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Knob Noster, Missouri
8th of 10 in Vet
I am an angry KTM owner.
In my garage sits an engine-less '02 300MXC, ridden for barely 6 months, victim of a factory
assembler in a hurry. The same inattention to threadlock that brought about the Steve Crews
last second pass at Marshfield also appears to have caused the premature end of my day at
Knob Noster. Except this time, it wasn't my fault. No, really. I swear. A bolt, a simple 10-cent
part, backed its way out of the shift drum and left me stuck in second gear. I should
understand and accept these things, for I own a KTM, with its quirks and oddities generating
some of the most active KTM-specific internet message boards in the motorcycle cyber-world.
Online support groups, more or less, for those who bleed orange.
The day started out well enough.
I picked up Matt in the morning and drove to the beautiful, rock-deficient race site near Knob
Noster. The MHSC apparently decided that Warrensburg is a more user-friendly name for this
venue, as it had been shown on past schedules as Knob Noster. The property is about
halfway between the two towns, and I can only assume that the promoters grew weary of
phone calls and e-mails from racers wanting to know where they could find Bald Costas and
other variations of town that is home to the B-2 Stealth Bomber. Those tiresome
conversations, not unlike the one I am currently hearing between two coworkers discussing a
golf ball shanked into a sand trap, must have prompted the name change to Warrensburg. I
prefer Knob Noster, and this is my story, so that is what it shall be called. [author's note: Yes, I
sometimes write these reports at work...nothing produces creativity like analyzing how many
dead cows it takes to make a truckload of dog food.]
The Knob Noster course was 8-9 miles of bike-only singletrack, and was laid out in reverse,
more or less, of last October's hare scramble. On the practice lap I liked what I saw, although
the trails were slightly drier and choppier than the Fall '02 race. Matt and I caught up to The
Holeshot King, #4 Doug Stone, as he did a lazy trail ride around the course. While my practice
lap was designed to get a feel for the course at near-race speeds, Doug's primary objective
was to scout for passing opportunities. Turns out we were both able to accomplish our goals
while riding at about the same speed.
The previous Friday I had officially entered the digital age with the purchase of a digital
camera, and I handed off this pricey electronic toy to my buddy Jeff Smith who came along for
the ride with Open B racer Mike Goforth. My instructions to Jeff were simple: make me look
good. He positioned himself at the far end of a relatively small starting area and took some
excellent shots of The Holeshot King beating the rest of the Pro class to the first corner. When
the board dropped for the Vet class start, I got a reasonably decent jump off the line and was
about 4th going into the first turn. A quarter-mile into the course, as we passed by the pits,
the engine bogged and began to die. In classic Stichnoth fashion, I had forgotten to turn on
the gas. The entire class passed me by as I flipped the petcock to its correct position and
attempted to kick the engine back to life. Ten kicks later it fired up and I began charging
towards the pack, now about 30 seconds ahead.
Over the next two miles I caught up to a few guys in the Vet class and drag-raced a Kawasaki
through a pasture straightaway. Here's a bit of advice to slower riders who hold me up in the
woods and then want to race hard through the open fields: Don't make me angry. You won't
like me when I'm angry. Resistance is futile. You will be passed. [minor rant now done...that
felt good]
At the midway point of the lap, I could see K-Ruck #94 about 15 seconds ahead of me as we
approached a drop-down into a narrow, winding creek bed. The creek was dry but full of
odd-shaped rocks, and the same spot that challenged me on the practice lap got me again. I
lost some time pushing the bike over a tree root and Kevin was out of sight.
Later in the first lap I began to feel the heat, as temperatures were close to 90 degrees. With
cool weather throughout the Spring and few opportunities to "heat train" on the mountain bike,
my body was a bit out of shape for a hot race. But I felt good on the course. I ended the first
lap in 4th place, about 15 seconds behind #383 Neal Soenksen and K-Ruck. At the beginning
of the second lap, the first creek section had been re-routed and I read the course arrows
wrong. I lost more precious seconds getting myself back on the trail.
Eventually I caught up to K-Ruck and waited for an opportunity to pass. Kevin's speed makes
him tough to get around, but I took an inside line on a corner and made the pass. Later on I
passed Neal and trailed only #76 Gary Mittleberg, back in fighting form after a nasty injury last
year. As I passed through the scoring lane for the second time, I accelerated hard in the open
field that had served as the starting area. I missed the shift from second to third gear, and
with the engine still racing I tried again. Still no third gear. One more try, with more effort and
strange noises from the transmission, I jammed it into third gear. However, after that it would
barely shift. I found 2nd gear and passed through the re-routed creek section, but it became
clear that further shifting would be a fruitless effort. Rather than abuse my clutch for another
hour, I decided to call it a day. The next night I discovered the shift drum bolt had come
loose, revealing perfectly clean threads that suggested threadlock had not been applied at
the factory. A brief search of the KTM owners' cyber-world showed that this was not an
isolated occurrence. Grrrrr.....
Doug Stone took the overall win, followed closely by Chris Thiele. In the Vet class, Gary
Mittleberg won the race, with Steve Crews about a minute behind. Although I did only two laps,
Jeff Smith did exactly as requested...yeah, I looked good.
July 27, 2003
Florence, Missouri
4th of 11 in Vet
Post-race conversation with God:
Dear Lord,
Forgive me, for I have sinned. A lot. You see, it's summertime in St. Louis and the National
Association of Female Personal Trainers just finished up a week-long conference at the
convention center, just across the street from my office. All day long, the streets were filled
with thousands of highly toned and tanned bodies of young women from across our fine
nation, dressed appropriately for the hot Midwest sun. While I could argue that I was simply
expressing my appreciation for the physical beauty you've bestowed upon this great earth,
that beauty being supplemented by a pair of exquisitely installed Mentor 275cc implants (my
own estimation of volume; she apparently disagreed), a Commandment or two may have been
compromised. However, I humbly propose that what I experienced today might be considered
adequate punishment for last week's transgressions, and maybe another year or two of future
offenses. Hopefully you will agree. Please allow me to explain....
The morning was already hot and humid when I loaded up the bike at 6:30 a.m. The KTM was
finally back in running order and ready for its first race since the Knob Noster transmission
debacle last month. The bottom end of the engine took a leisurely 3-week vacation at a local
dealer while I missed two rounds of the MHSC series. The good news is that I learned how to
use my new digital camera during that time and spent one afternoon getting up close and
personal with Missouri's state insect, the tick, while shooting pictures of MHSC racers at Flat
River. The bad news is that I didn't do much of anything during that time except contemplate
the purchase of a new, non-KTM dirt bike.
Lord, you know that I appreciate all your gifts of nature, especially 99-degree temperatures
on cloudless days with 82% humidity, gently rolling hills with an infinite assortment of
sharp-edged rocks embedded in hard, dry soil, and of course, dust. Oh, Praise the Dust! On
the practice lap, a few diabolic phrases may have been uttered in response to the scorched
earth left by the 4-wheeler race, but I could not help myself for I am a weak man and ATV's
really are evil. I am confident that if I should be so fortunate to someday join you in heaven,
God, it will be devoid of fat-tired vehicles.
The effects of my four-week layoff showed in the practice lap, leaving me tired and beaten.
Not a good sign. During the week I had picked up a cold that was sticking with me like bad
luggage and caused an above-normal amount of time cleansing myself of evil stuff inside the
sauna-like port-a-potties. I single-handedly reduced the overall supply of T.P. to dangerously
low levels just prior to race time. Our normal 12:30 starting time came and went as the
promoters searched for a missing quad rider in the woods. Just after 1:00, in the heat of the
afternoon the bike racers gathered along the fringe of the starting area, laying claim to any
spot resembling shade. When we finally lined up in our respective rows, the sun baked my left
(sun-facing) boot to about 150 degrees, medium rare by most professional standards but in
my book, hotter than Stifler's mom at the lake house.
When the Vet class finally left the line at 1:22 p.m., the temperature was nearly 100 degrees.
My usual mid-pack start was in a cloud of dust with virtually no vision whatsoever beyond my
front fender. The first stretch of trail was a high-speed pasture section, a wonderful way to
start a dusty race. Put 15 bikes together and let them blindly drag race WFO for a
quarter-mile. Nice. Even worse was the first woods section, where I followed about 6 other
riders and could just barely make out the back tire of the guy in front of me. Putting along in
1st gear, the lead riders were long gone within the first 5 minutes.
Further in the woods, the pack spread out somewhat and I was able to make a few passes.
Each was a struggle, as the course was incredibly rough. Near the midpoint of the first lap I
lost my balance trying to take a shortcut around some riders and dropped the bike on a side
hill. All of the guys who I had worked so hard to pass were now ahead of me again. By the
time we neared the last couple miles of the infernal first lap, I was choking on dust and
coughing so hard I nearly hurled up the turkey sandwich I'd eaten for lunch. The water level in
my Camelbak was dropping at a dangerously fast rate.
I hope you can forgive me for the exclamation of creative metaphors that resulted from
blowing through the yellow tape that marked the first turn in the starting area. You see, at the
start of that second lap I expected arrows to point me in the right direction, but the hand of
Satan must have removed them. Or maybe the club assumed that we were smart enough to
remember how to ride that section. Either way, I was upset and frustrated and wanted to hurt
someone. Well, not really, maybe just scare someone really bad, but not a Manson-like
psychotic type of fright (choose your Manson, either one applies); more of a wet-your-pants
kind of scare.
Two rows behind, Matt had already caught up to me while I fumbled my way back on the
course. I don't really remember much about that second lap, other than dust and heat and
fatigue. I was clearly out of shape for that level of heat, and it made me angry. Last year I
prided myself on my heat tolerance and never "bonked" during a race. But today I was
definitely feeling a serious bonking coming on. Others were already there, with many riders
parked along the trail trying to cool down.
One the third lap, the pack had thinned out enough to make the trail a little easier to see, and
I finally settled down and rode better. I had been following #73 Open B fast guy Mark Kendall
and got around him on a tricky hill, then caught back up to Matt, who was leading the Open B
class. He stalled his bike and I passed him while shouting out a warning that Kendall was right
behind us. I kept up a decent pace but fell a couple times on that lap.
The pace I maintained and mistakes made on the third lap cost me some stamina, and on the
fourth lap I was running out of energy. The trail was still horribly rough but not much worse
than the prior 3 laps. Kendall eventually passed me, which meant he was a couple minutes
ahead overall. I figured that his pace would be fast enough to finish in the top 20, which was
my goal for the day. But to accomplish that, I would need 5 laps. Near the end of the 4th lap,
my watch indicated at least 10 minutes until the two-hour mark, so it was clear that I'd be
riding another lap. I thought about calling it a day, knowing from experience what I would feel
like after the race if I did another lap. But somehow the sight of #30 Adam Ashcroft pulling off
the trail was an incentive to keep going. Adam is a strong racer, which is a testament to just
how hard this race was. I wanted to tough it out.
Two events made toughing out the 5th lap even tougher. The first was that sickening feel of
sucking on the Camelbak tube and getting nothing but air. The second was the feel of a loose
gear shift lever. I stopped a couple of times to hand-tighten the shifter bolt, but after a few
minutes it would loosen again. Eventually the lever fell off and I rode to the finish in 2nd gear. I
felt beaten in every imaginable way. I couldn't move. Matt had to load up the bikes while I
forced myself to drink (back home, the scale showed that I was about 8 pounds lighter, which
meant I had lost 5% of my body weight). We didn't bother to stick around for the results. We
just wanted to get the hell out of the most hellish course this side of Kahoka.
In summary, the Catholics call it Purgatory, but I call it Florence. Amen.
