Bad Rap

I've always thought of myself as a serious, but sportsmanlike and fair competitor and have striven to maintain that image.  My racing career began in stock cars on short track asphalt ovals where bumping, banging and straight up plowing into each other was acceptable and encouraged, and the lesson was soon learned that not everyone cared to be thought of as "clean".

Graduating from competition on 4 wheels to two wheeled roadracing was eyeopening.  Passes were things of beauty, racers respectful and concerned with how others reacted to their moves on track.  Sure things could get heated on rare occasions, but these instances were almost always handled with tact and dignity.  It was truly a gentlemen's sport, for the most part.

Transitioning to hare scrambles racing in 2016 I found it to be a little more rough and tumble than the roadracing world.  Passes were closer, there was more "rubbing" from the other competitors, but nothing I felt was dirty or overly aggressive.  It is racing and it is well known that the only place the guy behind you wants to be is in front of you, plain and simple.  The only thing in question is what he is willing to do to get there.  What are you willing to do?

I'm willing to do what it takes, within the confines of safety and reason, willing to use any and all means at my disposal.  Winning is paramount, but not more paramount than going to work in one piece on Monday morning.  That said, short of taking each other out, a little heavy petting amongst fellow riders is a perfectly acceptable thing.  Close the door to make a pass?  Sure, just leave a little bit of room to spare.  Capitalize on another rider's mistakes, exploit his weaknesses?  Hell yes.  Ride over a fallen machine to get by?  Of course.  All the normal cut and thrust of woods racing.  And still perfectly clean and fair.

So you can imagine my surprise when, upon returning to the pits at the completion of the VCHSS Peninsula Classic hare scrambles race (where I finished 3rd) a rider in my class approached me, still in full gear, red-faced, chubby and sweating and began screaming and cursing at me for being a "dirty racer" and "banging bars on the start" (video review of the start reveals we were nowhere near each other).  He also informed me that everyone else in my class was "sick of me" and that he was going to file a complaint with the officials.  Taken aback, I hesitated while pondering a proper response.  Initial visceral instinct may have been to knock him on his loud mouth ass, but obviously that was a no no.  I truly had no idea what incident during the race he was referring to, or what I had done to make him so terribly upset that it seemed he might cry.  There were families and children all around us exposed to his foul mouthed tirade and posturing.  In hindsight, what he really wanted to do was make a scene, and he certainly did that, in front of a nice sized audience.  Had he approached like a man instead of a petulant child looking for attention, we could have discussed his issue and possibly come to an understanding.  Rather, he preferred to make some noise and threaten to go tell mom.  That's his prerogative, but throwing a tantrum in front of a bunch of random people and calling someone names certainly never helped anything.

I've thought long about my response to this incident.  I considered letting it slide and going on about my life.  It's a rather small annoyance in the long run, but an annoyance nonetheless, one that could have negative repercussions in the small racing community in which I find myself.  Some answer is necessary.  I've neglected to name names or post competition numbers, in case the offended offender should decide to sack up and hash this out.

So, after careful deliberation, my response to those who deem my racing "unfair" and wish to whine about it is best summed up in a picture:

Trying to rise above the bullshit started by sensitive snowflakes....apparently the "P" in P class stands for prima donna.

Photo Coyote

Great shots of a race lost due to throttle cable failure.  A cable only three months old.  And with that season's dreams of a championship come crashing down.  Nothing to do now but scramble for points.  And fight for second....grrrr.

Chickens Counted Coyote Consumed

Coyote Run race, Rural Retreat, VA.  3 miles to go, big lead.  Unstoppable.  Bike is amazing, I am amazing.  This is my day.  Yank the throttle again, the same as I have been for 1.5 hours.

Nothing.  Bike stalls.  Dreams die.  Quick.  Cable gone, so is the win.  Season swirls around the bowl, waiting to go down.  Hell.

This is a prime example of what not to do before you cross the finish line.  My demeanor was much changed after the throttle cable broke.

Tangent

All I want for Christmas.....

Seriously, is it too much to ask?

Because

I race motorcycles because it is the only time life moves at the appropriate speed.

Photos courtesy Maria Roberts

This Dog's Day

"Survival is the speed of the day." - Me, prior to the race..

Roots, rocks, deep ruts and just enough mud to make everything greasy.  Just the way I like it.  The harder, more technical, more painful, the better.  And to top it all off, four laps instead of the usual three.  Even better.

Off the start I'm about sixth.  This is not going to cut it.  Make a move early going into the woods, winding up third.  Take an alternate line discovered on the pre-ride into second place.  Miller on his 2017 KTM XC300 peels off into the distance.  It's too early for anything other than to not screw up.  Trying to give serious chase now will only put me on the ground.  I force myself to breathe, slow down and focus.

There's ruts everywhere full of drying mud, even in the fast field sections.  That's the scary part, jamming through those areas in 4th or 5th gear knowing that to cross rut at those speeds would send you on a wonderful flight ending in an abrupt face to face with the earth.  Heart is in throat a few times during those moments, but manage to keep it upright.  I'm tired at the end of the first lap and my right hand has pulled that falling asleep bullshit it usually does.  I shake it out every opportunity just to get some blood flowing.

Second and third laps, ease off a bit to save some energy for the end.  There has been no sign of Miller in front or Jenkins, who is most likely behind in third.  Just got to grind it out and keep from making mistakes.  The end of the third lap, a glimpse of orange and white.  Can it be?  Sure enough a few seconds ahead is Miller.  I've caught him. Brain switches gears, many things change in that moment, plans, strategies, attitude.  A decision is made.  I am going to win this damn race.

Miller proves faster over the smooth, quick sections, where the lightweight and tremendous power of the XC300 outpaces my aging Gas Gas, but in the rough stuff I catch him every time.  It turns into a game of cat and mouse.  Several times he seems gone for good, only to re-appear ahead of me fighting with a root or rocks.  Calm is the key here.  No stupid go-for-broke moves.  He makes a mistake and a window opens.  I jump right through and pass.  Coming to a faster field section, surely he will try something.  But nothing.  Back to the woods, slick red clay, off camber right hand turn to a decent sized uphill crowned with roots, slippery.  Slowing way down I hear a voice behind me, "Ohhh shit!!!!".

Something hits the back of my bike and we nearly go down.  Miller has just slid into the back of me.  I stay upright.  He does not.  Make a break now.  Almost ready to count those unhatched chickens, but as the fourth and final lap begins, I can feel and hear him stalking.  He's remounted after taking himself out and caught me.  One tiny error in a creek crossing gives him all the chance he needs and that's it.  Gone.  Watch him disappear up the long hill climb with my dreams of a win.  But all the fight is not out of this dog just yet.  There's miles to go before this thing is done.  And all those rocks and ruts.

Deep breath and relax.  Hit the rough section and sure enough, there he is.  Wait.  Patience.  Follow.  Doing lots of other things as well, but I'm not willing to reveal all my racecraft here, so you can just imagine.  Suffice it to say every part of this brain is lit up and working overtime.  Finally, I get what I want when, under pressure and trying to be faster, he breaks traction on a root bundle and goes off course.  Now.  Every ounce of energy for the final push.  Three miles to go.  Across the rutted field so fast you want to puke.  The only thing that matters now is the win.  If I can't have it, I would rather fucking crash than accept second place.  Death or glory.  Now.

Risking a look back there is nothing but empty field.  Two miles to go.  Still nothing.  One mile, still alone.  The finish line is in sight.  Fully expect a KTM two stroke to drop on me from the heavens at any moment and crush my dreams, cringing, can't breathe.  Past the scoring computer, it flashes: #2p P1.  I've just won this race.  By thirty seconds.

Every dog has its day.  Today was mine.          

This certainly doesn't look like a race winning move here, (not sure what I've just screwed up).

Top of the box, the only place to be...

What it's all for...a $1 Mason jar with a sticker on it.....worth every damn bump and bruise.

Hunker Down At Hillbilly

I arrived in Rural Retreat for the fifth race of the VCHSS season, the Hillbilly Hare Scramble Friday afternoon June 16.  No sooner did I get set up then the rain came in, turning the freshly mowed field into a slippery mudfest.  My mind had been heavy with lots of things coming into this, now add worry about getting the 2 wheel drive van stuck in the damn mud.  Try not to think about it and focus on the race.  So much of performance depends on mindset, and the ability to adapt when shit gets squirrely.  I sat under my canopy and watched Mother Nature's turmoil.

Contrary to popular belief, it is not pessimistic to expect things to go wrong and prepare for them.  It is simply wise.

Shot of the unsettled weather over the Gas Gas, it would be manic like this all weekend

Ominous clouds roll in.  Yes that is my ghetto AC unit hanging out of my ghetto van.  It works.

If I have to watch Will change the pilot jet on his KDX one more time, I'll scream.  Here he is checking tire pressure.