In a moment of frustration after a bad ride, my buddy Matt Sellers once developed an algorithm to predict when certain races would be more difficult than others. The math was simple: If a race involved the state of Illinois and John Stichnoth, conditions would be horrible 100% of the time. Thus far in 1999, his algorithm was spot-on. Much of this had to do with rain, which fell consistently during the spring, but only ever seemed to come a day or two before a race Matt and I decided to enter. Illinois grain farmers were happy as pigs in slop, which could have been the setting for any number of races east of the Mississippi.
At White City, rains had made the course into a porcine paradise. For good measure, the heat index was approximately 182 thus Matt's algorithm remained accurate. Between the mud and the heat, I was exhausted just 10 minutes into the race. I'd found myself in the thick of my class when the green flag dropped, but once we left the grassy traction of the starting area, most of my class left me.
The narrow, twisting trails of the Cahokia Creek Dirt Riders club grounds were black as could be. The Pro class and various A classes blitzed through the mud as if riding on dry loam, while I struggled just to make my motorcycle go straight. I didn't help myself by frugally clinging to the same front tire which came with the bike, a Bridgestone designed more for terrain on the other side of the Mississippi. In the rocks of Missouri, this tire held its own, but mud was simply not its thing. The front wheel reacted like a Roomba, bouncing from one object to another in random patterns.
Muddy races are usually a series of difficult obstacles, the first of which came early in the initial lap. On the opposite side of Illinois Route 138, we followed the lowlands next to Cahokia Creek, then made a hard right turn onto a narrow trail rising up a steep hill. Any newbie riding this land would be shocked, outraged even, to see such hills in the flatlands of Central Illinois. They simply didn't belong. The club grounds were located within a narrow band of terrain broken up by the Cahokia Creek and its tributaries, which carved deep ravines through an area of loamy soil. In dry dirt, the hills were great fun on a dirt bike. But today's conditions could not have been less favorable for two-wheeled vehicles, and this first big hill was an energy-sapper. I failed on my first attempt, then dragged the bike back down the hill for a second try. In the muddy conditions, climbing results were binary: You either conquered the hill or slid down to the bottom.
Odd as it may be, the length of the course seemed to work against me. The Cahokia Creek club has access to several hundred acres on both sides of Route 138. When they choose to use all of it, the club can lay out some of the longest hare scramble courses in the state. Today was a full 12-mile loop, with my lap times more than an hour. Never in my hare scramble experience had I finished a race with only two laps, but this would be the day. The slow laps gave me little opportunity to learn the course. No matter which lap, it all felt new.
In the chaos of the first lap I somehow passed by Matt, but then my throttle stuck wide open and I rammed into a tree. Matt caught up and passed me back when I missed a turn and went off course. As the race wore on, my throttle would stick open for no particular reason, but now I was primed for the possibility and ready to grab the clutch in an instant. The newness of my KTM 300EXC was wearing off and so was my patience. These Euro bikes were quirky.
On the second lap I crashed lightly, a simple fall in slippery mud, and then felt my man parts on fire. The intensity of it forced me to pull off the trail, where I found the gas cap breather line had detached. During the crash, fuel spilled onto my pants and soaked into my nether regions. The painful burning sensation finally subsided 10 minutes later, but not before I seriously considered discarding my bike and diving into the creek.
I caught up to Matt near the end of the lap, where he had stopped along the trail with a fouled spark plug. After a 5-minute rest talking to Matt about algorithms, I felt much better and rode well for a short while. As often happens when 150 riders spin laps, the trails actually dried out as the race progressed. The course still had its share mud holes and deep ruts, but the fast riders had cleared the top layer of muck from the trails and the sun was doing its best to bake the soil. Even so, the last few miles were difficult and tiring. I'd reached my limit and wanted only for the race to end. My energy level was a big zero as I crossed the finish line. As expected, my results were less than impressive and my confidence was dropping like Bill Clinton's approval rating. At what point, I asked myself, could I move past the learning phase and win some friggin' trophies?
Back at the truck, Matt reminded me of his simple algorithm, proving its worth yet again. We would both spend hours at home, hosing down bikes and boots and pants and every other piece of riding gear exposed to the White City mud. For me it was relaxing and rejuvenated my spirits. I had already forgotten my trophy frustration and was ready to race again, algorithm be damned.
