White City, Illinois

If ever there was a race which would become my nemesis, the Big Red Enduro was it. The 1999 version was my first, and it happened under pristine conditions. A near-drought had persisted in the Midwest well into October, leaving the trails almost completely dry. Little did I know, this was an anomaly, a once-a-decade gift bestowed on the Big Red. And I screwed it up.

At signup, the club let us pick our rows. Sometimes it's a random draw, but today I was able to choose an earlier row because the area had received some rain during the week. After the mud race there in June and my experience on the last row in Marietta, I didn't want to be stuck riding through everyone else's ruts. I chose the 5th row, a poor choice had I known what I'd be facing. The early row also gave me less time to set up the bike, put on my riding gear, fill my Camelbak with water, and all the other little things which must happen to be fully prepared for a long enduro. This situation would play out in my dreams for years to come (seriously). I'm at a race, late to arrive, late to the starting line, the bike won't run right, and then I wake up in a cold sweat.

Fortunately that situation didn't play out at White City, at least not completely. By the time I threw together all my old school timekeeping equipment and dressed myself with riding gear, I was left with only a minute or two to spare. I quickly found the perfect trails I hadn't expected, although they were perfect only at ground level. Most of the Big Red enduro route is laid out in woods ridden once a year, leaving the trails overgrown come October. A later row would have had other riders clearing a better path ahead of me, but as it was, I had trouble following the sparse arrowing. Never had I stopped so many times searching for the marked course.

About 5 miles into the race, my right contact lens began drying out and eventually popped out of my eye. I was able to pull it out of my goggles and shove it back in, but lost a couple of minutes. The course passed through most of the Cahokia Creek Dirt Riders club grounds before heading out to a country road. The arrows were spaced as if the club had printed them covered in 24 carat gold plating, and I found myself lost again and again...on paved roads.

When I arrived at the next woods section, I was late....riding on paved roads (allow that to sink in). Also, some of the mileage markers posted at different places were far off what my odometer indicated, so I had to make several adjustments. The second woods section was marked even worse than the first, on land with no established trails. Normally, these types of "virgin" woods are desired by all, but in these conditions, I struggled to find my way.

At one point I did a hard charge through a gully and noticed my crotch was cold and wet. I don't normally wet my pants while riding, and when I do it's usually warm. What an interesting conundrum, I thought to myself. I paused to diagnose the problem, where I found the valve on the end of my drinking hose had come off. Ice-cold water was being siphoned out of the tube and onto my pants. Once again, mystery solved. Now I was out of water.

After the second timed test, the arrows took me down a long road section and back into the woods. I felt good with my riding, aside from getting lost about 50 times and losing my contact lens. For a moment, I considered this a decent effort. That is, until I missed a turn and found myself heading directly for a 3-foot ledge which dropped down into a creek. I panicked, of course, and didn't do anything except passively hang on while the bike dove down into the creek bed. The front wheel came to a sudden stop and bucked me over the handlebars. I fell to the ground, which is something I've done many times, so...no problem, right?

That's when the randomness of crashes can strike hard. If I had done the same thing a hundred times, I might have walked away from 98 of the crashes. But this day, the bike flipped over on top of me, with the foot peg exactly aligned with the gap in my chest protector where the sides come together. This space exposes side ribs. You might guess what happened next.

First the wind was knocked out of me. Next was labored breathing, which felt like a knife was stuck in my left side. After that came the uncontrolled gasping to force air back into my lungs. And there I sat, alone, in a dry creek bed, painfully aware I was banged up and my race was over. How would I ever get back to my truck?

On a positive note, I served as a human warning to other riders who almost made the same mistake. But I wasn't feeling very positive. Clubs always tell riders to stay with their bike if they have problems, and the sweep riders will come along to help. I didn't expect any sweep riders for the better part of an hour. I just couldn't imagine sitting in pain that long. I wanted out and was willing to endure more pain to get back on the trail.

My initial task was removing the bike from my legs. Using a pain scale often found in urgent care clinics, this was about 9 out of 10. When I rose to my feet, the pain was a solid 10. Then I had to stand up the bike from its prone position. This took a couple tries. Pain level: 12 on a 10 scale. Finally, in the era of kickstart KTMs, I had to make the engine run again. I believe that was when the screaming began.

Back on the trail, I limped along in 1st gear, hoping sometime soon the trail would lead me out of the woods and usher me to a smooth, paved road. Every hill, every log crossing, every bump in the trail was mind-numbingly painful. After a couple miles of torture, I came upon the next checkpoint, where I told the club guys I was done and asked for directions back to the club grounds. They directed me toward the town of Mt. Olive. I rode straight through downtown in full riding gear while receiving strange stares from residents. Back at the staging area, I painfully loaded my bike and gear and set in for the ride home. The club was only an hour from my apartment, but I couldn't find a comfortable driving position the whole way home. Along with the ribs, my shoulder was giving me a sharp pain that wouldn't go away. Somehow I also bruised my right hand. As my dad used to say, I was rode hard and put away wet.

At home, I called my good buddy Rob Rogers and he came over with his wife Cyndi to help unload my bike and gear. Rob wasn't in much better shape than me because he had just torn some abdominal muscles while working out. What a worthless pair we were. The Rogers' insisted on taking me to the emergency room to get checked out. I felt bad they had to waste the better part of their Sunday afternoon sitting in the waiting area while I had x-rays and a CAT scan. Diagnosis: broken ribs. I took off work the next day and began the long road to recovery. The 1999 season was officially over.