Q2 2013 - Merrimack Valley Trail Riders

MVTR.ORG
@M_V_T_R
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May
Starting May 1st Summer Meeting Hours - Bench Racing and Pizza 7:45, Meeting at 8:00
New England Classic
June 8 – 9
Loudon, NH
Trail Boss Saturday
JD Mott
[email protected]
603 765 8094
Trail Boss Sunday
Chip Fredette
[email protected]
Big Bike Rally
Dave Mott
Kid’s Classic
Matt Belanger
Jay Lees
[email protected]
Wolfboro, NH
Paul Zanis 603-986-7338
Luis Colom 603-247-2711 [email protected]
John Ruffo Fall Challenge Nov 30
Landry Ranch, Windham NH
Jeff Noyles
Ice Box
[email protected]
[email protected]
Rocky Mountain H/S July 27 – 28
Trail Boss - Pee Wee Scramble
Jeff & Tami Preve
[email protected].
Trail Boss - Jr. Enduro
Andy & Lynne Anthony [email protected]
Trail Boss - Hare Scramble
Shawn Levesque
Lebanon Maine
Mike and Karen Harrison
Mark Stock
Don Bo Smith
Jan. 1
[email protected]
Club Rides
Wednesday Night Ride
Beginning May 28th starting from in the
Clough parking lot at 5:00. Great
opportunity for new and prospective
members to meet and ride with other
club members. Always a Good Time for
rider of all levels!!
(On meeting night Club Ride moves to Freedom Cycle)
[email protected],
Family Day Trail Ride August 18
207-475-2184
Family Day Alton TBA
Alton, NH
Sarah Dynia
Mountain View Turkey Run Oct. 6
[email protected]
`MVTR Meeting Night Ride
The first Wednesday of the month beginning May 1
Starting from the parking area behind Freedom Cycle
at 5:00. Ride the track, trail or both. We need
someone to act as trail leader for the ride
Landry Ranch Club Rides
Hosted by Jeff Noyles
Held on various dates announced via E-mail
To have your name on the ride list contact
Bob at [email protected]
The Classic
All Hands On Deck!
rd
The 33 New England Classic and Kid’s Classic is just 5 weeks away and if the weather does not cooperate soon we will
have a very busy spring preparing the trails for The Classic and getting Hop-Eve ready to open in May. The Classic is one
of the most significant motorcycle fund raising events in New England consistently raising over $120,000 per year for
Cystic Fibrosis. It is paramount that our Trail Bosses and Event Mangers know who they can count on as their needs
unfold. If you can ride, walk, or crawl please make sure your name is on somebody’s work list
From The Trail Bosses
Northern & Southern Loop Chip Fredette:
Southern Loop JD Mott: Northern Loop
Due to the stubborn snow cover and cool temps, it’s difficult at this point to frame a trail prep schedule. Once the weather
does cooperate, I can almost guarantee work parties every Sunday until the June 7th and 9th event. There will also be
frequent Saturday work parties accompanied by the occasional mid-week effort. Just as we have done in previous years
for all events, JD and I will be emailing the Members in advance of each work party looking for help. Our plan is to
solicit support from a core group of guys who will in turn be willing to join the pre-ride or sweep crew. This is not to say
that maintenance crewmen must sweep or pre-ride. I appreciate whatever help people can lend.
This year The Southern Loop will run on Saturday and The Northern Loop on Sunday
Big Bike Rally Dave Mott
Kids Classic Jay Lees,
[email protected]
Matt Belanger,
Don’t forget this year the ages are 10 thru 16. You must Pre Register soon, we can no longer accept registrations the day
of the event! This year we will be riding the Alton Trails on Saturday and Clough State Park Sunday. Because of the bus
and trailers required we are limited to 40 riders. For registration packet Contact 800-757-0203 or E-mail no-
[email protected]
We are looking far an A, B or fast C Rider to lead the older (fast) riders. These kids will give you all you can handle!
We need people to help in parking area with food prep, chaperoning and other miscellaneous task that come up
Banquet
Lisa O’Connor: Executive Director, Cystic Fibrosis Foundation [email protected]
"St. Patrick's day has come and gone with nice early spring weather so I just wanted to thank all of the MVTR riders who
will be out on the trails soon getting everything ready for The Classic, Kids Classic, and Big Bike Rally. It seems like the
run up to our favorite weekend gets quicker every year. So don't forget to pre-register and order your banquet tickets
well before the deadline of May 27. We sell out every year, and every year some folks who "just forgot" end
up scrambling at the last minute-so don't let that be you! Meantime, ride safe and I can't wait to see you all again at
registration!"
Volunteer Coordinator
John O’Conner [email protected] I
Some of the jobs that need to be filled
We need three drivers on Saturday for the video crew.
Help needed to control parking
Someone to ride thru the parking area notifying people of the Riders Meeting
Volunteers to locate “awareness signs” both Saturday & Sunday mornings.
The need for pre-riders and sweepers is typical of all previous years. Please DO NOT even ask to pre-ride unless
you are familiar with the particular days course.
A pick-up truck with 2 to 3 men are needed on Thursday June 6th that can haul the equipment trailer from the
Cystic Fibrosis Foundation office in Nashua to the NHIS in Loudon. Once unloaded the trailer will be used to
pick up supplies locally.
Contact John If you can help in any way. He will be assigning people to jobs as the need arises.
THANKS IN ADVANCE TO EVERYONE WHO SUPPORTS CF BY
THEIR VOLUNTEER EFFORTS.
New England Classic Charity Trail Ride
June 7-9, 2013
New Hampshire Motor Speedway
Loudon, New Hampshire
http://www.cff.org/Chapters/newengland
THE CLASSIC HIGHLIGHTS
Once again, riders will start and finish both days at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway in
Loudon, NH, enjoying dual sport and hero section trails as they choose along the way. This year
The Northern Loop will be used on Sunday and the Southern Loop on Saturday. The ride is
approximately 100 miles each day.
The Big Bike Rally is back and promises the adventure riding community another great year of
back roads and trails suited to their style.
The Kids' Classic for riders ages 10 to 16 returns to a closed course, two-day ride that also
includes lunch both days. Space is limited for the Kids’ Ride and is filled on a first-come first-served
basis. Please e-mail [email protected] to request a packet for the Kid’s Classic.
NHMS sponsors the Classic by providing free camping and shower facilities on the Speedway
grounds. Riders will once again be treated to a barbecue lunch at the halfway point on Saturday
and Sunday. Back at the camping area Saturday night more riders will be able to enjoy the Riders’
Banquet under a tent with expanded capacity.
To register for the Trail Ride, please register online or complete “The Classic Registration &
Waiver” and submit by:
E-mail: [email protected]
Fax: 1-603-598-8167
Mail: Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, 114 Perimeter Road, Unit G&H, Nashua, NH 03063
THE CLASSIC SCHEDULE
Friday, June 7
5:00 pm-8:00 pm ~ Check-in/Registration at NHMS
5:00 pm-7:00 pm ~ Tech Inspection
8:00 pm-7:00 am ~ NHMS Campground Access to Pre-Registered Riders Only
Saturday, June 8
7:00 am-9:15 am ~ Check-in/Registration at NHMS
8:00 am-10:00 am ~ Start Line Open
10:45 am-1:30 pm ~ Rider’s Lunch
6:00 pm ~ Rider’s Banquet
Sunday, June 9
7:00 am-9:00 am – Check-in/Registration NHMS
9:15 am -10:00 am – Start Line Open
9:05 am sharp – Suzuki Drawing
10:45 am – 1:30pm – Riders Lunch
MVTR Classic Committee Members:
Mark Stock
Rupert Dance
Don Boo Smith
Jared Szurley
Jeff Daigle
Tom Levesque
Allen Tucker
John O’Connor
Saying Goodbye
John Ruffo a well known MVTR member succumbed to a heart condition while
competing in the Super Senior Division of the Spring Challenge Hare Scramble in
East Freetown MA I consider a person fortunate to have one true friend at the end
of life’s journey. John had many such friends at his memorial service. People who
knew John from high school, work, road racing, flying, off-road riding, socially, and
family members spoke at the service about a man they loved and respected. John
made an impression in the lives of many and like countless others I feel fortunate he
passed through mine.
Ron
John J. Ruffo (1955 2013)
BEDFORD - John J. Ruffo, 57, died while enjoying
his last trail ride on his dirt bike in Fall River,
Mass., on Sunday, March 24, 2013.
John was born in Hackensack, N.J., on Nov. 15,
1955, son of Joseph and Kitty Ruffo and Cyrilla
Ruffo and brother to Claire Kennedy, Steve Ruffo,
Allison Kuiken and Christine Bellafatto.
John is survived by his daughter and son-in-law,
Nicole and Joseph Timmons; son and daughter-inlaw, Michael and Martha Ruffo; and his three
granddaughters, Olive, Harper and Scarlett.
John lived every day to the fullest; he was a dedicated family man who was so proud to be "G-bubba"
to his grandchildren. He was a man who would do anything for anyone without question. When he
wasn't spending his time taking care of others or being with his family, he was ripping up the dirt bike
trails all over New England. John was also an avid pilot and loved soaring through the clouds in his
Cessna 150.
He leaves behind countless friends, members of the racing community, flyboys and his family who
when looking to the sky or hearing a bike fire up will think of John Ruffo and his bright, heart-warming
smile that will forever be engrained in our hearts.
.SERVICES: There will be a celebration of John's life on Saturday, March 30, at the Executive Court
Banquet Facility, 1199 S. Mammoth Road, Manchester, from noon to 3 p.m.
In lieu of flowers, donations can be made in John's name to Samaritans. John was a longtime
volunteer for this organization. Please send donations to Samaritans, 41 West St., 4th Floor, Boston,
MA 02111 or visit https://app.etapestry.com/hosted/Samaritans/OnlineDonation.html.
The Eulogy
Representing the Merrimack Valley Trail Riders and the dirt bike community, I offer Mike and Nicole, (John’s
son and daughter), your families and the entire Ruffo family our sincere condolences. Further, I wish to thank you for
sharing John’s time and zest for life with us.
For John, his family, from me as a rider and everyone that rides , I wish to thank the rider who stopped to check
on John and to Alden Brown, a fellow competitor (off duty EMT) who stopped to render first aid, performing CPR until
the on-duty rescue squad made it to the scene. Thank you.
As I have learned from Wayne, John’s high school friend and riding buddy, John grew up riding dirt bikes in the
late 60s and continued into motocross into the late 70s.The New Jersey sand is a far cry from the rocks and roots of New
England. Even back in the day, John wanted the best, his favorite ride a 74’ Limited Edition YZ 250. Sure would be an
interesting conversation had we asked John to compare the YZ to his new love, the Husaberg. Through the 80s, his quest
for competition found him on the road racing circuit rip’n it up on his RD 400. Then a change of class and at 200 pounds,
he wrung the snort out of a Honda 125 road bike. Not enough? He raced the side car class and in the off season chased
around on the ice. In the early 90’s, he was woods riding and rode the early years of the Leon Dube Memorial Trail Ride.
A motohead to the core.
The same trait which draws many to bikes and its adrenaline rush is the inner trait which produces pilots. John
was affected by that gene and his hiatus from dirt bikes did include a motor; probably a Lycoming O-235, powering his
Cessna 152. Flying at or just above the trees on a cool fall day can be soothing, almost therapeutic. A bit of a contrast
from the rush of WFO through the trees, unless of course the Lycoming misfires, no trail side maintenance here.
**** JOHN’S “DECEMBER FUN” VIDEO from Y-tube Channel r9128****
The Cessna’s registration number was N704JY…4 Juliet Yankee the call sign, hence John’s home grown y-tube
video studio; “Four Juliet Yankee.
The video is titled “December Fun Video”. It shows him and his Cessna simply cruising around on a fall morning, the sun
coming up over the horizon, all so relaxed. The background music he chose “I Got All The Time In The World”.
“All the time in the world” Of the few times I had the opportunity to socialize with John, that was the case. So
many of you who shared conversation; bike prep, track conditions, bench racing in general; where the best Sunday
morning fly-in breakfast could be found, or just hangar flying, the conversation wasn’t rushed, ‘all the time in the world’.
Oh, and by the way, he listened with the same enthusiasm as he spoke, it wasn’t just about John. I recall one afternoon
last summer when I was early for the Wednesday night ride, and John had come in from his first practice session. We
shared the typical small talk; how do you like those tires, what did you do with your jetting, etc. Alone, we went on to
share tid bits of life; kids, grand-kids, selling the Cessna, alimony, you know, guy things. He was sure to show me his
phone album of the grand-kids, wished he’d see them more; how he enjoyed helping Mike and Martha move west, though
he was disappointed with the mileage that separated them. You couldn’t simply be an acquaintance of John’s. Two
minutes of discussion of a mutual interest and you called him “friend”.
John had returned to dirt riding just a couple of years ago. He had no patience for being second place. He rode
every chance he got, which was plenty, practiced and trained, two or three times a week. I was envious. His first year
back I usually stayed ahead of him; his second year was a toss-up. He was faster but I’d get by him when he was pulling
the heavy Yamaha out of the trees or picking it out of a rock infested mud hole. Last year, except for the start, I wouldn’t
see him until the finish when he’d share his refreshingly cold pieces of watermelon. I once said to John, “You’re so lucky
to be retired and have all this time to practice. “Retired?” he questioned, “I got fired!” A ‘Reduction in Force’ actually,
but we both got a kick out of it. None the less, he’s been kicking butt in that C Super Senior Class and was set to bring
home more 1st Place trophies in 2013.
Our conversation never got around to his health. He was proud to have lost 30-40 pounds, had been working out,
but never shared what I consider a health issue. I see now, he saw it as a condition not an issue. A heart condition he
wouldn’t allow to infringe upon his time or his world.
You don’t generally see more than one side of a person at one time; the family sees a father and husband; coworkers may see another personality; on the track we saw a competitor. Reading the tweets, texts and NEDB posts you
see the soft side of John; the smile that brighten the moment; the humor that said all is well; (the Winter Scramble) “yea, I
came in the pits and changed the flat, the spare only had six pounds of air (It’s supposed to be 13 pounds) but I did finish;
his generosity and consideration, when he’d go out of his way to offer barely used tires to folks that could use them more;
his good will and caring, by volunteering time and energy to the Samaritans, an outreach and counseling group for
depressed or suicidal individuals. Possibly, no one knew the whole John Ruffo, but we know he was a good man.
**** JOHN’S “DIRT SQUID” VIDEO from Y-tube Channel r9128****
Another of “Four Juliet Yankee” studio’s production is John’s “Dirt Squid”.
John had fun with his videos, actually the later ones were darn good. Some were replays of a day in the dirt or in the
air, others possibly a look into John’s inner being.
Here is John’s
“Dirt Squid” sub-plots (my interpretation anyway);
“An Ancient Culture of Warriors”
John, a gentleman in today’s society was a fierce competitor when the green flag waved. He was a Warrior among
frien’emy warriors. “Invincible”
John rode with the invincibly of youth. His competitiveness drove him to the edge. High sides, trips over the bars, the
sudden impacts to the ground, matured John to understand we are vulnerable. Still this and his realization that the body
itself is not bullet proof didn’t curtail his ride or his life.
“Immortal In Their Own Minds”
John’s health condition packed
away, out of sight, he continued on,
immortal in his own mind and soul.
“What If You Could Live Forever?”
We can’t.
“What If You Could Race Forever?”
John did, from his growing years in
Jersey; to the twists of life and the
turns of the road course; the ups and
downs of family and the ol’ Cessna;
the roots and rocks of off road.
Last Sunday, March 24th, John
proudly drove his shinny new van to
the race; he visited with friends and
competitors and rode the tricked out
Husaberg to the start line. Sitting in
wait for the start, his smile and
upbeat conversation said it all: “He
was excited to be there and ready to
race. The green flag dropped and he
raced off… forever.
For John, enjoying his time, his
friends and his interests was a goal,
Off-Road riding a passion, You, his
family, his love.
We are all better having shared his
time, his smile and his attitude.
RIP it up John; we’ll see you on the
next ride.
Tom LEVESQUE
John in the lead at the Spring Challenge
Dirt Squid and John’s other Video’s can seen at
http://www.youtube.com/user/r9128/videos?view=0&flow=grid
Something for Everyone
2013 NETRA Schedule
NETRA PEE WEE SERIES
4/21
Steerage Rock Twister Brimfield, MA
5/4
Fun in the Sun N.Smithfield, RI
5/11
Nutmeg State Eastford, CT
5/18
Catra Black Fly Fish House, NY
6/1
Rubber Cow Wrentham, MA
6/15
Laurel City Winsted, CT
6/22
Hard Knox Huntington, MA
6/29
Martin’s Mini Mayhem Union, CT
7/27
Rocky Mountain Alton, NH
8/31
Stateline Hoosick, NY
10/5
Dam Good Thomaston, CT
10/12 Barnes Way Glocester, RI
10/26 Blue Slope Bozrah, CT
11/2
Roosting Rhody TBA
NETRA TURKEY RUN SERIES
4/28
Bill Hallson Memorial E.Putnam, CT
5/12
Pachaug Rock Ride Central Village, CT
6/8-9 New England Classic Loudon, NH
7/20-21 Thrill & Chill W.Greenwich, RI
8/18
Somers Fun, Fun Somers, CT
9/7-8 Ammonoosuc N.Haverhill, NH
9/22
Extreme Fun Winchendon, MA
10/6
Mountain View Wolfboro, NH
10/13 Tom Noble Acton, ME
11/10 King Philip Wrentham, MA
11/17 Toys for Tots E.Freetown, MA
OTHER EVENTS
4/13
Pathfinder Youth Clinic TBA
5/4
Parent & Child Learn to Ride Tuxedo, NY
6/8-9
New England Classic Kid’s Ride Loudon, NH
8/24-25 Leroy Winter’s ISDT Reunion Ride Adams, MA
9/14-15 Steerage Rock Family Field Days Brimfield, MA
10/5
Dam Good Nervous Novice Thomaston, CT
NETRA CHAMPIONSHIP ENDURO SERIES
1/27
Snow Run Somers, CT
5/26
6/2
6/23
8/4
8/11
8/18
10/20
10/27
Tri-State Oxford, CT
King Philip Wrentham, MA
Robert Leyden Memorial W.Greenwich, RI
Tom Noble Berwick, ME
Mudslinger Tolland, MA
IDR Speedsville Berkshire, NY
Granville Cheddar Cheese Granville, MA
Black & Blue Stafford, CT
NETRA CHAMPIONSHIP JR ENDURO SERIES
4/20
Steerage Rock Twister Brimfield, MA
4/27
Boneyard I Meriden, CT
5/11
Nutmeg State Eastford, CT
6/1
King Philip Wrentham, MA
6/15
Laurel City Winsted, CT
7/6
Dam Good Thomaston, CT
7/27
Rocky Mountain Alton, NH
9/28-29 Two Day Junior TBA
10/12 Barnes Way Glocester, RI
11/2
Roosting Rhody TBA
NETRA DUAL SPORT SERIES
5/12
Pachaug Rock Ride Central Village, CT
6/8-9
New England Classic(Natl) Loudon,NH
7/20-21 Thrill & Chill W.Greenwich, RI
8/18
Somers Fun, Fun Somers, CT
9/22
Extreme Fun Winchendon, MA
2013 NETRA CHAMPIONSHIP HARE
SCRAMBLES SERIES
1/20
3/24
5/5
5/12
5/19
6/16
6/30
7/7
7/14
7/21
7/28
9/1
9/22
10/13
11/3
Winter Scrambles Chester, NH
Spring Challenge E.Freetown, MA
Tuxedo Ridge Tuxedo, NY
Nutmeg State Eastford, CT
Catra Black Fly Fish House, NY
Laurel City Winsted, CT
Martin’s Mayhem Union, CT
Dam Good Thomaston, CT
Cherry Bomb Chaplin, CT
Indian Ridge Eastford, CT
Rocky Mountain Alton, NH
Stateline Hoosick, NY
Hard Knox Chester, MA
Barnes Way Glocester, RI
Woodsocross TBA
New England Trail Riders
Association
WWW.NETRA.ORG
PO Box 469
Collinsville CT 06022
ADMINISTRATOR
JERRY SHINNERS
Phone (860) 693-9111
Fax (860) 693-9227
email [email protected]
On The Lighter Side, I ran across this story on the New England Dirt Bike Forum
The Imaginary Dirt Bike Blog is Real
Thoughts, or lack thereof, and illustrations pertaining to being a dirt bike no0b in
Vermont
Friday, March 29, 2013
The Waste Land (or, the NETRA Spring Challenge, 2013)
“In other news,” Chris says, “a Vermont man has beheaded beloved rock star Axl Rose in an effort to gain—and I
quote—1000 years of power.”
It is 9:00 AM, and we are headed south on I-95—Greg, Chris, and myself, with the Kawasaki and two KTMs in tow.
Having Chris along has livened up the pre-dawn race commute considerably—nonsensical remarks and subsequent
cackling have been more or less continuous since 4:45.
When we reach Demoranville Farm, however, we are all business, lining up immediately to register, then go through tech,
then put on our gear, then wish each other good luck and head to our various lines. Having registered for the Women’s
class, I am all the way in the back, and grateful for it—being immediately run over by the 150-odd individuals in front of
me would have been no way to start my first NETRA race.
Greg has been priming my nerves since the last J Day race: “On the New England Dirtbikes forum,” he tells me, grinning,
“somebody posted about how he’d been doing the J Day races and wanted advice for his first NETRA hare scramble.
Everyone wrote back about how there was no mud anywhere and they always pull all the rocks out of the trail, and it went
on and on until some dude wrote, ‘Time to lose the diapers and put on your big boy pants!’ That about sums it up.” I
response to this, I scowl and grunt. How else can one greet impending doom?
On the line, doom impends swiftly and unceremoniously. In the distance, a man I can’t see shouts something I can’t hear,
then a hundred engines start at once. Mine joins belatedly, then the guy next to me elbows me.
“Want to switch bikes?” he yells through the din.
I look from the KDX to his bike and laugh—it’s a 2012 Husquvarna with neither a scratch nor a speck of mud on it.
“There’s a lowering link in this,” I yell up at him. “You’d be dragging your knees on the ground!”
“You have a point,” he says. “I think I’m gonna have to raise this one…”
“This is my first NETRA race,” I confess. “What have I gotten myself into?”
The man laughs.
“Just have a good time and ride for the checkered flag. You don’t win these things off the start, or even in the first lap.”
The line in front of ours takes off, and when the smoke clears, a guy with a rolled-up green flag is walking toward us.
“30 seconds!” he shouts, and the flag unfurls.
I click the bike into first, get my foot on the kick start lever, and open up the throttle.
Ride for the checkered flag, I think—two laps, twenty miles.
“Freetown Swill Hole,” some guy on the forum had called it.
Oh, what the hell…
And my mind goes silent.
Something green moves, the KDX flies forward on a shockwave of noise and I round the first corner solidly in the middle
of the pack. The Force must be with me, I think, and keep on the gas as we hit the sand track.
The last time I rode this track in November, I could hardly keep the bike vertical in this section, but after riding on snow
all winter, the sand feels solid as pavement. I hang on with the rest on the corners, but—where the hell did these whoops
come from? I think, rolling the 3-foot swells in second gear as everyone else blows past me in third. By the time I reach
the woods, I’m at the back of the line where I belong.
After a short dash down a half-flooded power cut, another section of single track sends me right up the middle of a
shallow, pebbled stream. The pebbles get bigger and bigger as I gain elevation, then the trail veers right, the woods end,
and I’m in this weird, burnt-out scrubland, perfectly flat, but studded at one-foot intervals with rocks the size of footballs.
There isn’t a soul in sight. The weird scrubland goes on, corner after corner, so I stand up, kick it into third where I can,
and focus on my technique:
“Elbows up, chin over the bars… It’s too late to avoid what’s under your wheels, so look ahead and choose your line to
the next corner…”
The self-help audio track as long since given way to Chuck Berry’s “Maybelline” when the rocks begin to give way to
mud. Hitting the brakes, I force myself to focus.
“People have been riding dirt bikes on this trail since forever,” I remember Greg saying. “All the mudholes have rocky
bottoms as long as you stay on the trail—it’s when you try to find a way around them that you get stuck.”
With this in mind, I line up with the main rut, put my butt on the back fender, and hit the gas.
The KDX wheelies amiably through the swill—something I never thought it had enough scream to do—and I return to
the scrub on the other side with wet feet and high spirits.
A few more water crossings and many miles of scrubland pass without major catastrophe: I have no high-speed falls, and
while each mudhole seems deeper, wider and more like a pongee pit of submerged boulders than the last, I have yet to
truly Davy Jones the bike or get so stuck that I can’t pull myself out. Nonetheless, the ten-mile lap is beginning to take its
toll, and I recognize Trouble when I see it.
The trail rounds a corner, and in a little copse of scraggly trees, it dissolves into a dozen different ruts, which disappear
under opaque, oily water. I pause, uncertain which rut to take, then my eyes catch a flash of red in the underbrush. One
kid emerges, a boy about 13 years old, followed by another. Now that I’ve seen the riders, it occurs to me that the strange,
muddy lumps on the far side of the puddle are actually bikes.
“Which way?” I call out to them.
“Right here!” the boy in the red jersey shouts back, air-traffic-controlling me towards a less-deep rut on the far left of the
mire.
I line up my wheel and gas it forward, but either the KDX’s low-hanging forks or my own hesitation cause me to get
stuck, dig a big hole with my rear tire, and stall out.
I dismount, grab the KDX around its middle while each boy takes an end, and we haul it sideways out of the hole—only
to drop it on ourselves as soon as the tires come clear. The boys wiggle out easily, but I am considerably—ah, wider than
they are, and my footpeg is caught on my pants. The boys make to lift the bike off me, but as they do, I see the rear tire
slipping back into the rut—
“Hold it there!” I say, and manage to unstick myself. We stand the bike up on reasonably solid ground, I thank the other
two Stooges heartily, and gas it out of there. The trail turns up a little hill, then there’s more scrub, then proper trees—one
of them has a little sign tacked to it—
Eight miles, I think. Oh, for Christ’s sake…
The last two miles of the track are as bad as the rest, if not worse, and by the time I make it back to recognizable turf at
the end of the loop, my knees are Jell-o and some reptilian brain autopilot system is all that’s keeping me going. It works
fine for getting me over the rough stuff—at one point, the KDX rolls up a four-foot rock face seemingly of its own
accord—but in social situations, I discover that it’s worse than useless.
I am almost out of the woods, literally, zooming up a rooty, muddy slope on my way toward the field track, when my
front tire slips out from under me. The handlebars twist out of my hands and the bike revs wildly, its rear tire accelerating
in air. I land with my stomach on my radiator shroud and feel a sharp pain in my right foot. The bike stalls, I attempt to
stand—but I’m pinned to the spot. More specifically, my foot is pinned... I look back at it and scream.
When I twisted the throttle, the spokes of my rear wheel must have carried my foot toward the brake—and there it stays.
The toe of my boot is wedged between the caliper and the spokes. I pull on it, which hurts like a bastard, but neither boot
nor wheel will budge. I scream again, from the bottom of my lungs.
“Uh-oh,” I distinctly remember someone saying.
The reptilian brain autopilot assumes full control of the situation as several spectators rush to my assistance. Someone
pulls on my foot, I scream, the spectators yell at each other, I yell at the universe in general, somebody else pulls on my
foot and I howl “DON’T
DO THAT, MAN!” at him—and then I kind of snap out of it. One mustn’t swear at
one’s rescuers, I admonish the autopilot, and I attempt to think.
“I can’t reach the clutch,” I start to say, but somebody is already holding it in while someone else slowly turns the wheel
backward…
The autopilot takes one more scream for the road as my toes come free.
I stare stupidly at my collapsed boot for a moment, then stand up.
The spectators are looking at me strangely—I’ve seen that look before, like when I drove my car off a 30-foot
embankment last summer. It says “On a human level, we are concerned about you, but on an animal level, we really do
not want to see it if there are bones poking out of your skin.”
“I’m probably fine,” I reassure them. “I just like screaming.”
At this, everyone looks vaguely insulted, but I am too happy to feel very apologetic, because I can move my toes.
“I can’t reach the clutch,” I start to say, but somebody is already holding it in while someone else slowly turns the wheel
backward…
The autopilot takes one more scream for the road as my toes come free.
I stare stupidly at my collapsed boot for a moment, then stand up.
The spectators are looking at me strangely—I’ve seen that look before, like when I drove my car off a 30-foot
embankment last summer. It says “On a human level, we are concerned about you, but on an animal level, we really do
not want to see it if there are bones poking out of your skin.”
“I’m probably fine,” I reassure them. “I just like screaming.”
At this, everyone looks vaguely insulted, but I am too happy to feel very apologetic, because I can move my toes.
The numb toes kick start the bike effortlessly. I wobble through the field track and the starting gate, where I am
discouraged to see the white flag for the last lap already waving. A little voice advises me that it would be reasonable to
go back to the truck, but the autopilot ignores it and before I know it, I’m in the woods again.
At this point, the front runners have already lapped me and now the whole pack is knocking into my rear tire. Making
room for them to pass in the single-track is a nerve-racking business—at one point, I get bounced along the ground for a
few yards with my elbow guard caught on somebody’s footpeg—and plus, my toes are beginning to hurt. I pull over for a
man to pass me, catch my handlebar on a tree, stall out, fall over, and take that golden opportunity to inspect the damage
to my digits. Squeezing muddy water out of my sock to check for blood, I conclude that there is none, and reattach my
dented boot. As I start the bike, a familiar figure zips past me—
“HEWIIIIIIIIIIITT!” I shout after Greg, but he doesn’t hear.
Lap two swiftly becomes my own private Battle of Passchendaele—a war of attrition, (wo)man and machine versus
boring wasteland and masses of mud. About midway through, I find myself hip deep in brown water, the KDX suspended
on a rock by its skid plate with another rock immobilizing the front wheel, a three-foot high embankment to my left and
an airbox-flooding sinkhole on my right. Brute force will get me nowhere, I immediately see, and besides, I have no force
left, brute or otherwise. Waiting calmly for divine intervention, I sit side-saddle on the bike and take a long drink from my
Camelbak.
While I’m drinking, I hear the approach of a small four-stroke. It slows, it revs, it slows, it revs—and right in front of me,
it stalls. There is a splash, and muffled swearing. Misery loves company, I think, and pull my chinbar down so I can see.
A skinny kid in comparatively tidy racing kit is struggling to return a soggy Honda to the vertical.
“Right,” I say. “You’re stuck and I’m stuck, but you might be able to get unstuck, so I’ll help you.”
He looks at me catatonically as I grab his handlebars.
“I’m not having fun,” he says, and turns his 1000-yard stare on the bike.
We get it upright, drag it out of the deep spot, and after he rides it clear of the mud, he calls back to see if I’d like help
with mine.
“Save your energy, man,” I call. “I'm a lost cause!”
He wishes me luck and disappears into the swamp.
I turn back to the KDX. The situation really looks hopeless—the rock in front of my front tire might be surmountable, if
only that big runner weren’t there, too…
I grab at the log, not at all expecting it to move—and almost fall backwards into the water when it does. Ridiculous, I
think, straddling the bike. I brace my feet on the rock that the skidplate is stuck on and push up on the handlebars as I
open the throttle—the rear wheel oozes up the rock, the front suspension squirms, then the front tire pops free and I
bounce inelegantly out of the muck.
The next five miles pass without major incident. My muddy gloves have zero grip on my throttle and levers, but at this
point, it hardly makes me go any slower. The two kids who’d helped me last time have filled in their chosen rut with
branches, and I shout my thanks to them as I putter easily through. At the next mudhole, there is a traffic jam—one rider
revs a bike that's in a rut over its footpegs, another is helping her push it, and one is waiting on dry land. I pull my bike up
behind him, too dazed to think of going around. A few motivated individuals weave past the lot of us, and eventually I
follow them, an idea popping into my head: I’m not going to let the stuck rider pass me, I think, making note of her
diamond-patterned jersey. She’ll be another minute getting out, so even if this is her third lap, I’ll have a good head start.
I stand up on wobbly knees and point the KDX down the home stretch.
The girl in the diamond jersey does not pass me—in fact, not until I’m back on the power cut do I see another soul. It is a
spectator, a man on foot carrying a lunch box. I swerve past him into the woods, then immediately hit a big rock and stall
my bike.
“Hard race, eh?” calls Lunchbox Man.
“You ain’t kidding!” I say jokingly. “When’s it gonna end?”
“It’s not going to get any easier for you,” Lunchbox Man informs me. “I think the sweeper’s on his way.”
What a Negative Nancy, I think, feeling insulted, and blow past him on the gas when the trail crosses the power cut again.
When Lunchbox Man is out of earshot, I roll off the throttle and plod through the last mile of track, sitting on my sore ass
in second gear. As I approach the finish line, my heart sinks: no checkered flag. I’m too late, so my second lap won’t even
count—and then I stall the bike in the middle of the cattle grate.
“Get off and push it!” says the bored woman in the computer tent.
This is the dumbest advice I have ever heard, as the cattle grates are too close together to dismount in, and even if they
weren’t, God invented the internal combustion engine for a reason. As I gas it out of there, I notice the electric sign: It
seems I am in third place in the Women’s class, which is bad news for womankind and great news for me, especially if
more than three women registered.
Greg and Chris aren’t at the Element, but their bikes are, looking as muddy as mine. Greg’s KTM has lost its front
number plate and dripping gear is strewn all over the trailer. I ditch my helmet with the rest of the detritus and limp off in
search of them, mud squelching in my boots
“Now THERE’s a real rider,” the guy manning the tire
tent calls out to me as I hobble past.
I grin back and tip my imaginary hat. If he only knew, I
think—then it occurs to me that he probably does. The
fast guys won’t look abused at all after a 30-mile race,
whereas I look like I just deserted from the Western
Front. Perhaps Tire Man measures the reality of one’s
ridership by perseverance rather than speed, or by
enthusiasm rather than competence, or maybe on time
spent in the saddle (some 2.5 hours recently, in my case),
or on the sheer volume of mud one manages to
accumulate about one’s person. Takes all types to make
up C Class, I suppose, and I line up to be impressed as the
AA’s launch off the line.
If you’ve heard anything about this race, you are probably
wondering, what about all the sad stuff? What about the
man who died of a heart attack and the two who were
badly injured? Well, somehow I managed to go two laps
without personally noticing any evidence of trouble, and
not until we got home and Greg went online did he learn
the bad news and relay it to me. I’m pretty useless as a
correspondent, I guess, but I wish a speedy recovery to
those who were hurt, and I will pass on the following
information from Greg: the man who died wrote in his will that he wanted to be buried in his dirt bike gear, and race
arrows will mark the way to his funeral on Sunday. Now THERE is a real rider.
Posted by Anna Svagzdys
http://idbb-vt.blogspot.com/2013/03/who-has-never-ridden-dirtbike-has.html
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