Thursday, January 19, 2017
2016 VCHSS Season In Photos
2nd place, 40+C division. Not bad for a first season of racing off-road and first time on a dirt-bike in 10 years.
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
Meaning
Douglas Adams demonstrated the inherent folly of trying to understand the meaning of life, the universe and everything in his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy trilogy, whereupon we were aware of the answer (which was 42), but nobody knew what the hell the question was that brought us there in the first place.
Still we continue to look for it. Meaning, I mean. Even though we are not always quite sure what that means. Some are fortunate to find it in their work. Or in a significant other. Failing that the rest of us are left to our own devices.
I consider myself lucky enough to find it in the ride. Despite the inevitable calamities of modern life, I have always found meaning on two wheels.
And I'm thankful for it.
Still we continue to look for it. Meaning, I mean. Even though we are not always quite sure what that means. Some are fortunate to find it in their work. Or in a significant other. Failing that the rest of us are left to our own devices.
I consider myself lucky enough to find it in the ride. Despite the inevitable calamities of modern life, I have always found meaning on two wheels.
And I'm thankful for it.
 |
| Every apex an answer. What was the question? |
Friday, January 13, 2017
No Go At Pipsico
October 30, 2016 Spring Grove VA
Finally the final round. I'm ready for the 2016 Virginia Championship Hare Scrambles Series season, my first racing off-road, to end. Sick of driving, sick of loading and unloading, sick of damn porta-potties, sick of the sound of dirtbikes and the goons riding them. Wherever I finish today will not affect my 2nd place points position for the year. That takes a lot of pressure off, which will hopefully allow me to relax right into a win.
It's warm, and humid. The weather has been all over the map, cool one day, hot the next. The course is typical VCHSS coastal hare scrambles, woods racing, a little bit dry, no major environmental challenges. I plan on a good finish. So do the twenty other riders in class.
The bike lights immediately when the green flag drops, with a quick flip flop chicane before entering the woods. Diving for the hole-shot, quickly finding myself swallowed up by three other riders. These guys are not screwing around today. It's like goddamn NASCAR out here. Bars bang, somebody goes down, another gets caught up in the course marking tape, dragging it behind him. This is not for me. Not this early, especially with the temps rising and nearly two hours left to race. I have to let them go and hopefully they will tire themselves out. I get shunted as another eager beaver jams his way past. And another. No quarter asked. None given.
Unable to match the fervent early minutes of this race, I try to settle in to a rhythm, ride like I know I can. The leaders are visible from my sixth place vantage point, not far off. Patience, the mistakes will happen. And sure enough they do. I pass the 5th place rider when he bobbles a corner. It's still too early to make a big push, but you have to take the opportunities given. I get an odd impression the rear end of the bike is bouncing around more than usual off of bumps and roots. Blaming myself for holding on too tightly, I try to force the relax (never a good thing). The leaders begin to pull away. At the end of the first lap I am in eighth, and struggling. Nothing seems to be going right. There is no flow, nothing smooth at all about what is happening. Racers are passing me sitting down, looking utterly in control, while I am standing, fighting everything and losing ground.
Then the mind games start. I'm frustrated and flailing trying to go faster. This shit ain't working. The idea of fun goes out the window. The handling of the bike seems to be deteriorating, or is it just my spirit? The course is not overly technical or even challenging for that matter, but I can't seem to make anything happen. Halfway into the second lap, still in eighth, and just looking for it to be over. Whenever I try to pick up the pace, the Gas Gas turns into a hammering, pogoing, ill-steering pig. Second lap turns into the third with things no better. Halfway through the final go round I manage to pass 7th place and make it stick. There is a brief flicker of hope, but I can see no riders ahead. I am alone. There is nothing left to do now but finish, a frustrating seventh place. Season over. I breathe a sigh of relief. As I've gotten older, there is always a part of me that is relieved when a race season ends with rider and machine intact. I know too well the flip side of that coin.
A quick look at the rear of the machine reveals a blown shock, despite having been rebuilt just a few races ago. That explains the poor handling. If I were the type of person to need an excuse, this would be it. But I'm not, so screw it.
Mama said there'd be days like this.
Finally the final round. I'm ready for the 2016 Virginia Championship Hare Scrambles Series season, my first racing off-road, to end. Sick of driving, sick of loading and unloading, sick of damn porta-potties, sick of the sound of dirtbikes and the goons riding them. Wherever I finish today will not affect my 2nd place points position for the year. That takes a lot of pressure off, which will hopefully allow me to relax right into a win.
It's warm, and humid. The weather has been all over the map, cool one day, hot the next. The course is typical VCHSS coastal hare scrambles, woods racing, a little bit dry, no major environmental challenges. I plan on a good finish. So do the twenty other riders in class.
The bike lights immediately when the green flag drops, with a quick flip flop chicane before entering the woods. Diving for the hole-shot, quickly finding myself swallowed up by three other riders. These guys are not screwing around today. It's like goddamn NASCAR out here. Bars bang, somebody goes down, another gets caught up in the course marking tape, dragging it behind him. This is not for me. Not this early, especially with the temps rising and nearly two hours left to race. I have to let them go and hopefully they will tire themselves out. I get shunted as another eager beaver jams his way past. And another. No quarter asked. None given.
Unable to match the fervent early minutes of this race, I try to settle in to a rhythm, ride like I know I can. The leaders are visible from my sixth place vantage point, not far off. Patience, the mistakes will happen. And sure enough they do. I pass the 5th place rider when he bobbles a corner. It's still too early to make a big push, but you have to take the opportunities given. I get an odd impression the rear end of the bike is bouncing around more than usual off of bumps and roots. Blaming myself for holding on too tightly, I try to force the relax (never a good thing). The leaders begin to pull away. At the end of the first lap I am in eighth, and struggling. Nothing seems to be going right. There is no flow, nothing smooth at all about what is happening. Racers are passing me sitting down, looking utterly in control, while I am standing, fighting everything and losing ground.
Then the mind games start. I'm frustrated and flailing trying to go faster. This shit ain't working. The idea of fun goes out the window. The handling of the bike seems to be deteriorating, or is it just my spirit? The course is not overly technical or even challenging for that matter, but I can't seem to make anything happen. Halfway into the second lap, still in eighth, and just looking for it to be over. Whenever I try to pick up the pace, the Gas Gas turns into a hammering, pogoing, ill-steering pig. Second lap turns into the third with things no better. Halfway through the final go round I manage to pass 7th place and make it stick. There is a brief flicker of hope, but I can see no riders ahead. I am alone. There is nothing left to do now but finish, a frustrating seventh place. Season over. I breathe a sigh of relief. As I've gotten older, there is always a part of me that is relieved when a race season ends with rider and machine intact. I know too well the flip side of that coin.
A quick look at the rear of the machine reveals a blown shock, despite having been rebuilt just a few races ago. That explains the poor handling. If I were the type of person to need an excuse, this would be it. But I'm not, so screw it.
Mama said there'd be days like this.
 |
| Off the start, on the outside, in 4th. That was the best position I would hold all day. And not for long. |
 |
| Looking ahead. To when the damn race (and season) is over. |
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| Bouncing around like a rag doll on a blown shock. |
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| At least this one is sexy. |
Friday, December 30, 2016
The Seven Stages Of Hare Scrambles
People often ask me what it's like to race hare scrambles. I always tell them it exactly mirrors the Seven stages of Grief:
1. Shock: Damn, how did all these other guys get past me? How are they so fucking fast?
2. Denial: I am not this slow. Those fuckers are cheating. They cut the course. They have better tires. Better suspension. Better lives.
3. Anger: I fucking hate this shit. This bike sucks. Piece of shit. Waste my damn weekend bouncing off of trees and getting used as a berm by horny, adrenaline addled teenagers.
4. Bargaining: If I can just pass this guy, I will take it easy for the rest of the race. I will mow the lawn next weekend, I promise. One more rear tire to get me through the season.
5. Guilt: I wish I had loctited those sprocket nuts. Why did I skip those days at the gym? I'm sorry I ate the whole pizza. I'm sorry I just ran you and your shiny KTM over. I'm sorry I spent my savings on another dirt bike.
6. Depression: So tired and sweaty, just want to die. This is so hard, whole body hurts. Too fucking old for this bullshit. I'm going to crash again, I just know it. I want my mommy.
7. Acceptance: I am slow. I will always be slow. Dirt bikes hurt. They will always hurt. I will do this again as soon as possible. I will never learn.
 |
| Judging by the look of disdain on the face of the young girl in the tye-dyed shirt, she can hear me crying...... |
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
The Eye Serene
"And now I see, with eye serene, the very pulse of the machine." -Wordsworth
Life has its ups and downs. Sometimes the downs seem to stretch out long between the ups. That's where riding comes in, at least for me. Since the age of 15, whatever disappointments existence dishes out, they have all been easier pills to swallow with the aid of motorcycles.
Riding provides the opportunity to get outside of your own head. To exist in a single moment which leads to the next and then the next, away, at least temporarily, from the moments that led you there in the first place. It requires interaction with the present, a funneling of focus into here and now, not there and then or where and maybes. Piloting a motorcycle quickly and with any skill, such as in racing, requires honing to a pinpoint accuracy. These two-wheeled machines, by design, cannot carry much baggage.
There are those who would call this escapism. But the mind is a funny thing. When engaging in those activities that require our undivided attention, the ones that fulfill us, that have meaning, we can find a calm place, the "eye serene", leaving our subconscious to deal with the storm raging about. And it will. I return from a ride not to find unpleasant things have disappeared, but maybe shrunken to a less cumbersome size and things so tightly knotted prior, have begun to work themselves out.
So when the hard days come, as they are wont to do, you know where to find me.
Life has its ups and downs. Sometimes the downs seem to stretch out long between the ups. That's where riding comes in, at least for me. Since the age of 15, whatever disappointments existence dishes out, they have all been easier pills to swallow with the aid of motorcycles.
Riding provides the opportunity to get outside of your own head. To exist in a single moment which leads to the next and then the next, away, at least temporarily, from the moments that led you there in the first place. It requires interaction with the present, a funneling of focus into here and now, not there and then or where and maybes. Piloting a motorcycle quickly and with any skill, such as in racing, requires honing to a pinpoint accuracy. These two-wheeled machines, by design, cannot carry much baggage.
There are those who would call this escapism. But the mind is a funny thing. When engaging in those activities that require our undivided attention, the ones that fulfill us, that have meaning, we can find a calm place, the "eye serene", leaving our subconscious to deal with the storm raging about. And it will. I return from a ride not to find unpleasant things have disappeared, but maybe shrunken to a less cumbersome size and things so tightly knotted prior, have begun to work themselves out.
So when the hard days come, as they are wont to do, you know where to find me.
Thursday, December 1, 2016
Don't Tread On Me (Rattlesnake Part III)
Sunday, October 9, 2016 10:45 AM
Race day arrives and it's already been a long weekend, with rain and driving and wind and cold, not to mention getting lost in the woods. My plan is to relax, and survive. I expect it to be muddy and slick after Friday/Saturday's deluge, and with four laps plus one mile scheduled to run over the nearly 10 mile course, exhausting.
The "live" engine start means no worrying about tiring yourself kicking a machine that all of a sudden refuses to start while competitors roost into the distance. I have no intention of leading the race during the first lap or two.
That plan gets chucked out the window when the green flag flies. No one wants to lead the race. Everyone is pussyfooting around. I finally thought, 'fuck it', shifted to third and took the lead by the second turn in the infield. The mulch section offers surprisingly good traction, as does the dirt track oval. A four foot drop off followed by a slippery hairpin turn has us heading towards the woods. Wide open. Fast. The bike is kicking and bucking like a rodeo bull that just had his balls prodded.
The grass track section is more of a slick mud track now, some of the jumps are intimidating, either you go full on balls out to make the landing ramps on the other side, or come up short, knocking your teeth out landing flat. I mostly end up doing the latter, holding my questionably welded footpeg bracket on through sheer force of will. Briefly looking back, I realize that I have pulled quite a gap on the field. My heart starts pumping. Delusions of grandeur. This is it. This is my race. I'm a hero...
Five seconds later I catch a rut and fall down on a slimy switchback turn. The twenty or so seconds I spend fucking around getting the bike upright and running means the entire field passes me. Last place. Now I'm a zero.
Head down and back to work. The one advantage I possess is knowledge of the entire course, having unintentionally walked it yesterday. I know how fast it is, more like a GNCC than a tight woods Virginia hare scramble. I cut through the riders in my class again, and finish the first lap in second place, elated, fully intending to win.
The second full lap ends and I come across in first. It's a hard position to be in with half the race remaining. I need to conserve energy to finish, but unwilling to give up the lead to do so. I focus on running a pace where I will not crash. Fast where you can go fast, slow where you have to go slow. Sit down and relax when possible. The plan works reasonably well until the third lap where slight brain fade at a creek crossing has me down on the ground. Nothing major, but just enough for Juan Jaramillo and another rider to get by. Now third. Things are getting hairier. There are traffic jams of slower riders stuck in muddy ruts ahead of us. I catch first and second place. I could make an aggressive move here and jam into Juan, but opt for the more sportsmanlike approach and wait for a break in the gaggle of machines. Juan sees a hole and goes. So do I, pulling my muddy goggles down so as to see. I pass him and several stuck riders. Shortly after he passes me again. I do not want a battle. I want first place, can see him. I pass and gap Juan, then pass the first place rider, going as fast as I dare. No challenges. Chance a look back. No one there. Time gained. I get that queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. There are likely less than ten minutes left on the last lap. The race is mine to lose. I can taste the win. Finally.
Five minutes later is a hill climb of mud and rocks laid bare by the hundred or so machines that have traversed it several times. A young rider on a 125cc two-stroke Kawasaki is stuck mid-hill, spinning his wheel desperately on a rock face, going nowhere. A course marshal is on his left side, tugging at the bike. The only line is on the right. No problem, I have momentum on my side.
Suddenly another marshal steps out of the trees and into my line. I'm screaming for him to move. He doesn't hear above the racket. I try to aim between him and the stuck rider, somehow managing to get his rear fender hopelessly jammed between my front fender, forks and wheel. I'm livid, screaming for the marshal to get his bike off me, yelling that I can make the hill, whereas the other rider obviously will not. Unaided, I get my bike unstuck and go sliding around for the left line, while sliding backwards. I am suddenly t-boned by another bike. Juan. Dammit. He's caught me. And now rammed me. I'm willing to forgive the first hit. But when he backs up and takes another run into me, I'm ready to fight. Son of a bitch is trying to knock me down. At this point I will tackle him in the middle of this goddamn hill and roll to the bottom just so he doesn't get by me. My previous gentlemanly conduct in regards to him has come back to bite me on the ass. After he hits me the second time, I look him in the eyes and shout over the two-stroke din, "You let me get up this fucking hill." His eyes widen and he knows I mean business. I am in no mood to be fucked with. He has already won the damn championship, so he stands nothing to gain with these shenanigans. He concedes and I ascend the hill. With all of our lovemaking, the eventual race winner, Jeff Hackett, has passed us both. I chase, but do not have enough time to catch him. Juan never makes another attempt. He settles for third and I settle for the bitter taste of second place, three seconds ahead of him.
It was a decent run, but this late in the season, even in the 40+C Class, decent just won't cut it anymore.
Hell.
Race day arrives and it's already been a long weekend, with rain and driving and wind and cold, not to mention getting lost in the woods. My plan is to relax, and survive. I expect it to be muddy and slick after Friday/Saturday's deluge, and with four laps plus one mile scheduled to run over the nearly 10 mile course, exhausting.
The "live" engine start means no worrying about tiring yourself kicking a machine that all of a sudden refuses to start while competitors roost into the distance. I have no intention of leading the race during the first lap or two.
That plan gets chucked out the window when the green flag flies. No one wants to lead the race. Everyone is pussyfooting around. I finally thought, 'fuck it', shifted to third and took the lead by the second turn in the infield. The mulch section offers surprisingly good traction, as does the dirt track oval. A four foot drop off followed by a slippery hairpin turn has us heading towards the woods. Wide open. Fast. The bike is kicking and bucking like a rodeo bull that just had his balls prodded.
The grass track section is more of a slick mud track now, some of the jumps are intimidating, either you go full on balls out to make the landing ramps on the other side, or come up short, knocking your teeth out landing flat. I mostly end up doing the latter, holding my questionably welded footpeg bracket on through sheer force of will. Briefly looking back, I realize that I have pulled quite a gap on the field. My heart starts pumping. Delusions of grandeur. This is it. This is my race. I'm a hero...
Five seconds later I catch a rut and fall down on a slimy switchback turn. The twenty or so seconds I spend fucking around getting the bike upright and running means the entire field passes me. Last place. Now I'm a zero.
Head down and back to work. The one advantage I possess is knowledge of the entire course, having unintentionally walked it yesterday. I know how fast it is, more like a GNCC than a tight woods Virginia hare scramble. I cut through the riders in my class again, and finish the first lap in second place, elated, fully intending to win.
The second full lap ends and I come across in first. It's a hard position to be in with half the race remaining. I need to conserve energy to finish, but unwilling to give up the lead to do so. I focus on running a pace where I will not crash. Fast where you can go fast, slow where you have to go slow. Sit down and relax when possible. The plan works reasonably well until the third lap where slight brain fade at a creek crossing has me down on the ground. Nothing major, but just enough for Juan Jaramillo and another rider to get by. Now third. Things are getting hairier. There are traffic jams of slower riders stuck in muddy ruts ahead of us. I catch first and second place. I could make an aggressive move here and jam into Juan, but opt for the more sportsmanlike approach and wait for a break in the gaggle of machines. Juan sees a hole and goes. So do I, pulling my muddy goggles down so as to see. I pass him and several stuck riders. Shortly after he passes me again. I do not want a battle. I want first place, can see him. I pass and gap Juan, then pass the first place rider, going as fast as I dare. No challenges. Chance a look back. No one there. Time gained. I get that queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. There are likely less than ten minutes left on the last lap. The race is mine to lose. I can taste the win. Finally.
Five minutes later is a hill climb of mud and rocks laid bare by the hundred or so machines that have traversed it several times. A young rider on a 125cc two-stroke Kawasaki is stuck mid-hill, spinning his wheel desperately on a rock face, going nowhere. A course marshal is on his left side, tugging at the bike. The only line is on the right. No problem, I have momentum on my side.
Suddenly another marshal steps out of the trees and into my line. I'm screaming for him to move. He doesn't hear above the racket. I try to aim between him and the stuck rider, somehow managing to get his rear fender hopelessly jammed between my front fender, forks and wheel. I'm livid, screaming for the marshal to get his bike off me, yelling that I can make the hill, whereas the other rider obviously will not. Unaided, I get my bike unstuck and go sliding around for the left line, while sliding backwards. I am suddenly t-boned by another bike. Juan. Dammit. He's caught me. And now rammed me. I'm willing to forgive the first hit. But when he backs up and takes another run into me, I'm ready to fight. Son of a bitch is trying to knock me down. At this point I will tackle him in the middle of this goddamn hill and roll to the bottom just so he doesn't get by me. My previous gentlemanly conduct in regards to him has come back to bite me on the ass. After he hits me the second time, I look him in the eyes and shout over the two-stroke din, "You let me get up this fucking hill." His eyes widen and he knows I mean business. I am in no mood to be fucked with. He has already won the damn championship, so he stands nothing to gain with these shenanigans. He concedes and I ascend the hill. With all of our lovemaking, the eventual race winner, Jeff Hackett, has passed us both. I chase, but do not have enough time to catch him. Juan never makes another attempt. He settles for third and I settle for the bitter taste of second place, three seconds ahead of him.
It was a decent run, but this late in the season, even in the 40+C Class, decent just won't cut it anymore.
Hell.
 |
| Faster! They are coming!!! |
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| That log looks like it wants to eat my wheel. |
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| So jump over it. |
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| Ugly mug, post race. |
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
Even The Snake Fears The Storm (Rattlesnake Part II)
Saturday, October 8, 2016
The rain continues all night and into the morning. Hard. I wake and find my nice hard-packed parking area at the bottom of the hill has turned into a muddy morass. My two-wheel drive van with skinny street tires will be forever stuck if I don't move quickly. I forage for sticks and branches to shove under the wheels and make a semi-dramatic mudslinging escape 150 feet up the hill. Now I have to drag all my crap up there as well. In the still pouring rain. Ah, the joys of racing. In a gesture of welcome goodwill, one of the VCHSS officials notices my plight and offers to back his pick-up down into the quicksand so I don't have to carry everything up the hill. There are plenty of good people left out there, and lots of them ride dirtbikes.
The Saturday pre-run has been cancelled due to the weather. Races go on rain or shine, but organizers feel there is no need to destroy a course for a practice session, makes perfect sense. That leaves me lots of spare time, as the race is not until Sunday. I opt to walk some of the 9 mile course.
The start is in the infield of the 1/2 mile dirt track of Wythe Raceway, and leads into a mulched section full of switchbacks and turns that finally dumps you out onto the sprint car oval. This will be a sixth gear wide open affair, then foot down into the banked turn, still hard on the gas if your balls are big enough. From there into the woods and "grass track" section, which is wide, muddy and has plenty of jumps, then comes the woods section, lots of hill climbs, mud, creek crossings and rocks. Fields and grassy hills as well. This course has everything. And it's all crazy fast. I head back to the pits thinking that this is going to be one hell of a race.
In a funny/scary/ridiculous aside, about 4 PM went to walk more of the course. The rain stopped but it turned cold and windy. Figuring not to be gone long, I did not take my cell phone, a jacket or any water. 45 minutes later I was hopelessly lost, with the sun going down, stuck on a muddy uphill that was nearly impossible to climb on foot. How can you be lost you ask? The course is clearly marked dummy! True, the problem with following the arrows was that I had no idea how far was left to walk until the end and it was getting dark and colder rapidly. I cut off through uncharted woods and began going around in circles. I could hear no sounds of humanity. A twinge of panic ran through me. After wasting plenty of energy scrambling up and down these slick hills already, a sick fear grew inside that I might spend the night in the woods. Or die of exposure and become some dipshit of a statistic. "Virginia Man Dies 50 Feet From Safety" or something similar would read the headline. Finally, as the last light of day faded I found a gravel road. And a really creepy abandoned church complete with even creepier cemetery. Needless to say I hoofed it as fast as my raw feet would carry me and made it back to the track. Lesson learned.
The rain continues all night and into the morning. Hard. I wake and find my nice hard-packed parking area at the bottom of the hill has turned into a muddy morass. My two-wheel drive van with skinny street tires will be forever stuck if I don't move quickly. I forage for sticks and branches to shove under the wheels and make a semi-dramatic mudslinging escape 150 feet up the hill. Now I have to drag all my crap up there as well. In the still pouring rain. Ah, the joys of racing. In a gesture of welcome goodwill, one of the VCHSS officials notices my plight and offers to back his pick-up down into the quicksand so I don't have to carry everything up the hill. There are plenty of good people left out there, and lots of them ride dirtbikes.
The Saturday pre-run has been cancelled due to the weather. Races go on rain or shine, but organizers feel there is no need to destroy a course for a practice session, makes perfect sense. That leaves me lots of spare time, as the race is not until Sunday. I opt to walk some of the 9 mile course.
The start is in the infield of the 1/2 mile dirt track of Wythe Raceway, and leads into a mulched section full of switchbacks and turns that finally dumps you out onto the sprint car oval. This will be a sixth gear wide open affair, then foot down into the banked turn, still hard on the gas if your balls are big enough. From there into the woods and "grass track" section, which is wide, muddy and has plenty of jumps, then comes the woods section, lots of hill climbs, mud, creek crossings and rocks. Fields and grassy hills as well. This course has everything. And it's all crazy fast. I head back to the pits thinking that this is going to be one hell of a race.
In a funny/scary/ridiculous aside, about 4 PM went to walk more of the course. The rain stopped but it turned cold and windy. Figuring not to be gone long, I did not take my cell phone, a jacket or any water. 45 minutes later I was hopelessly lost, with the sun going down, stuck on a muddy uphill that was nearly impossible to climb on foot. How can you be lost you ask? The course is clearly marked dummy! True, the problem with following the arrows was that I had no idea how far was left to walk until the end and it was getting dark and colder rapidly. I cut off through uncharted woods and began going around in circles. I could hear no sounds of humanity. A twinge of panic ran through me. After wasting plenty of energy scrambling up and down these slick hills already, a sick fear grew inside that I might spend the night in the woods. Or die of exposure and become some dipshit of a statistic. "Virginia Man Dies 50 Feet From Safety" or something similar would read the headline. Finally, as the last light of day faded I found a gravel road. And a really creepy abandoned church complete with even creepier cemetery. Needless to say I hoofed it as fast as my raw feet would carry me and made it back to the track. Lesson learned.
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| Wythe Raceway. Note the painted white lines that demarcate the start area. The yellow painted tires mark the infield course. |
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| Obstacle section and jump before timing and scoring booth. |
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| There is nothing like the beauty of nature to fill one's soul |
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| Home on the range? |
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| Mr. Grouch's country home. |
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