Vices

Someone asked me the other day what my vices were.  I had to stop and think about it then, and I am still thinking about it now.  I don't subscribe to the most common ones.  The discussion turned to my (as Hunter Thompson put it)  "affinity for speed".  Apparently, in some circles, speed is thought of as a vice.  And those who seek it are called "adrenaline junkies".  I was not aware the depths of my depravity.

Dictionary.com defines vice as "an immoral or evil habit or practice" also "a fault, defect or shortcoming".

That definition and the moniker "adrenaline junkie" seem so far away from my concept of speed I felt the need to dedicate this post to it.  So what then, separates the desire to go fast from womanizing? Boozing? Overeating?  Smoking? Chasing the dragon?  Why do some of us, myself  included, look at it as more of a holy crusade than a damning iniquity?  What follows is what I was able to come up with.

Speed, for true adherents, is not an addiction, but a quest, something not taken lightly or entered into on a whim.  In and of itself not an inherent death sentence or destroyer of morals or character.  Quite the opposite. While there are risks, the rewards far outweigh them.

It calls upon us to become the best versions of ourselves we can imagine, to prepare, to train, to plan.  To constantly rise above arbitrary limits set by others, as well as our own.  It fosters study, knowledge, creativity and self-reflection, instead of dulling the senses and mind.  It is a skill and an art that must be finely honed.  One which suffers no "faults", "defects" or "shortcomings".  Rather than covering those things up, it only spotlights them and insists on resolution.

No one questions the sprinter when they seek to be the fastest, or the swimmer or the bicyclist.  Why should it be any different then, for the motorcycle racer?  Can it kill you?  Sure, but many more people die in bed every year.  Perhaps sleeping is a vice?

In the end, a true vice limits your capabilities, your potential and ultimately takes away from the quality of your life.  Speed and racing in general offer tremendous possibilities for exactly the opposite.

Never slow down.  

Debauching myself with a bit of knee dragging at Road Atlanta 2015

Pay The Iron Price

Iron Mountain GP VCHSS Round 13 September 25, 2016

Rural Retreat again.  I love coming out here, if only to escape the godawful heat and humidity of central VA.  After five years my thick Yankee blood is still trying to acclimate.  The terrain, hilly, rocky, with plenty of water crossings and mud also suits my riding style.  Only it has been dry.  Lack of rain has turned the entire course, aside from the creek, into a mountainous dust bowl.

Dave and I ride two laps in Saturday practice, struggling with the hugely steep off-camber sections that threaten to throw the unskilled unceremoniously down the mountain.  We both survive by taking it very slowly, now with the knowledge that  our work is cut out for us on Sunday.

Dust. Everywhere dust.  The race begins and the clouds grow.  Off the start into a dry uphill that the early rows have already dug down to rock and root.  I get bumped into a slower middle line as four riders take the preferred left one.  Which works out in my favor because someone screws it up on the left side and nearly takes everybody out.  Crest of the hill I am in third.  Ok, I can work with this.  I intend on winning this race.  No mistakes.  Make time by not losing it.  Keep your head.

These mantras work very well for the first half of the lap.  I'm not blazing the course, but I'm also not falling down or making too many terrible mistakes.  Through the creek and the muddy ruts, about a 1/4 mile, which consists of the only moisture over the entire track.  The rest is parched, and visibility is shit.

The first bottleneck nearly ends my race.  What a clusterfuck.   An off camber, extremely dry uphill single-track with apparently only one passable route.  Somebody gets stuck, loses their head and starts digging trenches with an adrenaline fueled throttle hand.  People go around and start falling sideways down the hill, catching themselves on trees and thorny vines to stay upright.  There are bikes and bodies scattered around the steeply sloped battlefield.  I am stuck with riders in front and behind.  The kid in front is managing to hurl dusty clods at my face while the bastard behind me keeps ramming my rear wheel as if it's going to get me moving any quicker.  Like the assholes who sit there beeping their horns in a traffic jam that is clearly not going anywhere.

I finally get around the kid, who now has the root he is stuck on burning from the friction.  Most of his knobbies are chunked and piled behind him.  I don't get far, about six feet on and there are more riders stuck, fallen and just generally in the damn way.  The guy behind me goes uphill to find another path.  I follow him.  So does everyone else.  Soon we are all jammed up in a tangle of vines, saplings, stumps and weeds, walled in by piles of knocked down trees that are too large to get over, wasting precious energy in a vain attempt to make forward progress.  People are yelling, dirt flying, bikes moving in every direction.  Bloody chaos.  I can't find a way and realize I have to go back if I ever want to move ahead.  It's a crushing blow.  I've already lost five minutes and it looks like more now.  I head back to the marked trail, get by some stalled riders, eventually threading through the impasse, anger on the rise.  I'm doing my best to keep a clear head, but this little disaster is shredding my last nerve.  I ride mad, making mistakes, bouncing off of trees in an effort to make up lost time, losing more in the process.  I manage, however, not to crash.  That is, until I target fixate myself into a 3" sapling that tweaks the forks and my left shoulder.  Up again, straighten bike and body as best as possible and move along.

We come to the Christmas tree farm section, grassy, hilly, bumpy and high speed if you can manage to miss the hidden pot holes.  Racing down one hill and up another like a giant roller-coaster of dust.  The rhythm comes at long last, let's start riding like somebody who has done this before.  Maybe I can salvage something here.  Anger now translates to speed picking off stragglers mid-hill, top and bottom as well.  Out of the tree farm and into a small field before a steep uphill.  There is a ditch jump here that I remember from practice.  Nothing too bad.  Hit it in third gear, moving.  The bike launches, rider and machine land perfectly....

And the left freakin' footpeg bracket lets go.  Peg drops 90 degrees, foot slides off the peg, fall on the gas tank, ensuring that I will never have children or possibly urinate properly again and proceed to run over my left foot with the rear wheel.  My initial thought is that my foot slipped from the peg, but looking down I can see it hanging on by a thread.  I wonder for a minute if it can be ridden like this, shifting and having nothing to stand on, for another hour and a half.  Remembering vividly the off-camber section, my gut knows.  There is no way.  Even with an heroic attempt it would be weeks before they found my carcass at the bottom of a ravine, buried under 250 pounds of Spanish pork.

I finish the remaining portion of the lap, make timing and scoring and continue back to the pits on the ride of shame, trying to ignore the swelling in ankle and the bruising of spirit.  My race is over.

It never gets any easier.

Once through the creek was all I got.  Both feet still firmly in place.  Both footpegs still attached.

The aftermath. Lieutenant Dan, you only got one peg!

Instead of making fun of guys in shop class, I should have learned to weld.  Would have come in a lot handier than those damn AP English courses......

Powerless At Peninsula

September 11, 2016 Spring Grove, VA 

Round 12 Virginia Championship Hare Scrambles Series

The season is starting to turn into one big blur.  Having driven all over the state for my first year of hare scrambles racing, which is proving to be more grueling than I thought.  I am really struggling with the coastal VA races.  Maybe it's the heat or the generally dry and dusty courses, but my riding suffers and so do the results.  Or maybe it's just the lack of some good mud and slick rocks.  I never considered myself a specialist, but I do seem to do much better under those conditions.

Whatever the reason, I found myself once again in Spring Grove, VA.  And it's hot.  I walked a few miles of the course and have a good idea what to expect.  I get a good start and wind up behind the first place rider.  It's a battle of two different riding styles.  He sits down almost the entire time, whereas I stand nearly all the time.  His style seems to prove better as he pulls away on the second lap and I get passed and bumped into third.  Things turn from mildly annoying to worse as I get lost in a huge dust cloud at the end of the second lap, which nearly has me barreling headlong into a tree.  Things go from worse to shit as we come back into the woods on the third lap.  I can see a teenage girl down on her hands and knees beside her bike.  She appears to be in pain, so I stop to see if she's ok.

I immediately get rear-ended and knocked down by some adrenaline addled schmuck who keeps going.  The girl is up and ok, but another rider runs over her bike.  And mine.  Several riders in my class go by and it's like a kick in the nuts.  I remount, only to find the front end slightly tweaked.  No time to fuck with it now.  I continue and catch up to the other P riders.  I go to make a pass and drop the front wheel in a hole ringed with tree roots, which wrenches the bars from my hands and puts me down on the ground.  Nice shot to the ribs and my left arm/hand, still injured from Coyote Run, goes numb again.  Fuck me.

Up again, take three seconds to straighten the wheel as best as possible.  At least the bike starts first kick.  All this fiddle-fucking has exhausted me.  I work as hard as I can as fast as I can and finish a disappointing, dusty, dismal race in what I assume is like 7th place.  When I check the results later I find it was actually a 4th.  For an off day, not as off as I thought.  Two weeks until the Iron Mountain GP, Rural Retreat VA.  Time to get a win.

Third off the start, just visible to the left of the two pumpkins

You can just make out my helmet and white shoulder pads behind 8p.

The woods are lovely dark and deep, now where the hell did the 1st place guy go?

The look of consternation before getting a KTM suppository.

Watching in frustration as a podium finish slips through my sweaty, dirty grasp

Running The Coyote

VCHSS Round 11 Coyote Run, Rural Retreat, VA 9/4/16

Rural Retreat is beautiful country as I found in my first trip there back in June for The Hillbilly Hare Scramble.  I am looking forward to returning for the Coyote Run event, with my new gear and outlook on racing. There is a Saturday practice from 1-3 pm as well, which makes the 4 hour drive all the more worth it.  I arrive Friday evening, the weather is cool, perfect, no need for AC.

My trainer recommended running only one lap on Saturday, to learn the course and then help conserve energy for the race.  This is counter-intuitive to everything I've believed regarding practice, which is get as much as you can, whenever you can, but the physical nature of off-road racing means my body will not have enough time to recover if I put it through its paces the day before.  I reluctantly agree and pull off after riding one lap, watching Juan and other P riders pass by as I head to the pits, when what I really want to do is chase them down and see what they've got.

The course is typical VCHSS hare scrambles fare: single track with big hill climbs, a long run through a creek, mud and ruts, off camber downhills, tight sections dodging saplings, rocks and even a few jumps to keep us on our toes.  I point out to a buddy that the start has us immediately heading into the slippery creek and mention that some idiot is going to go flying in there, crash and take a bunch of people out.  Someday I will learn to keep my mouth shut.

Start time comes and goes Sunday morning.  There is a delay as a rider from the early morning race is backboarded.  The medics have him strapped to the back of an ATV and run him right through the starting grid as it is the fastest way out.  The 150 or so of us move out of the way and try not to stare too long at the grim reminder of what happens when it all goes wrong (rider was ok, thankfully).

An hour late the race begins.  The 15 guys in my class start heading for the narrow creek like a pack of Energizer bunnies on meth.  I am in fifth as we hit the water.  Just as we start leaving the creek, the first place guy falls, taking out two other riders.  I start making a move around him as he is lifting his bike, which he promptly shoves into me.  I fall over, taking a nasty shot to my left arm which momentarily dislocates my thumb and leaves my hand completely numb.  Thumb re-located, I expend a lot of energy and time picking the bike up out of the water and get my gloves soaking wet.  I hate wet gloves.  Well this is a wonderful start.

Left hand numb, angrier than a wet hen....

Now in last place I make my way out of the creek and up a huge, dusty hill, looking like a Shake N Bake chicken.  I'm pissed and making stupid mistakes, losing my head again.  A nasty root jars the handlebars from my hands and snaps me out of my temper tantrum.  I finally relax and begin slicing through the stragglers.  Rhythm found, things start coming together and the first lap ends in 4th place.  Just starting to feel my left hand again.

Things progress, momentum builds and I believe I must be gaining on the top three.  Sure enough there is Juan in front of me.  I make a pass and put my head down, now in third.  Bottleneck.  Three riders stuck on a tight singletrack section, for no apparent reason.  I wait for about three seconds and lose my cool.  There is a medium sized log blocking a line to my right.  No problem, I can jump that.  But it really helps if you know what's on the other side.  More logs.  Completely unprepared for that, I fall over.  The bottleneck clears.  And so does Juan.  I can feel the steam rising again, I'm about to blow a head gasket.  A little bit of patience saves a lot of time, some day I will grow up and learn that.  Apparently not today.  2nd lap ends, still 4th.

Yes Virginia, Spanish pigs can fly.

Finally I am able to channel the anger into useful energy and hit the zone.  I pass Juan for the last time and wonder if I can catch the leaders.  It feels like I am really moving and a check of the lap times later reveals I cut nearly two minutes off between my second and third lap.  I am happy, but it begs the question, why am I not that fast all the time?  I never catch the leaders, who finish just over two minutes ahead, about the amount of time I spent fucking around in the creek at the start and trying to jump over logs I shouldn't have.  Live and learn, I hope.

Last lap, 3rd would have to do for today.

      

Changes Part III of III: Man

We arrive at the third and most difficult area to affect true change.  It's easy to buy a new bike, slap on a new set of tires, drop thousands to have the most powerful motor your retirement can buy, but when we ask ourselves what is truly holding us down, we may not like the answer, as it stares back in the mirror.

For me, the true brilliance of this hare scrambles racing thing is that so much is dependent on the rider, the machine becomes secondary.  I already proved this by running a 1989 KDX200 competitively against brand new machines.  This is less true in roadracing, where horsepower and outright speed and the almighty cubic dollar still have a firm hand in the outcome.  But in the woods, it is he who does not fall down, he who does not make mistakes and he who can endure the rigors of two hours bouncing from tree to tree that triumphs.  A great equalizer.

Physically and mentally, I needed to figure out where my problems were.

I consulted with a physical trainer regarding my exercise, nutrition and hydration regimen.  I train a lot, five days a week, cardio, swimming, weight, flexibility, balance training and sneak a midweek ride in on the dirt bike.  On the weekends I ride between six to eight hours over Saturday and Sunday, trying to focus on all types of terrain and riding.

The trainer recommended some tweaks and changes, new exercises as well.  The most notable change was to mid-race hydration.  I had been using nothing but water in my pack during the course of a race.  News to me was that over a two hour event an athlete not only needs fluids, but electrolytes and complex carbohydrates as well.  I concocted a home brew of all the above and tested it over a weekend of riding with good results.  I also began incorporating "active rest" into my training schedule, actually giving my 42 year old body time to recover from the string of abuses I persisted in putting it through.  Have to be smarter than an 18 year old if you are going to continue acting like one.

That left the mind.  As far as I am aware, there is no psychologist for motorcycle racers, at least not one that works for free, so it was up to me to plumb my own depths and figure out what wire had been knocked loose.  The season began with a very relaxed attitude, enjoying riding and learning the nuances of off-road racing.  Somewhere along the line it turned into a serious competition.  The fun was gone.  It became about getting faster, all the time faster.  Pressure mounted into stress, into mistakes and into frustration, into the vicious circle of self-defeat that many racers experience.  A return to the halcyon early weeks of the season was needed, a return to fun.

Easier said than done.  After experiencing success on the track, the only desire is for more of the same.  Any human standing on the podium above you is an insult, an affront, a glaring neon monument to your failure, an enemy, a usurper, a target.  Common sense, training and technique are the first casualties in the heat of battle.  As well as breathing, we often simply forget to breathe.

I made up my mind to relax, try not to force everything, letting things work themselves out over the course of a race.  That's not easy to force yourself to do, but it was going to be necessary.  Will it work?  Only time will tell....

Always trying to find my way through the dust, literally and figuratively.

Changes Part II of III: The Machine

It is a terrible feeling, being on the starting line, green flag waving, motors screaming, bikes moving, clumps of dirt being thrown in your general direction, as you stand, frozen in place, furiously kicking a motorcycle that refuses to start.  It was worse than getting my pants yanked down in front of class in the 6th grade.....

Such was my experience at the last race.  Never again.  Previously purchased a brand new carb for the Gas Gas from RB designs, complete with his divider plate and idle circuitry mods.  Ron at RB sent the new Keihin with spare jets.  There were a few teething issues and in our conversations he recommended I go up one size on the pilot jet.  I did not listen to him, figuring the bike's reluctance to start was just the nature of a big bore 2 stroke.  I was wrong.  Upping the pilot one size from 42 to 45 made all the difference.  What can I say, I'm an idiot.  Lesson learned kiddies, listen to those who know more than you do.

One tiny piece of brass means the difference between a worn out leg and a running motorcycle.

The other problem with starting was the worn out aftermarket kickstart lever.  It was wobbly and loose and placed your foot at an angle that was extremely conducive to boot slippage.  When things got wet, nearly impossible to get a solid kick. Very frustrating.  I wasn't willing to spend $100 on another aftermarket lever that sucked, so I found a good used stock lever on the Gas Gas site for less than $50 shipped.  What a difference.

Some people don't like the stock lever (shown above) but I prefer it.

The combination of the pilot jet and the kickstart lever turned the 2004 Gas Gas EC300 from a reluctant pig into a first kick starter, making life so much easier and allowing me to save my energy for what really mattered: racing.

Next: Part III of Changes: The Man

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.