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!

    

Days of Future Gassed

It's funny how life nudges us into changes.  As a hardcore roadrace competitor I naturally assumed it was where I would stay, that is, until I was "nudged" into buying a dirt bike to kill time on during the winter and a whole new world opened up for me.  Within 18 months of buying that KDX200 I was competing in off-road hare scrambles and now have numerous top 5 finishes including one win in my first season off-road.

The last few years I have tried to pay more attention to those little nudges, and for the most part they have paid off.  Before I knew it, both road race bikes were sold, my focus now entirely on the dirt.  I don't make changes like this lightly, and it was hard to see my championship winning racers head off to new homes, but at some point it is possible to own too many motorcycles.  My limit seems to be about six, any more than that they don't get used and it becomes tedious trying to maintain them all.

So imagine my surprise when another small push occurred while I was purchasing a KDX parts bike.  The owner happened to mention he had another dirt bike for sale, which was in his basement, and would I like to see it?  Of course I would.

The machine was a Spanish 2004 Gas Gas Enduro Cross (EC) 300.  300cc, Two stroke, liquid cooled, six speed, carbureted single cylinder, Ohlins rear shock, Marzocchi USD forks.  Well known in trials circles, Gas Gas has been making a name for itself the last fifteen years or so building enduro bikes as well.  

This particular Spanish princess is in decent nick, the usual scuffs and scrapes one would expect from a 13 year old dirt bike, but nothing terrible.  I like my belles with scars and stories to tell...  The owner's asking price is nearly within a poor working schmuck's grasp such as mine at $1,500.  No I didn't have it in the bank right then, but I thought I knew how to get my hands on it, using mostly legal means.  I tossed and turned for nearly a week, visions of that Iberian enchantress in my head.  I researched the bike thoroughly, knew of its strengths and weaknesses, read every internet post regarding it.  I had to have her.  I sold everything I could get my hands on, including my soul, which wasn't worth much to begin with.

When I arrived with cash in hand, there would be no negotiating.  The owner felt he had undervalued the machine at his asking price.  I tried every tactic I could, but he refused to budge even $50.  In the end I paid him full freight such was the allure of the gal from Girona.  Would she be worth it?  Only time will tell....

From this....

To this....

To this.....two wheels certainly keep life interesting.

  

More Spring Grove

Some more shots at Spring Grove: