Roselawn, Indiana

The 1999 season, up to this point, represented the most racing I'd ever attempted in a year. As I would discover, the best way to get better at something is to do more of it, and I'd done a lot. After 10 races, my stamina had improved and my skills were slowly inching forward in the right direction. I'd reached a stretch in the racing calendar where most events were located east of the Mississippi, my happy zone. The Kahoka national hare scramble had been a preview, and now I had the Summer Bummer enduro at Roselawn, Indiana.

Roselawn was a familiar place. In my Illinois days, this event was the closest race to my home and an annual most-do. I always knew I could count on sugar sand and some of the tightest woods in the Midwest. The Summer Bummer was a true old-school timekeeper enduro, and today race conditions were perfect.

The Summer Bummer format has remained consistent for many years, starting with its use of a nudist colony property as a staging area. The Hill and Gully Riders don't actually plant the riders next to the Sun Aura club rather, an old grass airfield is put into use for staging and registration. A healthy buffer of thick trees and bushes shielded the race crowd from any surprising sights. The old airfield breaks the woods into separate parts, each linked by trails hand-cut through underbrush so thick, a squirrel couldn't walk a straight line through it.

As the 10:00 keytime approached, riders gathered near the main checkpoint. This was one of the few known checkpoints within the course. All others would be hidden in the woods. Four to a row was the general rule for the Summer Bummer, with the first quartet departing at 10:01 a.m. These brave men would spend most of their day dodging face-slapping branches and bushes, and generally act as a brush-clearing team for the other racers. By the end of the day, the sleeves on their jerseys would be shredded, just like their arms.

My assigned row included riders with a mix of abilities, ages and motorcycles. Across the entire group of racers, KTMs and Husqvarna's dominated in number, followed by Japanese motocrossers converted for off-road use. The Hill and Gully Riders had instructed that headlights and taillights must be present and mounted, along with license plates. The course would run through a number of public roads, requiring the bikes to at least look street legal. In reality, none of the motorcycles would pass a DOT inspection. These were race bikes.

As my row neared its departure time, an anxiety came over me as I checked and rechecked my clocks, my roll chart and my odometer. Enduros were such a thinking man's game. So many mental errors were possible, each one capable of costing a rider a chance at a good finish. The first rule of enduro stated that checkpoints couldn't be spaced less than 3 miles apart. When the scorekeeper released my row into the woods, I knew I could simply hammer down and ride hard for about 2.9 miles, then worry about where the next checkpoint could be located. The reality of these woods was the impossibility of maintaining anywhere close to a 24 mph average speed. Jesus Christ could not have ridden a motorcycle perfectly enough. This first section of woods would be a flat-out sprint.

And sprint I did, with mixed results. I hadn't raced in woods this thick for quite some time, and I felt slow. All trails were singletrack, occasionally broken up by multiple paths around logs or minor mud holes. Some trails were flat and loamy others were whooped out sugar sand. None were wide, nor were they flowing. Navigating the trails was a combination of heavy clutch work, dragging the rear brake, a finger or two on the front brake lever, and plenty of ducking for cover. Face slappers were everywhere.

The surprise of the day was what wasn't present in this first timed section: The Great Roselawn Swamp. At my first Summer Bummer in 1995, the woods near Indiana State Road 10 were filled with water and muck. I had never seen anything like it. The trail, if it existed, was submerged under a Bayou-like layer of black water. No one but a group of idiot dirt bikers would ever have stepped foot on that land. This was not just a single obstacle in the woods, it was the woods. I survived from the good fortune of an early row otherwise I might still be stuck out there today.

Miraculously, the swamp had been drained. The only remnants were a handful of muddy puddles and soft areas where ruts were developing. The rest of the swamp was gone and I was happy. Even so, the airfield section hurt me early, and would do the same when we returned for the final sections in the afternoon. Both times through, I came upon the dreaded "slow guy who won't pull over". The trails were simply too narrow to find good alternate routes around this person. Yelling, begging, pleading...nothing worked. Finally, 10 minutes later, I forced my way around him.

In the outlying woods, some of the trails opened up a bit others were just as tight as the airfield section. The Roselawn terrain may have been flat, but the sand whoops more than compensated. Some whoops were deep as my thighs and I hadn't mastered any worthwhile technique to go fast. Instead of skimming the tops of the whoops, my front wheel found the bottom of every one.

The timekeeping part of the enduro was easier now, as I could finally make sense of it. For example, a country road was simply a transfer to the next woods section. When the arrows pointed into the trees, it was highly likely a group of club members would be standing just far enough into the woods to be undetectable from the road. I could gamble and go in early, or wait until my roll chart said I should proceed.

One of those gambles cost me two points when I arrived a minute early to a check. But I redeemed myself at a checkpoint inside our final run through the airfield section. This check was an emergency "tiebreaker". The object of an emergency check is to arrive 30 seconds into your minute. At most checks, riders effectively get a one-minute window to reach a checkpoint without penalty. If you're scheduled to arrive at 10:17 a.m., you can arrive one second before 10:18 and not be penalized. The emergency checks serve as tiebreakers in case you finish with the same score as someone else. Times are recorded to the second, and the goal is to arrive exactly in the "center" of your minute, which is what I did.

In this final 10 miles of the race, our times would be recorded twice more. I was not at all concerned with timekeeping after my amazing emergency check, since the route sheet contained no more resets and the 24 mph speed average was unattainable. Both times through, I struggled to finish the section in less than 45 minutes. In my second pass, the afternoon heat had brought out spectators from Sun Aura, dressed in natural attire. If I could use one word to describe this scene, it would be this: Saggy. Most were seated on golf carts, cheering on the racers as we flew through the sand whoops. In my previous races here, the weather wasn't well suited for naked spectators. Today, however, was a good day for nakedness and the club took advantage.

In the end, I earned a 5th place finish in the C class. This was good enough for a trophy, my first at an enduro. I saved my score card and taped it to the backside of the trophy, now a permanent reminder of that one time I hit an emergency check dead-on perfect.