain to locate mine. By some miracle it was hung up on the far left end of the Open B class
cards, which suggested a first place finish. Now I'm thinking, something must be wrong here. Could it be
that I had it all mixed up and I actually finished last? I never win, so surely that's what happened. The Iowa
boys must have been super fast. Then, common sense set in and I looked at my 49 score, compared it to
the others in my class, and realized that I had won my class. First place!! After that I wanted to know how I
compared to the other B classes, since Open B is usually the least competitive. The 250 class always
seems to be made up of guys who are one season away from moving up to the A class. The first place guy
in the 250 B class scored...50!! I beat the 250 B class winner! Then I had to look at the 200 B class...shore
'nuff, beat that class winner, too. So now I'm thinking, is this possible? Did I get the Overall B class win?
Well, not quite. The winner scored a 44 and they must have separated his card from the other scores. Even
so, a win is a win and it felt pretty darn good after 6 years of trying.
September 24, 2000
Fosterburg, Illinois
2nd of 3 in Open B
Funny thing, winning a race. Makes you feel like you have to win the next one, too. Matt and I traveled to
Fosterburg for our annual mud race there. Last year it started out dry and dusty and finished wet and muddy.
This year it started out wet and muddy and stayed that way. Matt brought his new Y2K KTM 300EXC for its
inaugural ride, and I had to admit it looked very tasty, compared to my '99 300EXC that looked exactly the way
it had been ridden for the last two years: rough and nasty (like my women). We got to the club early so Matt
could get his bike broken in a little, and while he did that I spent a couple hours walking most of the course.
A light rain continued for most of the morning, making the hills very slippery. The mini-bikes began their race
at 10:00 and I watched them struggle up a hill that I was sure would give the big bikes even more problems.
The boys do get frustrated when they can't make it up a hill. Some get whiney and almost start crying, others
just cry.
At the starting line of the big bike race, only one other guy showed up to race the Open B class besides me
and Matt. I didn't know it at the time, but he was the same guy who beat me by a minute at White City this
year. The promoters made us start in that goofy straddle-the-front-fender position with our bodies facing the
rows of riders behind us. As each group waited for their start, the flag guy took a position behind the row to
be started, a departure from the normal position well in front of the riders who, under more common starting
routines, sit on their seats, looking forward with legs up on the kick-start levers, eyes fixated on the green
flag, bodies forward, tensely waiting for the flagman to lower his arm and drop the flag. The best riders have
the engine started by the time the flag drops to its lowest position and a fractional second later are quickly
moving down the trail to fight for position at the first turn. With the fender-straddle start, the flag dropped, but
instead of an immediate rumble of engines coming to life, for about two seconds the only sounds originated
from a scurrying of bodies to the other sides of the motorcycles, guys jumping on the seats and throwing
down the kick-starter.
My technique was a bit rough, and after a couple of kicks I was comfortably near the back of the pack heading
into the first turn (our row also included about 6 riders in the 200B class). Within a minute I had caught up to
Matt and was trying my best to make my front tire rub his rear tire. Traction was less than ideal, but the rain
had apparently not saturated more than an inch or two of ground. The thirty or so riders ahead of us, in many
trail sections, had already cleared out the mud and left us with a nice loam. On a tricky, root infested hill, I
passed Matt and set my sights on the leader in our class. Within 5 minutes I passed him, but throughout the
race we would change positions several times. In the second lap I slid out around a corner, dropped the
bike, and saw Matt pass me. During the next 6 laps I never saw him again but tried my hardest to catch him.
I rode pretty well and felt like I was in contention for the win, but at the finish Matt was already back at the
truck, so I figured he got the win. As it turned out, he had run out of fuel and finished a lap down, and the
other guy in our class had passed me in the last lap and beat me by 24 seconds. Even so, the race was very
enjoyable and I beat Matt, so it was a good day.
October 1, 2000
Festus, Missouri
6th of 14 in Open B
These Missouri races are all the same. Miles of rocks, get your body beat to a pulp, put a few new dings on
motorcycle parts, go home tired, shower, and then sleep it off. The only good thing I did was get a great start,
with only one guy ahead of me in the woods. I hung with the lead pack until it got really rocky, then fell off the
pace and settled into 6th place for the whole race. Festus has a lot of gullies to cross, and you can cross
them one of two ways: slow down and ride through them or get brave and pop up the front wheel, losing no
speed as the motorcycle basically jumps the gap. However, the landing on the other side can be harsh. I hit
one at speed and lightly kissed the steering damper. I didn't realize it at the time, but the impact was hard
enough to push my forks up in the clamps until they rubbed the handlebars. Just before my last lap, the lead
guys in the pro class lapped me just before the final check. The first one got around, and I didn't realize the
second-place guy was right on his tail. I sort of blocked him while going into the scoring gate, and vaguely
remember a "fan" (more like a member of his pit crew) shouting at me, loud enough to suggest that I was
creating mass anarchy and generally causing the end of the world as we know it. All I can say is...Ooops,
you redneck a**hole. It's a friggin' bike race.
I don't even remember if I stuck around to see the results. At least with the Internet posting, I always can find
out where I finished.
