Not to foreshadow or anything, but this was a very bad race. Hellish, actually. Marietta had been high on my list of enduros for 1999, with its smooth singletrack, its hills and miles upon miles of black dirt. As an enduro, the course would run 60 miles or more, few (if any) of which we would ride more than once. The start of enduros was relaxed, with live engines and a handful of riders leaving together at specific times. This race format was always a good value proposition, which appealed to my frugal nature.
Instead of these things, we got mud, and lots of it. In fact, we had complete and total saturation, and me on the very last row. How this happened, I don't recall, but it was unlucky all around. The earlier riders used up what little traction was there to begin with and created huge ruts. The hills were nearly impossible climb, and like Cuba in March, I pushed the bike almost as much as I rode it.
The first section was routed near the Spoon River, which had spilled over its banks. These initial 7 miles twisted through high ground and the low areas next to the river. Rising up from the low ground was a fight along the sides of clay lined hills, each new trail polished more smoothly than the last. The lowlands were filled with black water, its depth imperceptible.
At one of the low areas near the river, two long stakes had been driven into the water, where a man supervised bikes as they navigated the "trail". The woods at this level were nothing more than an Everglades-like swamp, better suited for airboats. The man pointed to the two stakes and suggested I ride between them. I happily obliged, having no desire to know what lie outside the boundary of the stakes. He also recommended I give the engine a healthy dose of throttle ahead of the stakes. This was another worthy tip. The water between the stakes was nearly as high as my seat. My KTM 300EXC pushed through with nothing more than a light sputter. She was a beast.
At this point in the race, I knew a finish was out of the question. I wasn't even sure I'd make it to the first checkpoint. Then, somewhere within this mire of mud and ruts and swamps, the bike wouldn't turn left. The handlebars seemed to stop turning prematurely, adding more frustration to a crazy morning. I paused along the trail and found the steering adjustment bolt had worked its way loose and was severely limiting the turning radius. I unscrewed the bolt, flipped it into the woods and carried on.
After a single checkpoint and nearly 2 hours of torture, I packed up and drove home. The poor 300EXC was abused badly but took all I could dish out. I had "houred out" of the enduro, meaning I fell behind the time schedule by more than an hour. That was the end for me. In what would be an all-time record during my years racing enduros, I had houred out in the first 5 miles.
A lay person might ask why this activity is remotely interesting or rewarding. To put it most simply, it's a psychosis. Nothing else but an affliction of the mind could have me planning the next enduro on the way home from the Marietta monster.
Game on.
