Changes Part I of III

Many racers are resistant to change, sometimes out of superstition or fear or just pigheadedness.  I am as guilty as the next.  But I would like to think that enough years competing in different competitive disciplines (stock cars, motorcycle road-racing and off-road hare scrambles) has taught me to recognize when something flat out isn't working.  My previous post regarding the VCHSS round at Sandy Bottom read here showed me there were a few things amiss in my racing program.  I could continue to struggle, wasting more energy and time until I quit in frustration or got hurt, or worse, hurt someone else.

Racing is all about time, whether you are on or off the track, there is none to waste.  Three areas requiring immediate attention were easily identifiable.  This post will deal with the first: Gear.

Simply put, the gear I was wearing, while quality stuff, was simply not designed for the hot/humid weather we were now encountering in Virginia.  I needed something with venting, lots of it.  Good kit ain't cheap, and the 600 or so bucks a helmet, pants and armor/jersey combo were going to cost would sting for a working class dolt racing on a dental-floss budget mid-season with a Christmas bonus too far off to spend.  Unless I was going to hibernate in the central air until October, it was going to be necessary.  It truly was not a matter of comfort, but of safety.

So I did my research, scoured the internet for reviews and best prices and here is what I came up with (let me be clear that I do not give a rat's ass about color, I was after function, not fashion.  I also do not endorse or receive any discounts from the retailers or manufacturers mentioned, but I have had good experiences with them.).

Helmet: Klim F4 Legacy.  Purchased from Dennis Kirk via Ebay $269.99 with free shipping.  The F4 is purported to be the best vented helmet made and Klim's gear has always been synonymous with quality, so this seemed like a no-brainer.   The medium fit my head (7 1/4) well, but I did have to go with the 30mm cheek pads to get the tight but not uncomfortable fit I like.  The venting has no equal, as other reviews have stated you can literally see your scalp through the ports in the top, while still having the ECE rating.  My only complaint, or caution, is that if you ride in areas with low-hanging branches and vines that require ducking under, be careful, they will rip the plastic air scoops right off the top of the helmet (see pictures).  There is nothing like smashing up your shit on the first ride.

Klim F4 Helmet

Pants: Klim Mojave In The Boot Pants.  Like the F4 helmet, Klim's Mojave pants have the reputation for being the best vented off-road pant available.  I was surprised at how thick the material felt in combination with the liner, I guess if it was any lighter or thinner it would shred itself at the mere mention of rocks and thorns.  There is plenty of mesh in the waist and below the knees.  The pants fit true at a size 32 waist, with some adjustability via velcro straps on the side.  Well made and definitely cooler than the non-vented MSR pants I was wearing.  Purchased via Ebay seller lytleracinggroup for $169.99 shipped.

Klim Mojave Pant

Ballistic Jersey:  Fox Titan Sport Jacket.  I am a firm believer in armor.  Lots of armor, and padding.  The older I get, the more of it I wear.  I crash a lot, and there is no better feeling than jumping up after a get-off unbruised other than ego.  I was wearing the EVS ballistic jersey, but they only come in black and the venting is not great.  The Fox Titan was getting good reviews so I tried it for $149.95 with free shipping from Motorcycle Superstore.  The venting is much better, the armpit area is actually open, so if you do not wear a shirt underneath, you can really get some air over your body, there is an added benefit of being able to use your body odor to distract the guys following you.  Like all of these ballistic jerseys/vests, the material that the pads are sewn to is very vulnerable to tears.  My first ride saw an errant branch tear into the area just above the shoulder pads, break out the Shoe Goo and sewing needle.  Wearing a motocross jersey over the jacket should help with this, but I am all about less layers in the summer.

Fox Titan Sport Jacket

   The first ride in the new kit is a hot and humid late afternoon practice in the woods.  The new gear vents much better than my other stuff, as long as there is some air-flow.  Stop or get stuck for any length of time and before you know it you are overheating, and barring an air-conditioned suit or moving to Alaska, there is nothing to be done about that.  As time progresses I will give my long term impressions of the gear, but right now, there is another race to get ready for!  Look for "Changes" part II coming soon, where I discuss the changes made to my Gas Gas EC300 to withstand the rigors of hare scrambles racing.

New gear in action, being chased by another damn pumpkin.

Bottomed Out In Sandy

Sandy Bottom Hare Scramble. Round 10 of the VCHSS series.  August 21, 2016, Penhook, VA.

Six weeks away from racing.  Been riding every weekend, despite the sweltering VA heat and humidity.  I feel good.  I feel prepared.  I could not have been more wrong.

The heat beats down on the riders as the sun gets higher in the sky, the humidity wraps itself around you like a wet hug from your least favorite, most sweaty obese aunt.  As usual I am the idiot in the all black protective gear, soaking up the warmth like a blast furnace sponge.  Won't be so bad once we get moving...

If I ever fucking get moving.  The green flag drops and I kick the Gas Gas EC300 over hard.  Nothing happens.  I'd been practicing this and it lit every time first try.  Second kick and still nothing.  The other riders are beginning to tear away in a cloud of dust and soon I am alone.  Kicking frantically with no success.  Yeah, I'm that fucking guy today.  I don't know what's worse, the exhaustion or embarrassment.

 Seconds turn into a minute and the officials are trying to move me from the line so they can start the next wave.  Finally the piece of shit lights and I am gone with a first and second gear wheelie that lasts nearly the length of the field.  It's the longest wheelie I have ever done and I couldn't repeat it if I tried.

I remind myself to save some energy for the 3 laps of this 8.5 mile technical single-track course, but I have to catch the other bozos in my class.  After 35 minutes of bouncing and bounding through the woods, picking off stragglers, dodging guys stuck on hillclimbs, I reach timing and scoring.  From last to 5th.  Ok, that's good.  Two laps to go, but damn I am already tired and dripping with perspiration.  Pants are soaked, goggle foam is soaked and leaking on to my face and I am pretty sure my brain is simmering like spaghetti sauce in my helmet, even my boots feel squishy and we haven't had any water crossings.  I must have leaked half of myself out by now.

Another long lap, the second one lasts 34 minutes, but this time I have rabbits to chase, finally able to see 4th, 3rd and 2nd place.  A quick line change on a rocky, rutted and rooty uphill puts me into the 4th spot, but he isn't willing to give it up so easily.  We trade positions and mistakes for the next ten minutes.  I am exhausted.  My head doesn't feel quite right.  Ignore it.  Keep going.

I catch a glimpse of yellow fender and know I've caught the third place Suzuki rider.  I give chase, catching him just as the woods end and the field section begins.  The right-hander opens up and I make my move, shifting to third while still leaned over in the corner, drifting out to the small berm, inching by the Suzuki, drifting....inching.....

Crashing.  I tuck the front as the bike decides it doesn't want to catch the small berm, but would rather sail over it and throw me down to the ground for my insolence.  The crash is jarring and it hurts, but most of my body seems intact.  It takes three kicks to get started again, all with my left leg because the right one is useless.  I remount, but my brain is telling me I am done.  This is the beginning of the third lap and my descent into Hell.

I never see 3rd place again.  In fact, I seem to be seeing less and less as my eyesight narrows into tunnel vision.  Things are also occasionally getting blurry.  Pulling a tear-off does not help.  Removing the goggles doesn't either.  I shove the drink tube in my mouth and suck it all down.  Someone is tightening a giant rubber band around my chest.  My arms are noodles.  I can't stand up.  It's all I can do to keep the bike upright and remember to shift.  There is no strength remaining.  What scary feeling when your body starts shutting down and you know it.  My last rational thought is to get off the damn course and strip naked.  Like most rational and sensible suggestions in my life, it's ignored.  I'm an idiot and I know it.

Somehow I finish the race.  4th.  I've got a pretty good case of heat exhaustion and dehydration, despite all my preparations and training to the contrary.  I'm embarrassed to say that I made the wrong decision to continue.  Risking not only my safety, but potentially (had there been anyone around) other riders' as well.  I don't feel tough, or like I accomplished anything.  Nothing more than getting lucky.  And you can only push your luck so many times until it bites you.  Lesson learned.

I've often said that racing is a lot like life.  Today proves no different.  No matter how well prepared, how good you feel, how much of a badass you think you are, you can very easily get your ass kicked.  I sure did.

This is the only photo of a race I would rather forget.  Slightly ironic is the fact that that is a KDX200 right behind me.

Sometimes It Pays To Stay Home

I didn't make the race last weekend.  Primary race bike (Gas Gas EC300) blew both fork seals in practice two days before, had no luck finding seals locally.  The back-up bike (KDX 200) needed a few things to be ready.  To top it all off the front brakes on the van locked up on the way to practice, with smoke rolling out as I tried to get off the highway.  They finally released and everything seemed normal for the remainder of the drive.  Normally I would have chanced the 4.5 hour trip to the track.

But my heart just wasn't in it.  I've spent many a late night toiling into wee hours with swollen hands and bloody knuckles to make it to a race.  Loading the van at 3 am, sleeping for an hour and then driving 10.  Gone searching all over god's creation to locate the part desperately needed to compete.  Paid exorbitant overnight shipping rates to get stuff on time that never seems to come on time.  Written myself list after list so as not to forget important things, but always missing one or two.

Last week, I had simply had enough.  Daily life frustrations have been piling up for the last few months and I was not willing to deal with the stress of slamming together a half-ass race weekend on top of it.  Been there, done that, so many friggin' times.  So for the first time in years of racing that I wasn't injured or dead broke, I bagged it.  I didn't go.  Because I just didn't feel like it.

A great racer once told me: "If your head isn't 100% in it, get the fuck off the motorcycle, because you are going to get hurt."  My head wasn't there, and I didn't think I could get it there in time.

So I stayed home and went play riding for five hours on the KDX and had a blast.  I don't know if it was a mature decision or just being a pussy.  I don't care.  I feel OK about it.

And you can bet your ass I'll be at the next race.

Hello old friend.  Let's play.

 

If You Don't Have Anything Good To Say........

Why is it that non-motorcyclists and ex-motorcyclists continually feel the need to walk up to current riders and proceed to describe the most horrible thing they have ever heard about happening to someone on a bike?  For example, here is a scenario likely to happen as you are strapping your helmet on curbside:

"Hi there.  I don't know you, in fact I know nothing about you other than the fact that you ride a motorcycle, which somehow offends my delicate flower sensibilities.  Instead of merrily going about my life, I thought I would tell you about my second cousin's next door neighbor, who in 1979, lost his left leg and right testicle in a bloody motorcycle crash that left him able to speak only in Three Dog Night song lyrics for 32 years and blind in his right eye."

Seriously?  How about this one:

"I used to ride, but one day I grabbed the front brake and went over the handlebars, knocked out all my teeth.  My wife wouldn't let me ride after that because she got sick of having to put my dinner in the blender."

Or:

"My grandson died riding one of those crotch missiles.  You know how dangerous those things are?  You're going to get yourself killed.  Have you got a light?"

Should I start walking up to people in their cars and tell them about a car accident I saw on the news where a mother and her three children burned to a crisp in a fiery wreck on the highway?

Or should I knock on your doors in the morning while you are doing your hair and remind you that at least 4 people a year die in hair dryer related accidents?

Stand there in the hallway outside of the operating room as you go in for your face lift and show you pictures of staph infections?

Maybe I will come up to you fat asses in line at McDonald's and tell you about my morbidly obese uncle that ate nothing but 1/4 pounders whose heart one day decided to up strangle him?  How would that go over?

The truth of the matter is, we are all going to end up a statistic of some sort or another, and frankly I don't give a rat's ass which kind of statistic your narrow little mind thinks I will become.  Let me go about my day in peace, put down the goddamn cell phone, pay attention to your shitty driving, and keep your yap shut.

How far underwater do I have to get for you people to leave me alone?

Dog Days

Been slacking, no racing until August.  Here's a picture I found.  Cynical?  Maybe.  True?  Hell yes.  Enjoy!

From Dead Last To Almost Fast (HillBilly Hare Scramble Part II)

I'm not last for long.  As we come to the woods section of the course I pass five riders.  Great, that leaves only eight guys in front who have quite a head start.  I know the slick, rocky hell that we are all about to descend into.  This is scheduled to run five laps, but I have a feeling it will be more like four once the track deteriorates into a rutted mess.

If there is one thing I've learned in the eight hare scrambles I've raced prior to this one, it's that trying to go fast will get you into trouble quick.  Instead, I make myself relax and focus on riding well, not making mistakes and not falling down.  So many times some hot shoe with a fire under his ass hoots and hollers by, then goes sailing down the trail and bounces off a tree at the next corner.  I've also learned to stop being nice.  In the woods the law of nature rules and he who can make his own way waits for no one.  I no longer queue behind stopped riders hoping for them to find a path, I am coming through.

I pass two or three more competitors in my class on the second lap and find myself behind 39p, Juan, my arch nemesis.  I can see he is trying hard, too hard in fact for the conditions.  I let him wear himself out.  We exit the forest back into the grass track section.  Time to see if this 300 has any legs.  I am all over Juan for the first couple of turns.  It feels like roadracing to me, 6th gear pinned, bike headshaking as we hit braking bumps.  Finally I've had enough, run a tighter line into a second gear left hander and blast out of it, wheel aloft, passing Juan.  It's a satisfying moment, but I stifle my joy, because this is usually when I fuck up and crash.  It doesn't happen, in fact I pull out a decent gap and never see him again.  The digital scoreboard tells me I am in 4th place at the end of the lap.  Gaining, but 4th still sucks.

Into the dark of the forest again, back to the suffering and pounding at the hands of these damn rocks.  I stall once or twice, but the Gasser lights quickly.  I have not crashed yet.  Taking my time, picking my lines, going fast where I can and slow where I need to, all the while telling myself to breathe, sitting down on smoother sections to save energy.  I take no chances and force my mind to stay sharp, avoiding stupid mistakes.  Steady, solid, try to light the world on fire and you will only burn yourself.  Next lap I am up into 3rd, scoreboard says 2nd is ten seconds ahead.  This is more like it.  Time to catch him.

And catch him I do.  It's a KTM rider who is going blisteringly fast, but keeps falling down.  I unintentionally smack his bike as I go by, taking his handlebar in the left radiator.  He falls on the side of the course, I continue, and in trying to put some distance on him, make a dumb error and fall.  Nothing major, my left hand is quick on the clutch to keep the Iberian Enchantress from stalling, but it gives him just the opening he needs to get by.  And he his off again, like a pumpkin rocket from hell.  Then he really is off again, bouncing into a small tree and landing his bike directly in the singletrack.  He is trying to lift it up, blocking the only line.  I have a choice to make.  I can either stop and wait for him to remount, or I can go over.

I opt to go over.  I loft the front end slightly, just bouncing it off his rear wheel, and then proceed to ride over the entirety of his bike, from stern to stem, noticing briefly the really trick looking expansion chamber on the KTM.  I feel bad for about three seconds.  If you are going to lay that thing down in front of me, I am going to treat it like trail debris, no matter how shiny.  I would expect no less from my competitors, which is why my bike looks like it was pulled from a dumpster.  This ain't no beauty contest, and remember, "Rubbin' is racin'."  The tactic seems to have worked, because I don't see him again.  But there is a new wrinkle.

The earlier tussle with his handlebars has damaged the filler neck on the left radiator and the cap is no longer sealing.  Coolant is puking from the cap and I have another decision to make.  I can relinquish and give up this second place finish, or we can find out just how tough the Spaniards build these things.  After my aggressive hop over the KTM, my blood is boiling along with my coolant.  Screw it, I've got a few weeks off after this race, I will rebuild it if necessary.  It smokes from the antifreeze hitting the scalding pipe, tone of the motor changes.  Keep going until it quits, then push it.  Must finish.  The Gas Gas loses power and starts to idle funny, getting hotter, but it finishes the race in one albeit overheated piece.

I never catch 1st place and finish in second about a minute down.  I am duly impressed with the machine's performance.  I look forward to many more races with the EC300, but let's start winning, shall we?

Gas Gas making a splash splash.

  

Work Your Ass On The Gas (Hillbilly Part 1)

The Hillbilly Hare Scramble, Rural Retreat VA, Round 8 VCHSS Series

June 26, 2016 10:45 AM

This will be my first race on the 2004 Gas Gas EC300 purchased from Craigslist.  I've spent the last two weeks preparing and riding the bike, trying to sort jetting and suspension, both of which are an abysmal mess.  The previous owner has a high altitude jet kit installed, which means it's lean throughout the rev range. Changing jets is no easy task.  The airbox boot rubber has hardened, which makes it nearly impossible to pry the carb out or get it back in.  The shape of the gas tank means you can't simply rotate the carb in the boots without removing it.  You can't remove the tank without removing the radiator shrouds.  You can't remove the shrouds without removing the seat.  Are you getting the picture?

Three sizes up on the pilot, a clip position change and two main jet sizes bring the beast somewhat into line, but not perfect.  Unbeknownst to me, Rural Retreat is at an elevation of 2500 feet, well above the sea level testing area where I am doing my jetting.  Oh well, at least it won't be so lean!

There was a two hour "pre-ride" of the course on Saturday, which showed me just how bad the suspension is set up.  Actually the rear Ohlins is not bad, but the front Marzocchis are a disaster.  I spend much of the day spinning clickers.  A tire pressure adjustment helps tremendously as well.

It's like a tale of two courses.  One a rocky hell-hole trail with slick mud and treacherous off-cambers strewn with small boulders that just beg to smash pipes, cases and bones.  The other is a fast grass track with a couple of spots where we are hitting 6th gear pinned.  I make a mental note to be sure and rest up on this section, because the other is exhausting.

The bike is a bitch to start hot.  Cold it lights in two kicks, but warm the engine and the story changes.  Usually I can get it in about five, but I know if I stall during the race, this will exhaust me.  I think it's a combination of jetting that is still off, a gargantuan piston and the compression that comes with it, a weird angle on the kickstarter, boots that seem to always hang up on the footpegs, and a right leg which has atrophied from only kicking over KDX200s for the last few years.  The dead engine start at the beginning of the race has me worried.

In the end, it's my own nerves that get the best of me.  When the flag flies I give it a furious kick and immediately start to give it another.  The second kick is met with absolutely no resistance, just a horrendous grinding sound.  It takes about three seconds for my febrile brain to suss out what is going on.  The engine is already running.  Son of a bitch...

You see that rider to the left of your screen, way in the back?  Yeah, the one in dead last?  That's me!