Trail Rider Magazine

38 Trail Rider the second to last check with my endurance and my sense of humor on their last legs. The guys at the start assure me that the last secon is "fun," which always needs to be taken with a grain of salt, or a whole shaker, and I tear off at breakneck pace, eager to get it over with. I crash… and crash… and p over… and spin out… and crash. Every me, picking the bike up gets harder. The mile markers move in desperately ny increments—72… 76…78…80… When will it end? I honestly don't know— since the race is arrowed and in reset format, I didn't bother looking at the route sheet. Lesson Six: Are you nuts? LOOK AT THE ----ING ROUTE SHEET! Every me I return the bike to the vercal, I set off expect- ing to see the final check around the next corner, and it never happens. Am I going in circles? I begin to think I know how Sisyphus felt—and I completely lose my shit. Outwardly screaming my guts out and kicking my bike, I have a moment for some inward contemplaon. The gear we wear as dirt bike racers has an interesng effect on how people perceive our sport. Beneath baggy, bright col- ored kit and space-age armor, you can't see a pro rider's outrageous physique or the strain in his arms as he skims over the rocks or plows through the whoops. You can't see him pant, sweat, or grimace from fague or pain—so flipping through the channels, you'd think professional dirt bike racers are just cruising along. And this trickles down to the common man, or woman— without fail, when I complain of being sore aer a race, some landlubber overhearing me will incredulously ask, "Why? Did you crash?" "Repeatedly, you imbecile," I always want to reply. "That's the only me during the enre experience when I got to relax." That said, I wouldn't trade my Power Ranger suit for any- thing. First of all, I don't have a death wish, and second of all, I really don't want anyone to see, or hear, what is going on inside my helmet right now. Finally, I scream myself hoarse, kick myself totally ex- hausted, and come to the sad realizaon that—as is em- barrassingly par for my personal course—I've wasted the last of my much-needed energy on a pointless temper tantrum. Lesson Seven: Do not kick the bike. Do not scream. Do not cry. Do not reenact an operac death scene. Don't even swear. As I think Karl Katoch, the sadisc genius behind the Erzberg Rodeo, once said, "You need that air for breathing." Lesson Eight: While we're on the subject of avoiding nerv- ous collapse, bring food. Remember to eat it. You don't need it for ballast, you need it for energy and sanity. I pick the bike up. That's enough, I think. I've just got to plod through the rest of this as consistently as possible… But it's too late. The slightest applicaon of the brakes makes my arms buckle and as I slow down before a road crossing, I slide off the bike like a rag doll. Completely dispirited, I sprawl in the dirt with no parcular intenon of geng up— And then a pair of boots enters my field of vision. "Are you OK?" I sit up. "Yeah, I'm just exhausted." "I know what you mean. I had to stop and take a break." The other rider picks my bike up for me and even gives me a drink from his CamelBak—what a saint! He says he hasn't been on a dirt bike in years, which makes me won- der how he's sll alive at this point in the race—which makes me wonder how much longer we have to go. My rescuer consults his route sheet. "About four miles. Think you can make it?" "Yeah. It's not gonna be fast or prey, but I'll make it." "Same here. I'm just going to plod along..." We set off, the other rider looking back occasionally to make sure I haven't died. I'm sure there are trials secons that have been completed at a higher average speed, but I don't fall again, and finally, I see the final check signs through the trees. I don't even have the energy to see if I've houred out, and the mile of cart road leading back to start feels like an eternity. "That was an emoonal rollercoaster," Greg says when I arrive at the car. "You have no idea." www.TrailRider.com

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