Two years into my move to St. Louis, I still couldn't get enough of Illinois dirt biking. Any opportunity to cross the border to the land where the trails felt right, I was there. Jonesboro was my 6th trip across the Mississippi to enjoy smooth dirt, out of 10 races thus far in the year of the new millennium. The terrain here was the hilliest of any Illinois event I would ever attend. With the Kentucky border less than 30 miles away, one cannot be much further south in the Land of Lincoln, and this part of the state is mountainous compared to the upper two-thirds. Most joyously, the soil is smooth and mostly rock-free. My home, my dirt.
But what a difference a week made. Riding high after my near-win at White City, a mechanical oversight would put me out of contention at Jonesboro almost from the start.
Matt Sellers and I raced together again on a typically hot June day in the Illinois southlands. We walked a small part of the course beforehand and found soft, loamy trails with plenty of traction. I asked Matt when the rains would come, for he was with me, racing in Illinois. In the days of flip phones and FM car radios, an on-the-spot weather prediction was whatever they eye could see. But for the heat and humidity, we saw no reason to worry about slippery trails or blurry goggles.
We geared up and rode to the starting area, a large grassy field surrounded by dense woods. The Shawnee National Forest was just across the property border, untouched by motorized vehicles for a decade or two. The Trail of Tears lodge enjoyed similar terrain as the rough forests of the national lands, with the exception of the flat field which served as the staging area and starting line. Wood stakes connected with caution tape painted the field yellow, under the premise that a series of 180-degree turns would lessen the mayhem leading into the woods. With past experience I had found these chicanes a hopeless attempt to spread out the riders before herding them into a single trail inside the woods. When the green flag dropped, the excitement (or panic) of the dead-engine start, combined with an army of overly anxious racers usually ended with wood stakes snapped off at foot peg levels, yellow ribbon wrapped around axles like kite tails, and motorcycles cutting yards off the path to the singletrack.
The first wave of riders, the fastest of the bunch, weaved through the ribbons and stakes and left them mostly intact. The next-fastest group departed a minute later and took down a ribbon or two. A couple rows later, our Open B class went off into a maze of ribbon which had been frantically repaired and repositioned during breaks between class departures. By the time the C riders and beginners departed behind us, the club had given up on the ribbon-chicanes, for the most part, as the open field had lost most of its yellow when I limped back to my truck, barely two minutes into the race.
After the green flag dropped for the Open B class, I navigated the ribbon and snuck into the woods just ahead of Matt, then realized my clutch wasn't working. I pulled to the side of the trail and realized the bolts securing the bracket which holds the clutch lever to the handlebars had come loose. It was a quick trip back to my truck, but I killed about 10 minutes searching for new bolts to replace the ones which fell out, locating sockets and ratchets in my disorganized tool box and tightening the bracket.
Back on the trail, the rest of my class, along with all others, were far ahead. Even the slowest Open B riders wouldn't spot me 10 minutes in hare scramble, especially with the race shortened to 90 minutes on account of the heat. I used my time on the course for practice, working on techniques such as not crashing, raising my buttocks off the seat for more than 3 seconds at a time, and remembering which other bolts I'd failed to tighten.
Matt finished in 4th place and took home a trophy, an accomplishment eclipsed only by rain-free weather. His algorithm was actually on track for a typical 2-hour race, foiled only by the heat-shortened time limit. A half-hour after the race ended, the wind gusted and the skies poured down rain for 20 minutes. A week later I opened my toolbox and found an inch of water and many rusty tools. I vowed to use those tools a bit more effectively for the next race.
