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Cornstock 100
Casey, Illinois
10th of 14 in +30A
One of the many differences between what I do in the woods, versus what a motocross guy
does on track or a road rider does on twisty back roads, is how I am perceived by my
neighbors. Motocross guys and sport bike riders come home and get just a passing a glance
from generally uninterested neighbors, as more often than not their bikes make it back
looking fairly much the same as when they left the garage. Woods guys like me, on the other
hand, tend to get a different reaction at the end of the day, especially after an event like the
Cornstock 100 near Casey, Illinois. It’s not so much a reaction from my neighbors anymore, as
they’re pretty well accustomed to my off road habit. Instead, it mostly comes from friends and
relatives of neighbors who can’t fathom how a motorcycle could completely lose its color in
what would appear to be baptism by mud pit. I call it The Look. If you’re a woods racer, you
know what I’m talking about. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, intense staring in you and your
bike’s direction. It is the expression that screams “That Guy is Out of His Freakin' Mind!!” If
they’re not saying it aloud, they’re thinking it. And you know what? They’re probably right.
When I pulled into my driveway on Sunday evening, the Harley-riding son-in-law of my
neighbor across the street was sporting The Look.
The Cornstock 100 was billed as the first annual endurance race of its kind at Lincoln Trail
Motosports, an off-road area in Eastern Illinois about two hours from my house. The race flier
described the event as “100 miles of tight, technical woods, hills and hollows, motocross and
grass track, creeks and fields plus tons of fun.” The last part might have been correct if not
for a couple inches of rain in the days leading up to the race. The race was shortened to 80
miles (10 laps) or 5 hours, whichever came first. Even though the sun was shining and the
wind was blowing steadily, the trails were soggy. I parked a couple trucks down from fast guy
John Yarnell and slopped through the muck to sign up at motocross track. On the way back to
my truck I walked a small portion of the woods trails and found exactly what I expected: mud,
and lots of it. I was, after all, in Illinois.
The starting area was set in the middle of an open field about ¼ mile long. By the time the
race was to begin, the sun and wind had mostly dried out the field’s surface. I signed up for
Vet A and was lined up on the first row with the other 25 or so riders in the various A classes.
When the green flag dropped, we sprinted for about 300 yards to what was a grass track for
the first couple riders and a mud track for the rest of us. As we jockeyed for position in the
grass, I ended up behind John Yarnell as we dropped down into a narrow creek. I followed him
and the rest of the lead pack in a single file line down the center of the shallow, curvy stream.
Just after exiting the creek, we came upon the first checkpoint. Our group was packed so
tightly that we had to wait in line for the single checkpoint lady to mark our fender-mounted
scorecards. At this point the mud wasn't too much of an obstacle since we were the first riders
to navigate the trail, but potential trouble spots were already evident. Once such point was a
downstream crossing of the same creek we had ridden through, which was developing some
deep ruts after only a dozen or so guys had passed through it.
Next up was a section that took us in and out of another creek, where at one point I tried to
climb out of the water and came to an abrupt halt against the creek bank. The ATV race from
the previous day had left a rut that turned into a two-foot vertical wall of mud that I couldn't get
over. So I had to pull the front wheel back and find another way out, which I could now see
was as simple as crossing the creek about 10 feet sooner than my first attempt. Yarnell and
the rest of the pack left me at that point, but a couple miles later I found John at the bottom of
a ravine, hopelessly stuck in the mud. I was able to descend the ravine and make it up the
other side, where I parked the bike against a tree and went back to help John out of his mud
hole. The back tire was buried, and as much as we tried, it wouldn't come out. A couple
minutes later, another of John’s buddies came upon us and stopped to help. Between the
three of us, we got the bike turned around about 90 degrees, and with it now heading down
the center of the ravine we got it started and pushed out of the muck.
I continued on while John caught his breath. The trail led us in and out of the woods, through
some grass tracks, and eventually back near the staging area. The final half-mile of the lap
was on the motocross track, which was complete slop. A guy on a Honda CRF caught and
passed me on the track and then slid out going around a corner. The CRF stopped on its side
at the top of a small jump, but the guy slid off the track. When I passed by, he was climbing
back on the track while the 4-stroke continued to idle perfectly. I rolled over most of the jumps,
exited the track and began lap two. The going was a slower in some places where deep ruts
were developing, but faster in other sections where the sun was able to reach the ground.
Most of the woods trails seemed to have a common theme: ride on top of a ridge, then drop
down into a steep ravine and try to get up the other side without either getting stuck at the
bottom or losing traction on the uphill. This happened over and over again. I had a couple of
close calls, but my big fat Michelin S-12 chewed its way to the top of every hill I attempted on
that second lap. I did manage to biff it over a 16-inch log and also did a graceful ground slide
just before the motocross track. MHSC regular Dwayne Parish caught up to me while I was
restarting the KX and we had some fun together on the motocross track while finishing up our
second lap.
Somewhere at the beginning of my third lap, I pushed on rear brake pedal and felt no
resistance at all. The rear brake was completely gone, despite the new brake pads I’d put on
the night before. It was pretty slow going after that, and scary as hell the time I went down a
steep hill with a hard left turn at the bottom, feeling no rear brake and very little front brake.
Missing the turn would have taken me down into a nasty gully, so the fear factor was set on
“Max. Tight Sphincter” until I was able to get the bike down the hill without sliding down into a
gully. The checkpoint workers tried their best to recommend the best ways around upcoming
obstacles, but some of the instructions were a little difficult to understand. “Go down the hill,
around the tree, then back up the hill and over, then down again and cross the creek and you’
ll be fine.” Riiiiight. In the second half of the lap I finally found a hill I couldn't get up on the first
try and had to drag the bike down the side of the hill. Near the end of the lap were a couple of
crossings of the widest creek on the property, with many spectators lining its banks. One
friendly guy pointed out a line, but of course I ignored him and tried the same line I’d taken
twice before. This innocuous-appearing line had been dug out deep enough to uncover a tree
root that I hit so hard with my front wheel that I slid forward and gave myself the proverbial
tank-slapper. Ouch. I finished up the lap and called it a day.
Despite the nasty conditions, I enjoyed my three laps. My ventures into Illinois are often for
the purpose of honing my mud riding skills, and the Cornstock 100 (or 80) did not disappoint.
May 2, 2004
Polo, Missouri
5th of 12 in A-Sportsman
A hare scramble, by its nature, is a battle among individuals. We challenge each other and we
aspire to be faster than the guy parked next to us on the starting line. Sometimes we say it’s
just for fun, but if that were the case we wouldn't go racing. No matter how we justify our
reasons for racing, somewhere inside all of us, we want to see how we stack up against other
riders.
But other times, our battles are less with each other and more with that old battle-ax called
Mother Nature. She had already dropped a couple inches of rain on the Polo area, so I
expected mud. I expected ruts. Some deep water, maybe. But we got more than that. Way
more. Partly cloudy skies during my four-hour drive gave way to darkness as I pulled into the
staging area. The rain that had dampened the area was coming back. Sprinkles began while I
was standing in the sign-up line, but for the most part the raindrops left about as fast as they
arrived. Kevin Ruckdeschell's KTM was showing very little orange after arriving back from his
initial course marshal duties. I’m a firm supporter of the practice lap under just about any
conditions, so Kevin’s bike didn't deter me. I signed up, geared up, and took off to see what
the course looked like.
I saw mud, and lots of it. I also saw plenty of rocks. Normally this is a good thing, but as I would
discover later on, it was actually a very bad combination. Another bad association was mud
and open pastures. Again, usually pastures are good, a chance to catch your breath before
heading back into the woods. But after the practice lap I had so much clay and grass attached
to my KX250 that it looked like a shrine to the adobe brick gods. Grass caught up around the
countershaft sprocket was actually smoking when I returned to my truck.
Another interesting feature of the course was a pair of bridges constructed across a ditch.
The course designers used very good planning here, anticipating a scenario in which one
rider fell over while crossing the bridge. The second bridge would be available to prevent any
bottlenecks. I tested this scenario for myself on the practice lap. While crossing one of the
bridges, which were now covered in a layer of slime, my back wheel slid out so quickly that I
was on the ground before I even knew what happened. Again, the bridge builders took into
account the abilities (or lack thereof) of guys like me and nailed boards along the edges to
keep our wheels from sliding completely off the bridge and down into the ditch. But even their
superior design skills were no match for the skills of riders like Tracy Bauman, who was gifted
enough to utilize not one, but BOTH bridges at the same time (this according to Kevin
Richdeschell who claims to have video evidence of the feat).
After the practice lap I wiped off the mud and grass from my fancy Devol radiator guards,
which continued their excellent job of protecting my radiators but were already being enclosed
by the natural brick that was Polo’s terrain. The race began right on time, and off the starting
line I assumed my usual position in the middle of the pack. Our first challenge was a creek
filled with rock ledges, and just after dropping down into it my front wheel slid out. The bike
and I performed a graceful slide down the creek, much to the delight of numerous spectators.
The other riders left quickly while I remounted. Kevin Ruckdeschell was standing along the
creek bank, about 100 feet downstream, and offered some insightful advice: “It’s a two-hour
race!” That it was, and in the second hour of the race my little spill would be virtually
meaningless, a faint memory. But at the time I was a little annoyed, especially because I was
completely covered in water and had only ridden about 200 yards. I restarted the engine and
charged through the creek, eventually catching up to my class several miles later.
Despite the wet conditions, the course was in good shape. After each of the 250 or so riders
passed over the trails, I was confident the mud would turn from slimy to tacky in short order.
But first lap was slick. Two short climbs were extra tricky, each involving hills littered with
rocks. Unlike my previous race at the Cornstock 100, where the climbs were doable as long as
I chose a clear line, Polo’s mud was mixed with slippery rocks. Fresh, seemingly clean routes
up hillsides did not guaranty a successful climb. On the initial lap I had no problems with any
hills but the next laps would be much more difficult.
I completed the first lap near the back of the pack, as expected, but began to make some
progress on the second lap. By this time the trail was broken in as well as it would get, but a
couple of mistakes slowed my pace. The main line up one of the tricky hills became just about
impossible, and I had to drag my KX250 down the hill for a second attempt. In the last half of
the lap, which contained the deepest ruts, I saw what appeared to be a little shortcut around a
corner. It converged with the main trail next to the pair of bridges, but my path was blocked by
a large V-shaped tree branch lying at an angle. My front wheel would slide to the side each
time I tried to cross the branch. After a minute or so of struggling, I was able to lift up the
branch with one hand and shove it down into the ditch. With a clear path to the bridges, I
continued on and finished the lap in 5th place.
Lap 3 appeared to be more of the same until about the halfway point. I saw a bright flash of
lightening, then a huge crash of thunder and the skies let loose. As the wind picked up, I
noticed small white balls bouncing on the ground, then realized it was hail. The pea-sized
projectiles didn't last long, but they hurt, mostly the stuff that made it into my helmet. After the
hail ended, the rain and lightening continued for much of the rest of the lap. Somehow I was
able to ride in these nasty conditions with few mistakes and was actually having some fun,
despite a few tough spots where the lines were getting very creative. Most of the problem
areas started with a small gully or a short hill, and the clay-based soil offered little traction
through those areas.
Near the end of this lap I thought the race might end early because of the lightening, but I was
sent on for a fourth lap. After all, we are the MHSC: hail and bolts of lightening be damned, we
finish what we started! Although the rain had let up, enough water had soaked into the trails
that traction was considerably less than it had been. In fact, I seemed to have been riding
faster when the rain was pouring. The first half of the lap was slick but rideable as long as I
avoided a few nasty ruts up creek beds and chose good lines up the hills. But the second half
of the lap was worse. Much worse. The trails in this part of the course were in swampy areas
where deep ruts had developed. The lines around the mud holes were branching out quite far
from the main trail .
My first time-consuming trouble spot was a short run up a rocky hill that had to be climbed with
a hard left turn and very little approach. I saw several guys hung up there, some in the final
stages of giving up and dropping the bikes on their sides. To avoid this traffic I continued past
the main lines up the hill and tried to find a better place to climb. The hill was mildly steep and
would not have been much of a challenge in dry conditions, but after the rain it was extremely
difficult. I rode toward an area away from the main routes up the hill that looked promising. But
suddenly I noticed a fence blocking my path. I had no choice but to attempt a run up the hill
while riding parallel to the fence. On my first try I got about halfway up before losing traction. I
rolled back down the hill, found a slightly different line, and opened the throttle all the way.
This time I made it nearly to the top but got hung up on some fallen trees. I struggled to get
the bike over the logs as the engine began to heat up. I made it through just as the Holeshot
King, Doug Stone, lapped me.
I battled on, trying to pick good lines and keep up my momentum, but the course was turning
into one long rut. In some places the ruts were relatively shallow where the clay was packed
down, but our tires were polishing it to a nice, slick shine. I would have better luck riding with
skis attached to my boots. I had one more problem with a short, rocky hill near the end,
requiring two attempts to get past it, and finally finished the lap and the race. My bike was
about 10 shades of black. The chain had gathered so much mud around the countershaft
sprocket that the gear shifter was barely detectable. On the ride home I witnessed the faces
of many individuals obviously confused as to how a motorcycle could gather so much mud.
But from the perspective of anyone who raced at Polo, my bike was just one of many that
were in need of good power washings and lengthy apologies from their owners. Polo was a
classic.
