A GOOD DAY
"There's Jones." said my brother Oly, as we
drove into the pit area at the Harlan County Hare Scramble. That day's event
would run two hours. We parked next to Jones and Gillman. My brother exchanged
greetings with them while I unloaded my motorcycle.
I had raced moto-cross for years but never a long race. My
bike was fresh and I was in decent condition but I was doubtful about running my
six year old Kawasaki and my twenty-nine year old body in a marathon. Already an
old man in the world of dirt-bikes, I would be thirty the following week. The
day's outcome and even the fact that I had entered meant far more to me than I
was willing to admit.
"Here comes Doug and Beth."
They pulled in beside us. That was good news because a pit
crew was needed. We talked while I was putting on my gear, then I hit the track
for practice.
A hare scramble is an endurance form of moto-cross racing
except with a more open cross-country format and no man made sections. Twenty to
thirty minutes in a competitive situation is about all that even a well
conditioned athlete can comfortably manage. A two hour race pushes the limits of
both man and machine to the maximum.
In moto-cross (MX), the average moto is less than fifteen
minutes and the smaller closed circuit tracks are usually about a mile long. The
itinerary consists of a 0 to 60 drag race across rugged dirt obstacles, slam on
the brakes, a sharp bermed turn, then repeat. Most straight-a-ways have rough
sections similar to driving across double sized corn rows and/or several
ramp-like jumps of different sizes that can catapult the bike fifty to a hundred
feet or more. To sail clear over the next jump or jumps is to double or triple.
Throw in some wider corners called sweepers, a few up-hills, down-hills,
step-ups, drop-offs and some mud, then unleash a group of very intense, young
(and young at heart) riders, banging handlebars through it all, and you have
Moto-Cross.
An MX bike typically has a powerful one cylinder motor and
one of the most advanced suspension systems known to man. The twelve inches plus
of up and down suspension movement on these machines give them the capability of
handling very rough terrain at speed.
Dirt-bike racers are a special breed of athlete and moto-cross
is a demanding and dangerous sport. To see world class riders, or even the local
hot-shots, put on a show is an awesome sight.
* * * * *
The race was being held a mile south of Harlan County Dam
and Reservoir in south central Nebraska. The course was mapped out on the Corps
of Engineers motor cycle ATV recreation area, covering two or three square
miles. The actual path meandered around the pasture and was probably seven or
eight miles long. Jesse and Lisa Wessels, long time motorcycle racing
enthusiasts and promoters, organized the race and Jesse designed the course.
The terrain was typical Nebraska rolling hills, two to three
hundred yards from peak to peak with thirty to fifty foot of drop to the bottom
of each valley. About one hundred feet from the lowest point, the hills were
usually washed away by erosion. Going down the hill, this wash out would be a
drop off where the ground would suddenly drop away from you. If you had the guts
to go over the washout at full speed of fifty to seventy mph, you could sail
past the mud landing ruts formed where the majority of the bikes landed in the
soggy low areas. Going up the other side of the valley, the washout would be
like a ramp launching you into the air. There was also a main creek running
through the course which, due to the wet spring, provided two deep mud-holes.
Moist soil, if not muddy, lends excellent traction to knobby MX tires, and the
ups and downs of the course were fairly gentle making it a fast track, if it
doesn't rain any more.
* * * * *
The track was challenging and fun. I had been to the rec
area earlier in the week and although the actual scrambles track was not laid
out then, the extra practice had me familiar with the shape of the land. Being
able to jump past most of the landing ruts on the drop offs was an advantage as
they can really swallow you up. I was just getting cocky when, unnecessarily, I
got into some rough and was pitched over the handelbars. I slid and bounced down
the hill about thirty feet, on my back and head first. A track official on a
four-wheeler was there immediately and asked if I was alright.
"Just barely." I chuckled, hiding my pain.
Slightly shaken, my bones in proper order, I hopped back on
the machine and headed back to the pits. There was a short rider's meeting and
the mini-bikes ran. They were supposed to run half an hour, but it was starting
to rain and they stopped them at 15 minutes.
The main two hour race consisted of six classes, started in
three groups of two, about thirty per group. Oly was in the first group, over 30
years old, and I was in the third, 200cc. The start was dead motor, so you had
to stand in front of the bike, facing the rear. When the gun sounded, you would
run around, hop on, start it up and go. The motorcycle beside me was the exact
year and model as mine, and for some reason that made me feel better.
The first two classes got off without any problem, and the
thirty seconds we had to wait seemed like an hour. My heart was already racing.
When the gun finally sounded, I dashed around the bike and jumped on. My motor
started on the first kick, I pulled the holeshot and started with a strong lead.
I couldn't believe it. Before this, I really didn't think I could seriously
compete, but now I was saying to myself, "I could win." Something
inside of me clicked and at that moment I became " Joe Serious Motorcycle
Pilot" and started riding to my fullest potential and feeling very good.
The sights, sounds, smell and natural rush felt when riding a
motocross race have to be among the most exciting of all sensations. Speeding
over tortuous terrain. Every bump and hole transmitted to each of your bones and
muscles. Accelerating hard. Unable to see over the crest of the hill. More
speed. Another gear. Down the hill, fast, the noise and the pounding
uncomfortable but addictive.
Then the drop-off. Two seconds of silence. One thing that
separates motocross from other forms of motor racing. Air time. Able to hear the
wind whistling through your helmet, the chain meshing with the sprockets and the
motor idly sputtering with nothing to do. The klunk of the downshift. Knowing
you have only an instant to prepare yourself for mother earth.
The landing. Hopefully past the ruts so you can survive it in
one piece. The noise and the beating begin again with the explosion of impact.
Throttle wide open, up the eroded embankment. Two more seconds of air time. Then
up the hill and the cycle repeats. All the while, trying to get past the bikes
in front of you. Riders beside and behind you, trying to get around you. Unlike
some forms of racing, there are few rules in MX, and it becomes a full contact
sport when you need to pass. The adrenalin flows like a waterfall.
* * * * *
The first mud-hole was a breeze, and I took the alternate
route around the second one. Most riders did, it was just too deep. Having no
bikes in front of you is a real plus, you can ride your own race and there's no
mud or debris being sprayed in your face. I was flying high and having fun.
Thirty minutes in, about two laps, I started passing some
bikes from the classes that started in front of me. The corners were marked with
two lathe, one on the inside, one on the outside. A six by six inch white card
with a red arrow pointing the direction of the turn was stapled to the top of
the stick. In practice, they were easy to see but in the heat of competition I
started missing some corners, and every time I turned around to go back on the
track where I went off, the bikes I had just passed would re-pass me. This
happened at least four times, and somewhere in there I lost track and thought it
possible that someone in my class might have gotten by me.
One time coming out of the mud-hole, on the uphill, I slid
and hit a three foot evergreen that was right in the middle of the track,
bounced, fell over, and killed my motor. My brother was on my tail at this time,
but I just hogged the track and made everybody wait until I got organized. A
good winning strategy, but not a nice thing to do to your brother. There
probably wasn't much else I could do anyway.
Sweating out that spill gave me my first feelings of fatigue,
and it also fogged my goggles, so I slowed down a bit. After a few minutes rest,
the goggles still weren't dry so I pulled them down around my neck and increased
my speed. You'd do seventy mph on some parts of the track and it was raining
lightly. The rain hurt my eyes.
Finally, the halfway mark, and time for a pit stop. After
going through the scorers gate, I saw Beth with my gas.
"Oly's hurt." she said when I killed my motor,
"He's on his way to the hospital."
"Damn it." I swore out loud.
He had been swallowed up by some of those landing ruts and
thrown over the handlebars. Oly never believed in wearing body armor and I was
very concerned about what might have happened to him. It seemed to take forever
for my tank to fill, and in the silence I gulped some water, caught my breath
and tried not to think of the injury risk involved.
* * * * *
After fueling up, I left my goggles with Beth and asked
her to clean them so I could get them next lap. I took off feeling good and
riding well but then my left number plate fell down, held only by one loose
screw. The plastic piece was rubbing on the chain and transmitting the vibration
to my foot. It was distracting and I was afraid it would derail my chain, so I
backed off until the next trip through the pits.
Roaring into the pit area, I yelled at Doug to tear off my
plate. He did and I was back on the track in no time, with a good attitude,
clean goggles, hopefully the lead, and plenty of fuel. What I didn't know was
that I had a crack in the bottom of my gas tank.
For the next lap and a half, I was riding as fast as I had
ever ridden, sailing well past the landing ruts, launching high into the air on
the uphills, cornering quickly and not feeling tired. To this day, those few
moments remain the pinnacle of my racing career.
* * * * *
All good things must come to an end. Sometimes, a little
too soon. When I attacked the mud-hole, I foolishly took the same line I had
taken all day. The rut had become too deep. The bike slammed to a stop so fast
that I was thrown forward on the gas tank and got the wind knocked out of me
when my stomach hit the handlebars. I was stuck hard. The motor and foot-pegs
were wedged into the rut. I had no wind and even less energy. I couldn't budge
the bike. There were several people watching from the rim of the creek, but no
one would help me. I saw them helping other bikes out of the mud earlier.
"Why won't they help me?" My heart sank. The only thing in the world
that I cared about, at that moment, was winning the race.
Mentally and physically, racing is a momentum thing
for me. As long as everything is going well, I don't get too tired. But if
something bad happens, exhaustion sets in immediately.
I did feel exhausted. Even after I caught my breath I could
barely move. Knee deep in the mire. Bikes plowing past me with mud roosting off
their spinning tires, all over me. Giving up seemed inevitable. No!! I had come
too far to quit. I muscled my way around to the back of the bike, grabbed the
rear wheel down between the spokes and tried lifting it up. It absolutely would
not move. The creek was like a river of cement. Just pulling my boots out was
difficult, but I managed to get a better position behind the wheel. Lifting with
all my remaining strength for a solid fifteen seconds the tire finally started
to ooze out of the goo and I was able to get the rear wheel up and over on top
of the mud. The front wheel was easier but still no picnic.
Finally, I got the bike rolling up the hill. Out of breath,
dizzy, coughing and gasping for air, I took it easy for a half mile or so,
trying to regain my spirit. That misfortune took about two minutes, a long time
in a race, but I was pretty sure that all the bikes that passed me had a big
bore motor sound and weren't in my class. Maybe I'm still in the lead.
* * * * *
It started raining harder. The up-hills were difficult and
I was desperately tired. The ground was so slick that the back tire just spun
and it was sometimes necessary to get off and push, burning up even more energy.
My motor died a couple of times. Down-hills also were a challenge, the front end
sliding around like a hockey puck. My goggles had gotten too dirty and were now
hanging useless around my neck.
Next time at the mud-hole I took a fresh line and cut right
through. One of the riders that passed me when I was stuck, was now stuck in the
same spot. It was Jones, and I thought "didn't he see what happened to
me" I tried to make sure that I didn't spray too much more mud on him than
he did on me. I was not going very fast now, but I don't think anybody was.
Approaching the pit area, I could see them holding up a sign,
and as I got closer I saw that it said "15 Minutes". I let out a whoop
as I went through the scoring gate. Religion isn't my strong point, but I prayed
that this was the last lap.
That late in the race, with the rain factor, many of the
riders had dropped out due to mechanical failure. Some probably just couldn't
ride any longer. The bikes were getting spread out to the point that you were
usually alone and your position at that time is how you would finish. If you
finished. I could see number 80 about two hilltops behind me. I didn't think he
was in my class but I increased my speed a little just to be sure. My forearms
were starting to cramp and I could barely hold on to the handlebars. The engine
started to sputter. That six year old machine had performed like a loyal hound
for the whole race. Please run a little longer.
On the downhill where I crashed in practice, a bike now slid
and fell in front of me in the greasy mud. I slammed on the brakes to avoid
collision and killed the motor. My engine was hot and tired. The air filter was
probably crammed full of mud, and the ignition system wet. The bike wouldn't
start. I kicked the starter about twenty times but the bike just wouldn't fire
up. The bike that caused me to stall was up and long gone by now. Maybe it's
flooded. I held the throttle wide open and kicked until I was breathless. Number
80 passed slowly by. There's probably water in the carb. I opened the choke and
kicked until my leg could kick no more. The spark plug must be fouled. Unlike
many of the more experienced enduro riders, I didn't have a small tool pouch
with me.
Out of breath, and totally spent, my heart started the long
trip down to my boots again and to add even more insult to injury I realized
that I was going to have to push my bike nearly a mile in the rain, up and down
steep hills to the pits. I folded my arms across the handlebars and laid my face
on the rain and mud soaked sleeves of my jersey. In solitude I sat at the bottom
of the valley, the rain pattering lightly on my helmet, my lungs desperately
gasping for air, exhaling visible bursts of steam, breathing moans of
disappointment and defeat.
* * * * *
When I finally did catch my breath, I raised my head, got
off and started to push the bike along the bottom of the ravine. About 100 yards
down, I came across one last drop to the bottom of the creek. On dry ground,
with a dry motor, it would've been barely enough to bump start a new bike, but I
had nothing to lose. I headed the wheel down, about like going off of a couch,
and let out the clutch. Vvvwwing-wing-ding-ding the motor exploded to life.
"Yes!!! Yes!!!! There is a God. And maybe, just maybe, I'm still in the
lead."
I putted around, accelerating only on easy stretches and
where I needed to get momentum for a hill. I can barely hold on. Please Lord,
let this be the last lap.
They were holding up another sign at the scoring gate, and as
I got closer I could see that it said "FINISH." I let out another
whoop as I went through the gate and then drove to the truck. Wrestling the bike
onto the stand, I noticed gasoline dripping from the bottom of the tank. There
was enough fuel left to run about another thirty seconds. I was quite relieved
to learn that Oly had only suffered a broken collar bone.
Lisa, at the scorers table, told me that I had indeed won the
200cc class. It was impossible to conceal my joy, and as I ran back to the
pickup she hollered congratulations.
All of a sudden, I wasn't tired. I bought a "Hare
Scrambles" T-shirt at the concession stand and changed into dry clothes.
Waiting for the awards presentation, I got soaked again but didn't care, I was
high as a kite and no chemicals were involved.
When they finally called my name and held out my trophy, I
almost attacked Jesse and said proudly.
"I'll take that."
Lisa snickered and Jesse looked at me kind of strange and
asked. "Are you S.Huffman?"
"Yes I am."
I tucked the trophy in my coat and headed for the truck.
MAN!! WHAT A GOOD DAY!!!
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