Trail Rider Magazine

Wheel Spin THE DOWNWARD  SPIRAL  By Kevin Novello (Last month I mentioned running a piece on the Helmet Madness antics of the infamous rider known as "Defective." Well, it's taking a while to sift through the stories that are fit for print. Maybe I'll share some of his stories next month.) I am three laps into the first moto of a winter Grand Prix event and have just thrown a Husaberg TE 300 test bike to the ground like I hated it. In actuality, this is the third time bike and pilot have augured into the deep New England snow mass. The first two crashes were wussy, uninspired, second gear, cross rutted get-offs resulting from ill-conceived passes. This third crash though, this one was pretty good. Or at least I think it was as I tend to black out when I separate from the bike at speed. Don't laugh, blacking out (fine, fainting) has its advantages. Fact: Hitting the ground like a limp, rag doll causes less damage to the body. We are corralled together like we're waiting in line to get on Space Mountain. And we are going so damn slow that I consider stopping at my truck to take a few bites from a turkey club sandwich that's been on my mind since breakfast. We've been leapfrogging each other for the entire race: rider goes down, loses position, and regains position as rider in front falls, again. At first we are patient and let the downed rider pick up his bike as there is no way around. The patience doesn't last long and all too soon the veneer of civility is peeled back and friction spikes begin clawing over downed machines. "Sorry!" I shout as I scratch over the left side of an $8,000 motorcycle. I am so disingenuous that it almost hurts to even utter the words. Still, it's a nice gesture. I press on. Two and a half laps go by and the "race" has devolved into a mind numbing celebration of second gear. We round a wide, sweeping corner that reveals an area of loose snow. And there it is; my opportunity, my chance to break free and gain a few positions. I fan the clutch and wheelie out of the rut without tipping over. I'm free! I pin it! "Attack Attack Attack!" is my philosophy for dealing with loose, deep snow. I digress. Talking about my innate reaction to extreme terror isn't the subject of this brain spittle; it's about succumbing to the downward spiral of frustration and the ramifications of not pulling out of it. It's a topic I am intimately familiar with. I see it all the time and at all levels of racing from the top right on down. Once a rider begins to seriously unravel, very few pull it together. I call this the Downward Spiral and once sucked in; its self perpetuating nature feeds off of your frustration. You would think that because I first started racing in 1980 that I'd be quicker to recognize it and shut it down. Nope. The Downward Spiral sucks me in almost every time. I sweep past two riders and grab a gear before hitting a small jump. Unfortunately, the guy two positions in front of me has the same idea and cuts me off. His (inconsiderate) pass curbs my momentum and makes me a little squirrely when I take to the air. Moreover, the landing is a pile of deep, wet snow that feels like wet concrete when I careen into it. The loss of momentum pushes me forward and my wrists roll under the bars, pinning the throttle open. It all happens so fast that the bike rockets out from under me and I land in the woods 5 yards from the trail. The Husaberg, however, is on auto pilot (and in excellent form) heading for the woods where it flips sideways and slides to a halt under a now steaming pile of snow. Snow is packed between the brush-guard and handle bar which lends the appearance of the white flag of surrender. "Sorry, we're not done yet" I mumble to myself as I get going again. Let's back up. Lap 3 – Frustration is mounting as I am unable make any kind of pass on the long line of riders in front of me. The warm winter conditions have caused the course to devolve into a single, deep, inescapable rut, and it is wreaking havoc on me – and the rest of my class for that matter. On either side of me, 3 feet of unusable plowed trail. Beyond that, deep wet snow. To the front, a single line of riders stretching way too far. I catch back up and fall back into line again. The laps roll by and I continue to flounder as conditions deteriorate. The bottom of the rut is now obscured by the steam generated from hot rotors and snow melt. The inability to see the base of the rut has us back-pack-brawlers tipping over like candlepins. Out of patience, out of time, and out of good will I pin it and take a less used line to the left. The front end drops into a hole, stopping OK, maybe it's not a fact. But that's what I tell myself when I faint like a bitch before a violent impact. 4 Trail Rider www.TrailRider.com

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