In a complete turnaround from the previous week, the Belleville Enduro Team (BET) lucked out with pleasant weather and a huge turnout for their hare scramble. The race was staged at the BET club grounds, an old strip mine. After the mining machines left in the 1960s, the property had remained in a rugged state perfectly suited for dirt bikes. The BET club obtained the property and has been hosting many types of off-road motorcycle events here for decades.
Before the race began, I walked the course with a guy named Jeff Smith, parked next to me in the staging area. Throughout the year I would run into Jeff at various races and become good good friends with this Alton, Illinois dirt biker. We admired the short, steep hills native to strip mine properties, now filled with mature trees decades later. I liked these trails.
After hearing me talk ad nauseam about my dirt biking exploits, a group of friends had come out to see if the stories were true. Riding buddy Matt Sellers also joined to race the C class (novice), but because of a large number of riders, this class would be part of a separate race after ours was finished. By then, the A and B classes would have the trails chopped up into endless ruts and tree roots. Those poor C riders.
When the flag dropped for my race, I jumped out to a good start but soon found myself hung up in a muddy bottleneck. After finding my way through the mass of bikes in various stages of distress, I rode well in the tight woods, which tend to suit my riding style. Somehow the challenge of slicing through trails which change direction every 30 feet and smack my arms with tree branches is easier than barreling through wide trails in 4th gear. Maybe we really are predestined to be better at what we experienced first in life. For me, these kinds of trails were it.
Later in the first lap I took a shortcut up a hill and cut off a faster rider, collecting a few loud, choice words. My group of friends were nearby and witnessed the exchange, later describing what they saw as an offensive display of unsportsmanlike conduct. I didn't remember the incident until my friends retold the story. In my racing world, these things happen in an instant and are forgotten just as quickly. I explained, unconvincingly, that we're all friends after the race. Still, they couldn't come to terms with the yelling.
The laps passed by quickly and the course became more defined. The major obstacles were firmly implanted into my memory since the first lap, such as the big hill near the final checkpoint and the tricky off-camber trails near the lake. The smaller details of the course were memorized later. Go wide around the corner by the concrete erosion structure, I pleaded with myself. Stay left on that ridge next to the checkpoint in the woods. Each lap the trails changed slightly, requiring more mental notes. No matter how many of those notes stuck in my brain, I'd always find a way to forget an important one.
That moment came in the final 30 minutes of the race. To be honest, I can only assume it was a mental lapse which put me in my predicament, for my memory was wiped clean for several critical moments. I suddenly found myself lying on the ground, waking up from what seemed like a deep, relaxing nap. My head hurt, my bike lie on its side several yards away, and I was alone, but for an occasional racer whizzing along the trail. One of the riders yelled out, presumably asking if I was ok. A minute later, two BET club members found me, helped me to my feet, and walked me back to the woods checkpoint.
How this came about, I did not know, nor would I ever. The memory never came back and no one witnessed the crash. This illustrates one of the differences between woods racing and just about any other form of motorized competition. Late in a race, as riders spread out across miles of trails, there's a loneliness out there. What happens is uniquely yours. Crash at a motocross race and 10 people might explain to you what happened. Cartwheel down a hill inside the woods? That story may be yours alone to tell.
As the kind club members escorted me to the EMTs at a standby ambulance, I couldn't see straight. Gradually I regained my senses and realized one of my contact lenses was gone. A few minutes later, another club member arrived with my motorcycle, stating matter-of-factly, "Your bike isn't right." Indeed, the handlebars were misshapen and both triple clamps were bent. This was a crash for the ages.
My group of friends had become concerned, after timing my laps to about 15 minutes apiece and then seeing 30 minutes elapse before I arrived at my truck. I explained what I knew, which wasn't much. My elbow was sore, my tongue was cut, my face was scratched and my head felt like a bad hangover. I drove home against the advice of everyone who knew what happened, then attempted to piece together the crash. Monday morning, my coworker friend who attended the race could not stop telling the office what he had seen. If only I'd been able to explain.
