Trail Rider Magazine

was gear up and ride to our pit, which, by the way, was clearly marked with a cool personalized Off Road Cup sign. It was on the ride to the pit that we first got a glimpse of the carnage to come. The main parking area looked like the aftermath of a World War Two tank battle with vehicles pointing this way and that, all mired to the axles in mud. Some farmer's beautiful hayfield was quickly turning into a quagmire. The pit area wasn't much better. The snowmelt had turned the top 6 to 8 inches of earth into a sponge, and clay underneath kept the water from being absorbed any deeper, thus every step and every tire pass only served to churn the topsoil into a soupier and soupier mess. The organizers had pushed the 8AM start time back to 9AM in hopes of the trails drying out a bit…yeah, right! Being the eternal optimists, we all figured the trail would be much better than the parking lot, so we weren't too concerned when the Pros shot off the line at 9:01 spurting great roostertails of slime and grass into the rows behind them. I looked at my buddies and said, "Hey, did I mention I hate riding in the mud about as much as I hate changing tires?" I'd prepped my bike the night before, plopping on a new Dunlop 803 trials tire in anticipation of some typical Black Jack rock and gravel terrain, and I actually emailed New Bossman Kevin about that tennis ball trick he outlined in Trail Rider last year sometime. I absolutely hate changing tires and I figured the tennis ball trick would be my poor man's Bib Mousse. New Boss said he wasn't overly impressed but that his brother was using them for trail riding, so I figured for my purposes what could the harm be, plus I could always yank them out later if I didn't like them When the flag dropped for us old fart ironmen, a Texas buddy and I laid back to let the hot rods go and then motored through the first turn and into the woods…and into one giant muddy rut. The woods had held just as much water as the parking lot and the trail had already deteriorated into a single track rut. We figured it would open up in a little bit and would get better. So much for optimism! A mile into the course we were still fighting through a single muddy rut. It hadn't gotten that deep yet, but enough bikes had been through that the foot or two on either side of the main rut was just a muddy mess sloping back towards the center of the trail. I tried to remember every Rich Lafferty tip I'd read in Trail Rider about riding ruts and making turns in ruts, and absolutely nothing was working for me. I was making decent time but I could see that each turn, each hill, each rooted rut was going to get worse as the day progressed. On a dry day, this course would have been a hoot. In its current condition, the only two spots I found fun were a pair of 150-yard squirts down the middle of a rocky flowing creekbed. There you could actually find traction, and an added bonus was washing 15 pounds of mud off your bike. I finished out the first lap and stopped at the pit for a breather, ate half a power bar and sucked on my Camelback. My buddies asked how the trail was and my answer was simple."This is going to be a race of attrition." My plan at that point was just to ride easy and conserve myself and my bike. Budget racing, man! About this time, the guys in the pit next to us were scoping out their smartphones and noting that a huge rainstorm was headed our way on the weather radar. Great, just freakin' great! The second lap actually offered more than one line choice in most spots and wasn't too bad if you consider having a choice between the left rut or the right rut not "too bad." There were a couple of spots that crossed the corners of a field, and those were a mass of parallel trenches. I hadn't noticed until this point that the promised endurocross and grass track sections were missing, and based on the condition of the parking area and pit row, that was a good choice. Oh, I forgot to mention that pit row was already an eight foot wide swath of diarrhea and simply getting traction to get back on the course was a challenge. The race instructions had the usual caution about "going outside of the arrows" and anything more than 20 feet could be considered cutting the course. Those cautions were thrown to the wind after the first lap. All of the tight spots had multiple routes through and around them, all a mass of ruts, of course, and once you got off the main trail and into the wet leaves it was just as slick as the mud. The ruts had gotten deeper and there were a number of peg deep trenches, and this was just the second lap! I passed one guy from my class who was broken down, so I was glad to know I wouldn't be dead last this go 'round. As I neared the end of the second lap I detected a few raindrops on my face, and by the time I pitted for another breather and to rehydrate it started to rain in earnest. The third lap absolutely sucked. I think I got out of second gear twice, and spent the rest of the time wallowing through the sewer. I usually ride on the pegs all day, a throwback to my 1970's NETRA upbringing, so all this floundering and paddling really killed me. Getting up on the pegs, even for a few moments, was pure relief. The rocky creekbeds were Heaven-sent and I would have taken miles of them instead of that soupy crap on the trails. I'd get gassed dog-paddling up a slimy hill, stop at the top for a breather, and my bike would boil over. It's a 2000 KTM, so it's got a right to protest, I guess! I'd sit there and suck on my Camelback, watch these young guys come squirrel-tailing by, auger into the mud, hop back on, ride another 50 yards and auger in again. Maybe there's something to this getting old thing, because I just couldn't see myself doing that to myself and my bike. I soldiered on, happy to stay upright (didn't fall all day) and April 2013 27

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